Archive for January, 2011

Joseph Brady vs. the Cornplanter

January 31, 2011

Chief Cornplanter image is from the Salibury, PA webite.

[From the Attica Telegraph.]

A Reminiscence of Border Life.

In the dark days of our Revolutionary struggles, there lived many brave, noble and generous men, who did much toward achieving the independence of this now prosperous and happy nation, by acting singly, or with a chosen few upon whom they could place the utmost reliance. This mode of warfare, though carried on in a comparatively small way, was far more efficacious, in proportion to the numbers engaged in it, than the operations of the largest bodies of soldiers who fought in the fort and open field. It did not generally accomplish much n a single occasion, but was constantly at work either acting on the offensive, or furnishing information to the head-quarters of the American army. This, in fact, was the only way by which the hostile tribes of Indians could be effectively punished for their wanton and malicious depredations. Every reader is aware that they were instigated by the British to perpetrate deeds the most shocking and revolting to humanity. Tradition has handed down the names of numerous individuals, unrecorded in the history of our country, who were celebrated for many valorous deeds, the remembrance of which seems fast disappearing “through the dark vista of bygone years.” An incident in the eventful life of one of this class is the subject of our narrative. We will endeavor to give the substance of it, as it fell from the lips of one of the “[oldest inhabitants]” in our hearing.

Of Joseph Brady’s birth, parentage, &c., our “informant” does not enlighten us. Suffice it to say, he was a brave and magnanimous warrior, and the commande of a small band of men, of his own school who were employed against the indians in Western New York and Pennsylvania. Although destitute of an education, having grown up in the “backwoods,” our hero had learned much from the school experience, and was skilled in that knowledge which was most essential to him in the station he was called to occupy. It is said that he could converse fluently in at least twenty of the different languages or tongues spoken by the tribes of the Atlantic states. This, to him, was an invaluable acquisition, and the sequel will show the advantages which it gave him over the Indians.

Six Nations’ map is from the Access Genealogy website.

Cornplanter, whose name is celebrated as an Indian warrior, and the praise of whose greatness has been the theme of many a writer, was then the Chief of a small tribe whose village was situated on the western bank of the Allegany River, six miles below the boundary line between New York and Pennsylvania. The remnant of his tribe still remain there, possessing a fertile tract of alluvial land several miles in length, and extending from the river back to the Allegany Mountains, a distance varying from one to three miles. On the opposite side of the river, a high mountain rises abruptly from the water’s edge, and is covered with a thick growth of forest trees. The scenery about this place is wild, romantic and beautiful; although the “rapid march of civilization” is robbing nature of her former grandeur and beauty. What a contrast between that olden time and the present! The? those deep waters bore upon their broad bo?om naught but the light Indian canoe, and the white man dared not be seen, unguarded, anywhere in their vicinity.

Cornplanter and his “braves” had made an incursion into one of the nearest settlements of the whites, in which they had met with great success. Several of the unfortunate inhabitants fell beneath the murderous tomahawk, their buildings were consumed by fire, and a number carried into captivity. When the Indians arrived at their village with the prisoners it was determined that they should be burned at the stake. Accordingly, the time was appointed for this dreadful work, and the whole tribe were to be assembled to participate in it. The Indians were patiently waiting for the time when they were to glut their vengeance upon their “pale faced” prisoners, as they apprehended no fears that the whites were strong enough to attempt an immediate retaliation.

Brady heard of he sally made by Cornplanter upon the settlers, and determined to punish him severely for his cruelty. Accordingly, he and his men set out upon the expedition, and were soon in the vicinity of the Indian village, where they succeeded in capturing one of its inhabitants from whom they obtained all the information they wished, concerning the prisoners, and the time when it was intended to burn them.

Early in the evening on which was to terminate by the most dreadful death, the lives of a number of pioneers of his western region, Brady was occupying a secure position on the mountain, from whence he could perceive all that was taking place in the village below. Fires were kindled before all their dwellings until it was nearly as light as noonday. The woods to a great distance around resounded with the shouts of the savages, whose feelings were wrought up to the highest pitch of excitement. Brady waited until the captives were brought forth, and the Indians had commenced to bind them to the stakes. His heart beat high with the fear that he might be unsuccessful in his attempt to rescue them. But the long-wished for moment had arrived, and putting on the dress of the Indian he had captured, he boldly stepped forth into an open place where he could be distinctly seen from the other bank, and gave the shrill war-whoop peculiar to this tribe. He was immediately answered by the Indians, who supposed him to be one of their friends, just returning from an expedition similar to the one they were then rejoicing over. They inquired as to what success had attended him, to which he replied that he had taken a few prisoners but was unable to come over and join them that night on account of the wounds one of his men had received. He proposed that they should wait till the next day and then burn all the prisoners at one time. After some hesitation they complied with his request. The prisoners were taken back to their place of confinement, the fires extinguished, and soon a deathlike stillness succeeded the noise and confusion which had reigned during the former part of the evening.

Brady kept his position until after the “noon of night,” when he descended the mountain, and crossing the river, was soon in the heart of the village. The Indians had retired without leaving a guard, and the first intimation they had of the presence of a foe, was the bursting out of the flames from their houses, which were soon on fire in every direction. They rushed to their doors to be shot or cut down by the whites. A large number were killed or burned with the habitations, while the remainder escaped under cover of the night. Cornplanter fled and his village was entirely destroyed.

The prisoners were overjoyed to find that they were once more with friends who could protect, and without waiting even for the morning, started on their journey back to the homes of those who had rescued them. Brady lost not a single man while out on this expedition, neither were any wounded, and although he fought after the Indian custom, falling upon his enemies in an unguarded moment he achieved a great victory.

Cornplanter’s name has found a place in the history of those times, while Joseph Brady’s only reward was the consciousness of having performed a duty incumbent upon every American citizen in those days, that of defending his country, and the joy he experienced in being able to restore those whose fate was supposed to be sealed, to their homes.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Jul 28, 1847

NOTE: I couldn’t find anything more about Joseph Brady, but Wikipedia has an article about Samuel Brady, of “Brady’s Leap” fame, who had an Uncle Joseph Brady, who might have been him. Either way, I would imagine the two are at least related, as they were from the same area and were Indian fighters etc.


Greenville Treaty image from the Touring Ohio website.

Pennsylvanians, Past and Present

Cornplanter, Great Seneca War Chief and Friend of United States, Died February 18, 1836.

By FREDERICK A. GODCHARLES
(Copyright, 1925, by the Author)

Cornplanter, the greatest warrior of the Seneca tribe, and a principal chief of the Six Nations from the period of the Revolutionary War to the time of his death, was born at Ganawagas, on the Genesee River, in New York, in 1722; he died at Cornplanter Town. just within the limits of Pennsylvania, Fedbruary 18, 1836.

Cornplanter was a half-breed, the son of a white man named John O’Bail, a trader from the Mohawk Valley. His mother was a full-blooded Seneca.

O’Bail is said by some to have been an Englishman, although Harris, Ruttenber, and others say he was a Dutchman Named Abeel.

All that is known of the early life of Cornplanter is contained in a letter to the governor of Pennsylvania, in which he says, “When I was a child I played with the butterfly; and as I grew up I began to pay some attention and play with the Indian boys in the neighborhood, and they took notice of my skin being a different color from theirs, and spoke about it. I inquired of my mother the cause, and she told me my father was a resident of Albany. I still ate my victuals out of a bark dish. I grew up to be a young man and married a wife, and I had no kettle or gun. I then knew where my father lived and went to see him, and found he was a white man and spoke the English language. He gave me vituals while I was at his house, but when I started to return home he gave me no provisions to eat on the way. He gave me neither kettle nor gun.

Historian Drake says Cornplanter was a warrior at Braddock’s defeat, July 9, 1755, and fought bravely as a French Ally.

During the Revolution he was a war chief of high rank in the full vigor of manhood, active, brave, sagacious and participated in many of the engagements in which the British  employed their Indian allies.

Cherry Valley Massacre image from the Son of the South website.

He is supposed to have been present at the massacres of Wyoming and Cherry Valley, in which the Seneca took such prominent part. He was certainly on the warpath with Chief Joseph Brant during General John Sullivan’s expedition against the Six Nations in the autumn of 1779, and in the following year, under Brant and Sir John Johnson, he led the Seneca to their incursion through the Schoharie and Mohawk Valleys in New York.

On this occasion he took his father a prisoner, but with such caution as to avoid immediate recognition. After marching the old man some ten or twelve miles, he stepped before him, faced about and addressed himself to his father. He gave him his choice of following his yellow son, in which he promised him food and raiment or return to his fields and his white children. O’Bail chose the latter and Cornplanter gave him safe conduct back to the trading post.

Cornplanter was one of the parties to the treaty made at Fort Stanwix, October 23, 1784, when the whole of the present Northwestern Pennsylvania was ceded by the Indians to the Commonwealth. He also took part in the Treaty at Fort Harmar in 1789.

His sagacious intellect comprehended the growing power of the United States, and that Great Britain had forsaken the Seneca. He threw his influence in favor of peace.

During all the Indian Wars from 1791 to 1794, which terminated with General Wayne’s treaty, Cornplanter pledged that the Seneca should remain friendly to the United States.

He was a signer of the treaties of September 15, 1797, and July 30, 1802. These acts rendered him so unpopular with his tribe that for a time his life was in danger.
On March 16, 1796, Pennsylvania granted Cornplanter a tract of 640 acres in the present Warren County, to which place the old warrior retired and devoted his energies to his own people.

It is said that in his old age he declared that the “Great Spirit” told him not to have anything more to do with the whites, nor even to preserve any mementos they had given him. Impressed with this idea, he burned the belt and broke and elegant sword that had been given to him.

A favorite son, who had been carefully educated, became a drunkard, thus adding to the troubles of Cornplanter’s last years.

He received for a time, a pension from the United States of $250 a year.

At the time of his death he was 105 years of age. A monument erected to his memory on his reservation by the State of Pennsylvania in 1866 bears the inscription “aged about 100 years.”

New Castle News (New Castle, Pennsylvania) Feb 18, 1925

*****

This bank advertisement ran in the newspaper for several days:

Indiana Evening Gazeete (Indiana, Pennsylvania) Oct 17, 1921

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The Rule of Street Walking

January 31, 2011

THE RULE OF STREET WALKING.

A paper calls attention to the observance of the following rules, in all populous places.

Let it be understood by all, that every gentleman and every lady is expected to pass to the right.

Another matter connected with this should be observed by all that walk with ladies. It is to place the lady on your right. In this way and by observing the first all important rule, all who pass will be on the gentleman’s side, and thus avoid all contact of strangers with your companion.

The practice of changing sides with the lady at every corner, so as to give her the wall, is ridiculous and awkward in the extreme.

Rock River Pilot (Watertown, Wisconsin) Aug 30, 1848

A Woodland Walk

January 30, 2011

Image from the Jeremy Ford website gallery – UK

A WOODLAND WALK.

[Written for the Newport News.]

BY DR. FULLER-WALKER.

Oh, welcome woods! Oh, friendly trees!
I walk beneath your scanty shade.
November’s frosts, October’s breeze,
Your creaking limbs have naked laid.
Through light and dark, for days and nights,
A shower of purple, gold, and red,
Has filled your siefes with flashing lights,
As torches gleam when me are dead.
A vast cathedral is the wood;
Its tapers bright are falling leaves —
With sunshine caught, and merry mood,
The turf they heap with loving wreaths.
And who lies dead beneath this pall,
This tapestry in woodland wrought?
Ah! death’s the common lot of all,
And all the wide mouth’d grave has caught!

The crisp leaves crumble ‘neath my feet;
The lithesome limbs sigh overhead;
The air is sad — the cold winds meet —
The sun beams low — his rays are red.
I know the hour is near at hand
When winding sheets of drifting snow
Will bind with bands the whole fair land,
And make of life a dumb, dead show.
The woods I thread, with solemn tread,
And bow before stern fate my head.
Strange sights and sounds my senses greet,
And everywhere my eyes do meet
Things which surprise, and fill with hope,
Weak mortal men who blindly grope.
While softly fall the sun’s warm beams,
All nature seems to doze in dreams.
‘Twould be the same, in snow or rain,
If tempests raged o’er hill and plain.
Without a frown, what God sends down,
The earth will clasp it as a crown.
The aster fair, the wood’s own child,
The bride of all that’s growing wild,
Its purple cup with gold fills up
And tempts the bee and fly to sup.
Its royal dye the butterfly
Is sure to spy, while sailing by.
Oh potent charm! There’s no alarm,
The air is warm, the day is calm.
No fear can hold the insect bold,
Of winter cold or barren wold.
Why should the wings of gaudy things,
In velvet stripes and satin rings,
Forbear to fly, when blue’s the sky,
And unseen dangers hover nigh?
We laugh, or cry, we live or die,
E’en not a king a day can buy.
With feeble squall the cat-birds call;
They know not spring-time from the fall.
The peewee’s note dies in its throat;
Alas! it sings its song by rote.
The silent snail, with house on back,
Comes out an inch upon its track,
To feel an hour the good sun burn,
And then to cold and darkness turn.
The leafless bush with branches high,
Its scarlet fruit hangs in the sky;
An hundred birds fly out and in,
As hungry trav’lers seek an inn.
They have no faith, and yet they find,
The food best suited to their kind;
And thus ’twill be, if bush and tree
Are barren each as they can be.

All through the wood I find some good —
One needs while there the rightful mood —
The trailing vines that cling and twine
And try to clasp their hands in mine,
Or wind about my wand’ring feet,
As if a human heart they’d greet;
The seeds which cling, with burr or wing,
To all my garments, with them bring,
A message full of truths to me —
The lesson of the shrub and tree,
The sun and flower, bird and bee —
That all which is, whats’er it be,
Fulfills at last its destiny.
No spirit dies, no life is vain,
What goes today shall come again.
Our springtime hopes, our summer dreams,
Live but an hour, then pass away,
Where life is more than here it seems,
Where dawns the endless, perfect day.

Newport Daily News (Newport, Rhode Island) Dec 8, 1876

Dickens, the Pirate

January 28, 2011

GREAT WRITER A REAL BOY

Charles Dickens, Like the Average Youngster, Had His Dreams of Becoming a Pirate.


Image from Shorpy.

The English boys of years ago — there never was any doubt as to American boys of that or any other period before or after — had romantic ideas as to becoming ruthless robbers by land or pirates on the high seas is shown by a recently discovered speech made by Charles Dickens and reported in the London Times of April 13, 1864, from which the following quotation from the London Dickensonian is taken: “Mr. Dickens said his first recollections of the northwest of London (this was in 1824, when he was twelve years old), were connected with a certain waste plot of ground used almost exclusively for beating carpets. The only ornaments of the locality, were a piece of stagnant water, a few straggling docks and some stunted greens.

With it, however, was associated the romantic story of the ‘Field of the Forty Footsteps,’ according to which a duel had been fought there between two brothers, the forty dreadful paces over which the victor pursued his victim being marked by the withering up of the grass in forty distinct places. Dickens had often gone there, he said, accompanied by an adventurous young Englishman, aged eleven, with whom he had intended going to the Spanish Main as soon as ever they could amass sufficient wealth to buy a cutlass and a rifle.”

The University of London afterward was erected on this site. Dickens as a boy in April, 1827, saw the cornerstone laid and “the ceremony of laying the first stone of a new and splendid public building” of which Mr. Pecksniff was the architect, as narrated in “Martin Chuzzlewit,” was a reminiscence of this event.

Suburbanite Economist (Chicago, Illinois) Jan 23, 1914

Title: Coming out; and The field of the Forty Footsteps.
Authors: Jane Porter, Anna Maria Porter
Published: 1828
Original from: Oxford University

Google book LINK

Why Catsup? It’s Ketchup

January 28, 2011

Image from Grow & Resist.

When I first ran across this article for Ohio Ketchup, I had no idea that “ketchup” was ever anything except the red stuff that comes in a bottle.

Seasonable Recipes.

OHIO KETCHUP. — The Buckeyes are in the habit of making a certain kind of ketchup which I have found no where else, and have, therefore, taken the liberty to call it “The Ohio Ketchup.” Is is an article that should be found in every household. You may pardon me for not attempting to give you an idea of its deliciousness, because my pen cannot do justice to the subject. The season will soon be here when this “happy combination of vegetables” can very easily be made. I will therefore transcribe the receipt for the benefit of your readers: Take about three dozen full grown cucumbers, and eight white onions. Peel the cucumbers and onions; then chop them as finely as possible; then sprinkle upon them three-quarters of a pint of fine table salt, then put the whole into a sieve and let it drain for eight hours; then take a tea cup-full of mustard seed, half a cup of ground black pepper, and mix these well with the cucumbers and onions; then put the whole into a stone jar and fill up with the strongest vinegar and close tightly. In three days it will be fit for use, and will keep for years.

Let all your readers give the Ohio Ketchup a fair trial, and you and I will receive sixty thousand thanks for letting them into the secret of making it.

TO PRESERVE TOMATOS. — The following has been handed to us as the receipt of a good housewife for preserving or “curing” tomatoes so effectually that they may be brought out at any time between the seasons “good as new,” with precisely the same flavor of the original article; Get sound tomatoes, peal them, and prepare just the same as for cooking, squeeze them as fine as possible, put them into a kettle, bring them to a boil, season with pepper and salt; then put them in stone jugs, taken directly from water in which they (the jugs) have been boiled. — Seal the jugs immediately, and keep them in a cool place.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Sep 4, 1850

NOTE: The Republic Compiler (Gettysburg, PA) Jul 29, 1850,  also carried this article and  included its author as E.B.R. Springfield, Clarke co., Ohio, 1850.

TOMATO KETCHUP. — The following, from long experience, we know to be the best receipt extant for making tomato ketchup.
Take one bushel of tomatoes, and boil them until they are soft. Squeeze them through a fine wire sive, and add —

Half a gallon of vinegar,
One pint and a half of salt,
Two ounces of cloves,
Quarter of a pound of allspice,
Three ounces of cayenne pepper,
Three table-spoonful of black pepper,
Five heads of garlic, skinned and seperated.

Mix together and boil about three hours, or until reduced to about one-half. Then bottle without straining.

Daily Commercial Register (Sandusky, Ohio) Sep 9, 1852

** Bushel: In dry measurements, equals 8 gallons or 32 quarts of a commodity. Associated Content from Yahoo

Tomato Catsup — Tomato Sauce.

As the season is drawing near for all good housekeepers to commence putting up different kinds of preserves, pickles, &c., we copy the following recipe from the August number of the [American Agriculturist] for making tomato catsup and sauce: “The basis of tomato catsup, or ketchup, is the pulp of ripe tomatoes. Many defer making catsup until late in the season, when the cool nights cause the fruit to ripen slowly, and it may be t is gathered hurriedly for fear of a frost. The late fruit does not yield so rich a pulp as that gathered in its prime.

The fruit should have all green portions cut out, and be stewed gently until thoroughly cooked. The pulp is then to be separated from the skins, by rubbing through a wire sieve so fine as to retain the seeds. The liquor thus obtained is to be evaporated to a thick pulp, over a slow fire, and should be stirred to prevent scorching. The degree of evaporation will depend upon how thick it is desired to have the catsup. We prefer to make it so that it will just poor freely from the bottle. We observe no regular rule in flavoring. Use sufficient salt. Season with cloves, allspice, and mace, bruised and tied in a cloth, and boiled in the pulp; add a small quantity of powdered cayenne.

Some add the spices ground fine, directly to the pulp. A clove of garlic, bruised and tied in a cloth, to be boiled with the spices, imparts a delicious flavor. Some evaporate the pulp to a greater thickness than is needed, and then thin with vinegar or with wine. An excellent and useful tomato sauce may be made by preparing the pulp, but adding no spices, and putting it in small bottles while hot, corking securely and sealing. If desired, the sauce may be salted before bottling, but this is not essential. To add to soups, stews, sauces and made dishes, a sauce thus prepared is an excellent substitute for the fresh fruit. It should be put in small bottles containing as much as will be wanted at once, as it will not keep long after opening.

The Heral and Torch Light (Hagerstown, Maryland) Aug 2, 1882

— Old Virginia Ketchup. — Take one peck of green tomatoes, half a peck of white onions, three ounces of white mustard seed, one ounce each of allspice and cloves, half a pint of mixed mustard, an ounce of black pepper and celery seed each, and one pound of brown sugar. Chop the tomatoes and onions, sprinkle with salt and let stand three hours; drain the water off; put in a preserve kettle with the other ingredients. Cover with vinegar, and set on the fire to boil slowly for one hour.

— Ladies’ Home Journal.

The Wellsboro Gazette (Wellsboro, Pennsylvania Sep 5, 1895

** Peck: Equivalent of 2 gallons of dry weight, or 10 to 14 pounds.  Associated Content from Yahoo

Image from the Local Food Local Farms Local Sustainability website.

Ketchup.

Why catsup? Nearly every bottle which comes from a public manufacturer is emblazened with that spelling. Wrong Ketchup is the word. It is a corruption of the Japanese word kitjap, which is a condiment somewhat similar to soy. It is a pick me up, a stirrer of the digestive organs, a katch me up, and hence its application to the mingling of tomatoes and spices, whose name it should bear.

— Philadelphia Times.

North Adams Transcript (North Adams, Massachusetts) Jan 15, 1896

NOTE: At the link for the mushroom ketchup (scroll down,) it says that Ketchup came from a Chinese word, rather than Japanese.

Image from the Simple Bites website – Real Food for the Family TableCanning 101 Home Canned Tomatoes

TO MAKE KETCHUP.

When you cut up the tomatoes remove that part of pulp which holds the seeds, as that produced only some of the watery fluid which afterward must be got rid of. Then cook the tomatoes until perfectly soft and strain like this: Take a pan sieve; place over a two gallon crock, the top of which is a little smaller than the sieve. Set the crock in a dishpan. When you pour the hot tomatoes in the sieve, the thinnest liquid will run through the edge which extends over the crock, into the pan, and you can throw all that liquid away, which otherwise would have to be boiled away. Then with a spoon, and afterward with your hands, rub the tomatoes through the sieve. In half the time the ketchup is better and thicker than ever. When it doesn’t cook too long, the ketchup also is lighter in color. This fact, and because I tie the spices in a bag, makes it as bright as that you buy.

Oakland Tribune (Oakland, California) Jul 1, 1907

Sauce for Chops.

Pound fine an ounce of black pepper and half an ounce of allspice, with an ounce of salt, and a half ounce of scraped horseradish and the same of shalots peeled and quartered; put these ingredients into a pint of mushroom ketchup or walnut pickle; let them steep for a fortnight and then strain it. A teaspoonful or two of this is generally an acceptable addition, mixed with the gravy usually sent up for chops and steaks; or added to thick melted butter.

Another delightful sauce for chops is made by taking two wineglasses of port and two of walnut pickle; four of mushroom ketchup; half a dozen anchovies pounded, and a like number of shalots sliced and pounded; a tablespoonful of soy and half a drachm of Cayenne pepper; let them simmer gently for ten minutes; then strain, and when cold put into bottles, well corked and sealed over. It will keep for a considerable time.

Suburbanite Economist (Chicago, Illinois) Jan 23, 1914

American Pickles for Queen Victoria.

Lusden & Gibson, grocers, of Aberdeen, Scotland, regularly supply Balmoral Castle, the Queen’s residence, with Heinz’s sweet pickles, tomato soup, pickled onions, ketchup and chutney. The goods are supplied through H.J. Heinz Company’s London Branch.

— New York Sun.

The News (Frederick, Maryland) Mar 1, 1899

T.M. Shallenberger comes to the defense of labor as an institution. The subject is one that admits of endless discussion, without arriving anywhere. If a man like to work, it is entirely proper that he should be given the privilege; but it not fair that people who detest work are compelled to work if they would be considered respectable. It  would be just as reasonable to compel a man to play ball, although he abhors the game.

There is something wrong with the man who really enjoys working: he is not balanced right; the busy bee is a sample worker; it sweats around all day, going three or four miles to get raw material that could be obtained just as well a few yards from the hive.

Ketchup is another worker; when it is bottled, instead of taking things easy, it begins to work and gets sour and spoiled. That is the way with most people who work; they get sour and spoiled.

We are arranging to organize a new political party, composed of non-workers. The only toll permitted will be the working of candidates for cigars, which is a pleasing and profitable employment.

The Nebraska State Journal (Lincoln, Nebraska) Aug 13, 1899

I wonder if this works:

Household Hints

WHEN cooking ketchup, etc., try putting a few marbles into the kettle to prevent burning. The heat will keep the marbles rolling and prevent the stuff from sticking to the kettle.

Appleton Post Crescent (Appleton, Wisconsin) Jun 9, 1922

When the slow eater calls for ketchup, he means business.

–[N.O. Picayune.

The Mountain Democrat (Placerville, California Jun 19, 1880

When Casey’s small son was asked by the teacher to give the plural of tomato, he promptly answered: “Ketchup, mem.”

Suburbanite Economist (Chicago, Illinois) Jul 4, 1913

The following poems aren’t  ABOUT ketchup, but the do mention it. I have bolded ketchup:

Image from the USDA National Agricultural Library

A Sunnit to the Big Ox

Composed while standin within 2 feet of Him, and a Tuchin’ of Him now and then.

All hale! thou mighty annimil–all hale!
You are 4 thousand pounds, and am purty wel
Perporshund, thou tremenjos boveen nuggit!
I wonder how big you was wen you
Wos little, and if yure muther wud no you now
That you’ve grone so long, and thick, and phat;
Or if yure father would rekognize his ofspring
And his kaff, thou elefanteen quodrupid!
I wonder if it hurts you mutch to be so big,
And if you grode it in a month or so.
I spose wen you wos young tha didn’t gin
You skim milk but all the kreme you kud stuff
Into your little stummick, jest to see
How big yude gro; and afterward tha no doubt
Fed you on otes and ha and sich like,
With perhaps an occasional punkin or squosh!
In all probability yu don’t no yure enny
Bigger than a small kaff; for if you did,

Yude brake down fences and switch your tail,
And rush around, and hook, and beller,
And run over fowkes, thou orful beast
O, what a lot of mince pize yude maik,
And sassengers, and your tale,
Whitch kan’t wa fur from phorty pounds,
Wud maik nigh unto a barrel of ox-tail soop,
And cudn’t a heep of stakes be cut oph yu,
Whitch, with salt and pepper and termater
Ketchup, wouldn’t be bad to taik.
Thou grate and glorious inseckt!
But I must klose, O most prodijus reptile!
And for mi admirashun of yu, when yu di,
I’le rite a node unto yore peddy and remanes,
Pernouncin’ yu the largest of yure race;
And as I don’t expect to have a half a dollar
Agin to spare for to pa to look at yu, and as
I ain’t a ded head, I will sa, farewell.

LeRoy Gazette (LeRoy, New York) Apr 20, 1859

CINTHY ANN’S NEW HOUSE.

I built a house for Cinty Ann — an made it red and rich,
An rigged it up with cuperlows an lightnin rods and sich,
An built a wide piazzer roun ware she could set and sew,
An take her knittin work an gab with ole Kerturah Snow.

An Cinthy Ann was happy fer about a week or so,
And then she foun the chimbley draft wus workin ruther slow;
For the smoke came in her kitchen an she couldn’t bake her pies,
An her pudd’n only sizzled, an her johnny cake wouldn’t rise.

An soon she foun her buttry wuz too small to hol her stuff,
For apple sass and blackb’ry jell it wasn’t large enough,
An all her things were scrooched right in ez tight ez she could cram,
Her pickles, an her ketchup, an her elderberry jam.

An then a dog day storm came on an drizzled for a week,
An the roof around the chimney had to go an spring a leak,
An mildewed four er my white shirts thet she hed made an biled,
An her winter muff was rooined and her weddin dress was spiled.

An then sez I to Cinthy, w’en she sut down to cry,
“Ther ain’t no home upon this side the mansions in the sky
But what has some leak in the roof, some trouble in the flue,
Some mis’ble cluttered buttry” — an poor Cinthy said “Boo hoo!”

We build our pooty houses that are ternal fine to see,
An we stick’em up with cuperlows and sich like filigree,
An in our dreams they’re fair ez heaven, but let us wait a week,
This pooty palace of our dreams is sure to spring a leak.

— S.W. Foss in Yankee Blade.

Edwardsville Intelligencer (Edwardsville, Illinois) Sep 14, 1892

The Last of the Family

January 27, 2011

Image of  the Church of St. Brynach, Nevern from Geograph.

THE LAST OF THE FAMILY.

Maggie was twenty and two years old,
Her heart was cheerful, and brave, and strong,
She’d bright brown eyes that sweet stories told,
And a voice as gay as a pleasant song,
Yet Maggie was left in the world alone,
With six dear names on a churchyard stone.

She often told me about her dead,
With chastened voice, but unclouded brow,
As though from some hold book she read,
Whose writer had grown more holy now.
Yet her laugh rang out in our girlish mirth,
As if there was not a grave on earth!

We parted last on a summer night,
Under a sky like a golden sea,
And as she gazed on the glorious sight,
She softly said: “What must Heaven be!”
I think that angels heard the sigh,
For her morning brightened beyond the sky.

She’d worn her cross as it were a crown,
And lo! a crown did the cross become,
For none to leave in our little town,
Was none to miss in the Heavenly home,
A perfect household before the throne,
And seven names on the churchyard stone.

— NEW YORK OBSERVER.

The Herald and Torch Light (Hagerstown, Maryland) May 28, 1873

Socialists in Nebraska

January 26, 2011

Image of Broken Arrow, Nebraska from the Old Picture of the Day blog.

Nebraska farmer — “Socialists? Socialists? Oh, yes, I know what you mean. I have met a good many of ye!”

Omaha socialist — “Eh? In your parts?”

“Plenty. Yes, now I think of it, they do want everything in common — except work. Out our way we call ’em tramps.”

–[Omaha World.

The Fitchburg Sentinel (Fitchburg, Massachusetts) Aug 16, 1887

Political Fruit

January 26, 2011

Image from Elektratig.

“The Fruit.”

After a year and a half of Locofoco rule, the people of this state can begin to judge the “tree” by the “fruit” it bears. The Madison Express thus classifies it:

State credit is thirty per cent, below par!

The state debt is nearly fifty thousand dollars!

The state tax is so levied as to raise one hundred thousand dollars!

Such a thing as public faith is unknown!

The state has repudiated its solemn contracts!

It has repudiated its own paper, refusing to allow county treasurers to receive it in payment of taxes!

The constitution has been repeatedly trampled upon — oaths of office violated, and laws discarded!

Is it not time for honest men of all parties to “awake and save the state?” What reliance have the people for the future? What guarantee against further outrage?

Honest voters of all parties! to the polls!

Let your votes speak in thunder tones in rebuke of the present foul and corrupt dynasty!

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Oct 24, 1849

Image from Son of the South.

Locofoco Defalcations.

While the Locofocos are assailing Gen. Taylor and the Whig party so bitterly, it may be well enough to remind them of their own delinquencies occasionally, in times past as well as present, by referring to the history of their corrupt practices, and to refresh the recollections of the people upon these matters, that they may see with what grace the president can be arraigned for fraud by such men. For this purpose we publish below a partial list of moneys stolen in the pure days of the “Democracy” by Locofoco office holders. We are not able to do our sanctimonious and censorious friends justice, as we have not a complete list of these public robbers, nor of the amount stolen. But we have enough to show the public with what indecent presumption, charges against Gen. Taylor and the Whig party, come from a party whose chosen agents have been guilty of such enormities as the following array of names and figures are “premonitory symptoms” of:

This amount, “respectable” as it is, does not include the sums stolen by Harris and Boyd, a couple of gentlemen who carried operations on as large a scale as any of their colleagues in rascality. But the pretty little sum of THREE MILLIONS ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS will answer the object we have view, so far as the old Locofoco plunders are concerned. The annexed list will show that Locofocoism now is just what it was ten or twelve years ago. If they had stopped their peculations upon the public treasury after having abstracted these three millions of dollars and upwards, they would have given some evidence of a disposition to reform; and we would not have been disposed to “invade the sanctity of private life,” — as old father Ritchie styles these references to Locofoco defaulters — be calling public attention to them. But when we see them at their old game again, and witness their furious personal attacks upon one of the purest minded men that ever filled the presidential chair, we cannot help holding the mirror up to their faces, that they may “see themselves as others see them.” We will now annex their recent “financial operations,” in the way of leg treasuryism. All will admit that they bid fair to do honor to their illustrious predecessors.

But it is said that there is yet in the hands of Locofoco ex-land officers, not yet accounted for, nearly a MILLION OF DOLLARS belonging to the government. This may all be honestly paid over, or it may all or one half be stolen. Time only will determine which. At any rate, the people have been robbed of nearly or quite HALF A MILLION DOLLARS, under the beautiful operations of the sub treasury law. If six months have brought to light that large sum, it can easily be ciphered out what four years will reveal. According to our arithmetic, it cannot be less than four millions of dollars.

But we will wait awhile and see.

[Auburn Daily Adv.

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Oct 10, 1849

Image from Legends of America.

Illinois — Locofoco “Fruits.”

Thus speaks the Chicago Democrat, the editor of which, “Long JOHN WENTWORTH,” a “Democratic” member of congress, will be taken as good authority in the premises:

“Our state is bankrupt. As to her principal, she makes no pretensions. She cannot, even, pay her interest. And the larger the state, the greater the resources, the more numerous her population, the greater her disgrace in not paying her state debts.”

With the exception of a year or two, Illinois has been under the control of the “Democratic” party from the time of its origination as a state, and, for its population, has usually given that party a stronger vote than any other western state. There, Locofocoism has had full, undisputed sway. With barely sufficient opposition to keep the party together, it has gone on from one destructive measure to another, until now, according to the confession of one of its “sachems,” the state is not only bankrupt, but is even unable to pay the interest of her indebtedness! And this, too, while she possesses a soil and climate equal to any in the world, an industrious agricultural population, and natural and artificial commercial advantages superior to most of the other western states!

What is it that has inflicted so severe a curse upon our sister state, and already made her a “by-word and a reproach?” There can be but one answer — UNCONTROLLED LOCOFOCO LEGISLATION! Locofocoism is the gangrene which has been for years eating to her very vitals. And so long as she remains the patient of “quack doctors,” so long will the disease continue to grow worse and worse. Her only salvation depends upon the use of the great Whig specific. Where is there to be found a Whig state with a bankrupt treasury? Where one which does not “flourish as a green bay tree?”

The same causes which have worked so much mischief in Illinois are producing like efforts in Wisconsin. Already has our expenditures greatly and unnecessarily increased, our taxes doubled, our treasury plundered, our legislative sessions uselessly protracted, our constitution trampled under foot, our public interests trifled with, our good name tarnished, and our growth and development as a state seriously retarded. Is it not time for our people to pause and reflect? Why will they longer jeopard everything essential to the real interests of the state, for the mere honor of placing political impostors in power?

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Oct 10, 1849

Oh! Snow!

January 26, 2011

Image from the Ephemeral New York blog.

OH!

The snow! the beautiful snow!
Falling eider as down on bough,
Waking the poet’s musical gush,
Filling the street with villainous slush,
Sliding from roofs on heads below,
Oh, the snow, the beautiful snow!
Drifting,
Sifting,
Whirling,
Hurling,
Rasping the nose to a ruddly glow,
Rasping the temper equally so,
Oh!
The beautiful, beautiful, beautiful snow!

Seventeen verses omitted.

Newport Daily News (Newport, Rhode Island) Feb 6, 1879

The Old Mill

January 25, 2011

Image by: Sondra Kicklighter

The Old Mill.

Don’t you remember, Lily dear,
The mill by the old hill side,
Where we used to go in the summer time
And watch the foamy tide;
And toss the leaves of the fragrant beech,
On its breast so smooth and bright,
Where they floated away like emeralds,
In a flood of golden light?
Lily, dear!

And the miller, love, with his slouchy cap,
And eyes of the mildest gray,
Plodding about his dusty work,
Singing the live-long day?
And the coat that hung on the rusty nail,
With many a motley patch,
And the rude old door, with its broken sill,
And the string, and the wooden latch?
Lily, dear!

And the water-wheel, with its giant arms,
Dashing the beaded spray,
And the weeds it pulled from the sand below,
And tossed in scorn away;
And the sleepers, Lily, with moss -‘ergrown,
Like sentinels stood in pride,
Breasting the waves, where the chinks of time
Were made in the old mill’s side.
Lily, dear!

Lily, the mill is torn away,
And a factory, dark and high,
Looms like a tower, and puffs its smoke
Over the clear blue sky,
And the stream is turned away from above,
And the bed of the river bare,
And the beech is withered, bough and trunk,
And stands like a spectre there —
Lily, dear!

And the miller, Lily, is dead and gone,
He sleeps in the vale below;
I saw his stone in the winter time,
Under a drift of snow;
But now the willow is green again,
And the wind is soft and still.
I send you a sprig, to remind you, love,
Of him and the dear old mill,
Lily, dear!

Watertown Chronicle (Watertown, Wisconsin) Jul 10, 1850