Richard Clutton Wright Makes The Great Migration

Historians have called the period from 1815 to 1850 the Great Migration to Canada since, during those years, over 800,000 immigrants, mainly British and Irish, came to this country. The reasons are too complicated to relate here but a combination of exploding population and lack of quality work at home made large numbers flee to the colonies in search of  prosperity.  

Most of my ancestors were among these immigrants. My great-great grandparents, Richard and Caroline Wright*, traveled from England to New York on a ship called the St. James in 1846, afterwards moving to Canada. Many Canadians with such ancestors have pondered the adventure of crossing the sea in the 19th century - the length of the trip, its dangers and discomforts - but have no means of learning what their ancestors encountered. But I'm fortunate, in that Richard kept a diary of his immigration experience. And I have it.

Well, not the original diary. What I have is a typewritten copy compiled by Richard's great-grandson, Horace J.Richardson, in 1947-48. The original diary is presumably in the hands of my Richardson cousins who, of course, have every right to it as they're also direct descendants. My branch of the family is quite thankful to have Horace's typewritten copy.

According to the diary, Richard and Caroline Wright, along with Caroline's sister Anne (known as Polly) and her husband, Robert Ranson, left London for New York on Wednesday, June 24, 1846 on the St. James, a packet ship** of 650 tons that made regular runs between London and New York. Its Captain, an American of German birth, was F. R. Meyer. The ship and most of its sailors were American.

Richard broke down the total number of persons on board ship:

Steerage passengers:   247

Second class: 2

First class: 8

Total passengers:   257

Sailors: 23

First & Second Mates: 2

Stewards: 2

Stewardess: 1

Cooks: 2

"Council man attach": 1***

Captain: 1

Total on board: 289     

He also described his living quarters aboard ship:****

"I will give you a short account of our cabins. First its dimensions. What they call the gentleman's cabin is about 25 feet long, 12 feet wide, having a mahogany dining table with fixed cane bottom seats on each side, and sofa the whole width, and about  7 feet high. It is at the stern and lighted by four windows about two feet square looking right out to where we came from, and two skylights or hatches. Then in a line with this communicating by two doors, one at each side, is the ladies' cabin, which is the same width and about square. There are two sofas, three or four maple cane bottom chairs, and a table in representation of a loo table,***** veneered with maple rosewood and Spanish mahogany ... On each side of the cabins are our bedrooms, parted off by panel work or, as it looks, twelve doors. Between each door is an Ionic column or pilaster veneered with maple and rosewood, standing against a Spanish mahogany ground. The doors are veneered with maple, and panels the same, with a border of rosewood and mahogany molding on the door, gilt caps to the columns, and several gilt moldings in the cornice. And all wood beautifully French polished, glass knobs on the doors, mounted with silver. The bedrooms are about 8 feet square and two berths or beds in each one above the other with washstand and drawers and all complete."

As you may have guessed, he and Carrie were travelling first class. Steerage didn't have it like this. But more about steerage later.

Many of Richard's entries discuss his general experiences on board ship. On their first night: "we slept but little, being unused to hear the waves dash by our bedside and feeling our beds rock" (June 24). Life on board could be rather dull at times: "I often wish the journey was at an end, the time hangs heavy on our hands ... we keep down in the cabin till we feel bad, we go on deck and walk as well as we can til we are tired, then we sit and strain our eyes looking at the water foam and roll til we are nearly asleep, and then perhaps wake up and read" (June 30). "We have had miserable night, tossed, rocked, rolled, and bumped up against one side and the other til my bones all seem battered and bruised" (July 6).

But once in a while something happened to break up the boredom: "We had quite a new sight to-day, several fish six or seven feet long. The mate stuck the harpoon into one but it broke and the [fish] got away" (July 7).

On another occasion, the mate was more successful: "There was a very large fish seen to swim past us by one of the passengers and the second mate and five sailors were lowered down ... in the boat ... in search of him with order from the Captain. Armed with two harpoons, they went I think a mile before they got sight of him ... mate, who is an old fisherman, gave orders to use the oars so that they made no noise and so approach him, he standing with the harpoon ready to give him a stab ... the moment the fish was struck he dived down, taking the harpoon with him, which had a cord attached to it to prevent its being lost ... and the mate stood with a knife in his hand to cut the rope if the fish should begin to pull down the boat. But that was not the case for, when the fish had run the rope's length, he came up again and then they ... got a rope through one fin and dragged him along to the ship. Then I think about thirty men hauled him on deck and a monster he was, to be sure, being more than eight feet ... and weighing more than a ton. It was what is called a sunfish. And there was much chopping and cutting the poor varmint ... it was full of blood ... it ran about the deck and made it look like a butchery. The liver was all saved to get the oil from it, which is said to be a sure remedy for the rheumatic. Some of the blubber was cooked but not much eaten. All the other was tossed overboard a piece at a time, except a few small pieces which the mate is saving to dry in the sun to make balls for his children. So much for a sea monster" (July 16).

A few days later: "We have had several beautiful sights, several flying fish have been seen, and a tremendous great old shark, or, as the sailors term him, a regular old man eater. He looks very large, being nine or ten feet long with two right-up fins cutting the water as he went along" (July 19). Fortunately, no one went shark hunting!

By late July, the ship was passing near the Grand Banks where Richard noted: "As there was no wind, they sounded the depth ... which was done thus. About a stone of lead, hollow at bottom, and then filled with tallow so that they may know what sort of a bottom it is as some of it is sure to hang to the tallow. This was let down and found gravel bottom at 40 fathom. Then they went to fishing ... with a large hook baited with pork and let down." (July 26) ******

On July 27, Richard records that "Ranson & his wife ... say they would have given anything they possess'd not to have come and that they will go back as soon as they can - a poor spirit this for emigration." Perhaps the Ransons were bored on their long sea journey. Or perhaps it was the heat: "We arose this morning after having been nearly sweated into a parboiled state ... it was tremendously hot and close ..." (July 20).

Now, about meals on board. This was not a cruise ship. Nevertheless, sailing first class doesn't sound too bad: "we breakfast nine o'clock am, dine at three o'clock PM and take tea or sup at seven o'clock PM" (July 1). "They killed a pig this morning for the first time. We had some of it for dinner ... it was nice though not very fat ... we have had several chickens and always finish dinner with a dessert of some kind ... pie or tart, sweet pudding or some Yankee mess or other, so we live pretty well" (July 2). "We had a duck and green peas for dinner and plum pudding for a dessert. There is no drink allowed such as ale, wine or spirits, nothing but water unless you buy it, although it is at a reasonable price ..." (July 5). "At breakfast we always have either hot beef, pork or mutton, besides toast, pancakes and either cold ham or tongue ..." (July 9). "Our bread is good, new every morning. They have every cooking convenience that can be made in the galley, a small place built on deck in the steerage part about 8 feet square with oven boilers, steamers, roasters, fryers, and ... burners and smokers ... Our bread has always been very light. It is made, I am given to understand, with yeast powders. I don't know what they are, they are purchased in London. The bread is very pleasant ..." (July 18). Bread was of special interest to Richard, by profession a baker. 

As to steerage conditions: "I went in the morning down in the hold ... it is beyond all comparison, four and five in a berth" (June 29). The passengers below "scarcely ever having any stockings on their feet and some no shirt on their back ... the men pass their time smoking, playing cards and other games." And as for their food, it consisted of "such messes as no half starved English cat would go near" (July 22). Richard and Carrie had "very good water to drink, as clear and pure as crystal, besides being cool and pleasant. I am sorry to say all on board have not the happiness to have such for, though it is clear, it don't taste well that the steerage passengers have" (July 23). And on July 27, "Many of the steerage passengers begin to fall short of food but the Captain has been very kind ... and given them several pieces of meat."

Several infants became ill and were buried at sea during the journey. On July 14: "The sea, like the land, is not proof against the unerring arm of death for, this morning about twelve AM, they cast into the mighty deep, after reading a short burial service in German, the body of an infant, five months old ... it was a poor weakly thing" (July 14). And on July 22: "This day has again been solemnized by the burial of child eleven months old with the usual ceremony." And again on July 29: "Two poor little sufferers buried today - one in the morning, the other in the afternoon. One of them, about a year old, died in the night. Such an object as I never before saw to be called a human being, it was in fact a case of moving bones about the size of baccopipes and no one would have thought it a living animal or being. The other, died in the morning, was about eighteen months old, in which there was an exact resemblance of the former. There is several more ill and I fear, if we are not soon landed, they will soon expire ... for it seems to me that they feed them on such confounded trash that the poor little things have not nutriment enough to sustain against sea air and the foul atmosphere of the steerage" (July 29). 

Towards the end of their journey, Richard could see other ships bound for New York: "Scarcely any wind ... so that we move forward slowly ... the vessel we saw several days ago is still in sight and five others: one an Indiaman, a very large ship, two fishing boats going to New York, a schooner and a brig" (July 29). 

But at last came the great day when "we received the joyful intelligence that land had been in sight ever since five AM. It was Long Island, which forms the harbour of New York" (Aug. 5). Still, the St. James could travel no faster than the wind: "we are quite low-spirited this morning, it being quite calm. We are now about 70 miles from New York and hope the breeze will soon rise" (Aug. 6). But at last a steamer called the Hercules towed them to New York where they arrived on August 7 at 4:00 pm. 

The Wrights and Ransons had finally reached the end of their sea journey. But Carrie was not well.

Richard writes: "Many were the solicitations to go to this and that House. At last we decided to go to 89 Pearl Street. We found it a large public boarding house with accommodation for about 500 in the first of style. We see our error & my wife kept getting worse. I tried to get private lodgings but to no avail. At last was forced to find a Doctor ... and he said in a few hours all would be right. We sat up, Polly and myself and Doctor ... my wife was in extreme pain all night and many were the eyes she kept open as the House was pretty full. At twenty minutes past 3 on Saturday morning August the 8th, 1846 was blessed with the birth of a girl, a fine baby with dark hair, blue eyes and a noisy welcome to this veil of tears. Then did my wife rejoice and said 'The pain is nothing, for now I have a dear little baby.' And we named her Caroline Pearl Wright in memory of the place of her birth which was 88 Pearl Street, New York. The doctor went home, Polly went to bed and I laid down and we all three went to sleep after thanking God for his goodness towards us." 

Baby Pearl was my great-grandmother. 

Four generation photo: Richard Clutton Wright with his daughter Pearl (left), Pearl's eldest daughter Bessie and her daughter Dorothy, 1900.

Note the discrepancy between 88 and 89 Pearl Street. Was Richard confused and stressed, after a long day on which he arrived in the New World and became a father? Or is this a typo on the part of Horace? I don't know. This document describes the buildings at 87-89 Pearl Street, now part of New York's Stone Street Historic District. These buildings do not sound like "a large public boarding house with accommodation for about 500 in the first of style." They were commercial buildings. Has Pearl Street been renumbered since 1846? I don't have all the answers yet.

Despite their sworn intention to return home, the Ransons shortly proceeded to Montreal. Perhaps once they had their feet firmly on land, they relaxed and decided to continue with Plan A. As for the Wrights: "My wife continued finely and kept every day getting stronger so that on Friday the 15th of August we were able to leave New York for Albany, after parting with about 50 dollars for expenses." From Albany, I surmise they took a passenger boat along the Erie Canal to Buffalo and crossed into Canada, although Richard doesn't actually describe this part of their journey. After the birth of his daughter, his diary entries become rare, suggesting its purpose was to keep him occupied on board ship.

One more entry of interest appears on August 22, 1846 when Richard went to work in Dundas, Ontario while Carrie and Pearl stayed elsewhere: "I arrived at Dundas and slept at the Northern Hotel kept by Barny Collins." Apparently Richard stayed at this place, established by Bernard Collins in 1841.

The Wrights had another girl and a boy upon their arrival in Canada West. Sadly, Caroline died giving birth to another child named Richard in 1852. Mother and baby are buried at West Flamborough Presbyterian Church Cemetery, a place I have visited. 

Richard remarried and settled in Aylmer where he and his second wife, Mary, had many more children.

Richard and his second wife Mary Parmenter.

An advertisement for his business appears in the 1877 Illustrated Historical Atlas of Elgin County:

Richard, Mary and several of their children, are buried in  Aylmer Cemetery:

 

Pearl and her husband John Grainger are buried in Walkerton, Bruce County. 

*Genealogical note: Richard Clutton Wright (1823-1908) and Caroline Wright (1826-1852) were married in the village of Laxfield, Suffolk on September 30, 1845. Two of Caroline's sisters were married the same day in a triple wedding that was reported in The Ipswich Journal on October 11: "So unusual a circumstance attracted a great many persons; and with the merry peal from the bells, and the cheers of the assembled crowd, formed altogether a most animating scene." The three sisters were daughters of George Wright, a local farmer. Richard was a son of William Wright, George's brother, making Richard and Carrie first cousins. (Special thanks to Elizabeth Thomson for the Journal article.)

** Packet ships were mid-sized sailing ships featuring regularly scheduled service between American and British ports. The ships were designed for the north Atlantic, where storms and rough seas were common. Not designed for speed, they carried passengers and cargo and were likely the most efficient way of crossing the Atlantic at the time. Sail packets were eventually replaced by steam packets. 

***Richard's exact words: "This is an American sailor brought from London to his own country by order of the Councill man of England, a man for the purpose of paying distress'd sailors passages back to their own country appointed by Government on all ports I understand do not know how true." And I don't know either.  

****In these excerpts, I have updated spelling and punctuation to the standards of today. And yes, sometimes I'm guessing.

*****A table with an oval or round top and a hinged mechanism fitted to a pedestal base, enabling the table to be easily stored when not in use. "Loo" was a card game. 

******Depth sounding has occurred since ancient times. A sounding line is a length of rope with a plummet, generally of lead, at its end. Regardless of the actual composition of the plummet, it is usually called a "lead." Soundings were taken to establish a ship's position as an aid in navigation and safety. Richard described the process quite accurately. Leads had a wad of tallow in a cavity at the bottom of the plummet. The tallow would bring up part of the bottom sediment - possibly sand, pebbles, clay, or shells - allowing the ship's officers to better estimate their position and provide information useful for navigation and anchoring. If the plummet came up clean, it meant the bottom was rock. 

The Byron Barn Blunder

William Griffiths' barn as drawn by Louis Taylor in Nancy Tausky's Historical Sketches of London:
From Site to City. Broadview Press, 1993. 

For those of you who didn't follow the saga of the "Byron Barn" at 247 Halls Mill Road, a brief recap: Neighbours first became concerned about its condition in September of 2019 when metal sheeting was removed and the roof partially collapsed. The City of London issued a "make safe" order, requiring the owner to either repair the barn, fence it off, or seek a demolition request. Turns out the owner did have a demolition permit dating to 2008. But those permits expire after a year and he didn't act on time.

In January 2020, after activism from London's heritage preservationists, City Council voted 12-3 to designate the structure (Mayor Ed Holder and Councilors Paul Van Meerbergen and Michael Van Holst were opposed). Such designations take effect immediately. The owner called the designation "complete stupidity." 

Two days later, on January 30, 2020, the owner bulldozed the barn.

City Hall then launched an investigation. There were two illegalities: First, the barn was demolished without a permit, which goes against the Ontario Building Code. Second, since it was heritage designated, the demolition defied the Ontario Heritage Act, meaning the building should not have been demolished or significantly altered without the municipality's permission. City bylaw officers charged the owner under both acts.

The property owner recently pleaded guilty and has been charged $2,000.

Byron - in fact, London - has been polarized. The issue: Can someone do whatever he wants with his own property or should he have to comply with the desires of the broader community? 

At any rate, there are a few lessons to be learned here by heritage preservationists:

1.We're not doing a great job of educating folks about architecture. The fact that this was no ordinary barn was missed by the media and most online commentators. As an example, see this blog post in support of the owner, showing a picture of a random barn ruin at top. That is not what Griffiths' barn looked like. Heritage preservationists aren't interested in trying to save the average rural ruin.

In fact, William Griffiths' 19th-century structure was a lot more stylish than the average Ontario barn. It was built as a combination of coach house, barn and warehouse for his woolen mill. Note the decorative treatment of its centre section, the focal point of the long front. The round-headed window was recessed within a projecting gable. Below, another projection containing the main doors (originally solid) was covered with a hipped roof that reflected the dimensions of the gable above. There was a cute ventilator on the ridge. And there was once some symmetry, as indicated by the two ground floor windows equidistant from the main door. The other openings, probably later additions, have masked the former balance. 

2. As noted in the linked blog post, to many people heritage designations appear arbitrary. That's because preservationists are often attempting to designate at the last minute, after they learn that a property is in danger of demolition. In fact, certain buildings should automatically receive designation based on their age, style or rarity. It should not be random or subjective. 

3. Heritage law is still reliant on owners actually desiring to protect sites. Which means that unwanted older buildings are usually just neglected until they fall apart. Once a building falls into ruin, it's hard to convince people it has value. In order to prevent this, we need municipal ordinances requiring property owners to properly maintain buildings.

4. The barn decision sets a precedent for further destruction of heritage properties, since owners now know just how little they may pay upon pleading guilty. Not much of a deterrent for those with deep pockets. 

Until these issues are resolved, we can expect the Byron Blunder to happen again and again.

Promenade Past "The Pit"

Walking around London allows me to notice places I'd never see when whizzing by in a car. And having so many hang-out spots closed due to Covid means I've been doing more walking than usual - and discovering more. 

I'd been past Old North's Doidge Park on many occasions without stopping to read this monument. Erected by the Historic Sites Committee of the Public Library Board in 2000, and christened with a speech from local heritage advocate Julia Beck, the cairn commemorates the history of this sunken basin at the southeast corner of Wellington and Cheapside. 

Two early settlers, Richard Jones Evans and John Anthistle, established lime kilns near this spot, burning deposits of limestone into lime to be used in mortar and cement. Evans, along with London lawyer David Margrave Thompson, subdivided the surrounding land into building lots in 1856. 

John's son William expanded his father's business and mined "The Pit," as it became known, for gravel, sand and cobblestones for local building. William made cement blocks and sewer pipes and laid out some of north London's first sidewalks. Many of the cobblestone-clad houses he built still stand, including his own home on nearby Cromwell Street, which dead ends just east of the park. 

During the Depression, the gravel pit was taken over by the city, which, with its usual lack of imagination, used it as a parking area for city machinery. But in 1949, local residents formed the North London Community Association and lobbied to have Anthistle's pit converted into a park and playground. Thus it became Doidge Park, named after John C. Doidge, chair of the playground committee of the PUC. The park opened in 1958 with financial help from the Kiwanis Club. 

But on a snowy winter day the park becomes the quintessential toboggan slope for children throughout the neighbourhood and beyond ...

... and if they break anything while tobogganing, there's St. Joe's Hospital in the background, ready to come to the rescue. Altogether an excellent example of what the plaque calls "reclaimed urban wasteland." The Pit is still there for the enjoyment of today's residents. 

 

Wright Lithographing in the "Good Old Days"

London Life employees pose before company headquarters ca. 1920. The building became
Wright Lithographing. (From the writer's collection.)

For the record, I don't really believe in the "good old days." The folks in the photo had spent years fighting a world war and a flu pandemic.  But these were definitely better days for the office building behind them. I'll even bet the clock worked. It was 5:00. Quitting time. But there were still a few minutes to pose for a company photo before heading home.

The building now known as Wright Lithographing was built for Sanitary Dairy in 1902 but bought by London Life in 1906 to become the company's head office. When the insurance company built its new headquarters at Wellington and Dufferin in 1927, the Wright family took over the building. It's been known as Wright Lithographing ever since. 

Nowadays though, it's not looking too good. Farhi Holdings has recently returned the old clock and lettering, removed a few years back due to vandalism. But it's still empty and boarded:

November 2021

Farhi Holdings bought the building in 2007. It's listed on the company website as available for lease but how much effort has the company made to find a tenant in the past 16 years? 

Well, in an interview earlier this year, Mr. Farhi mentions he sent the city an affordable housing proposal for the building. London apparently turned it down, stating other sites could contain more units. Apparently Farhi also had a letter of interest from a financial institution but the deal fell through. No other interest since 2007? Seems like it might be time to sell. 

The vandalism problem might go away if the building was occupied. If anyone lived or worked in it, they'd be keeping an eye out for vandals. Folks are vigilant about a building in which they have a vested interest. And in 2009, the company tore down a rear addition to make more parking space. So parking shouldn't be a big problem, either. 

Of course, one of the reasons for the high vacancy rate downtown was the vacancy tax break that owners of empty commercial buildings received up to 2019. That rebate was originally intended to assist property owners who were having trouble finding tenants during economic recessions. But it also created an incentive for landlords to leave buildings empty. 

But there are rumblings of new ideas to lower London's downtown vacancy rate, including a vacancy tax and land expropriation. The purpose is to "disincentivize" land speculation. 

And that's exactly what's going on with the Wright building, among others - land speculation. Farhi buys properties as an investment, with no specific plans for them, and holds them for future demolition and land reuse or a profitable resale. After being vacant for 16 years, I fear the future for Wright Lithographing is the former. 

Why bother with rules anyway?

Here it is: the proposed site of Auburn Developments' 17-storey "luxury" highrise. A development Auburn and some city councilors say will add vibrancy to Victoria Park and West Woodfield. On November 16, 2021, London City Council voted 8 to 5 in favour of  rezoning to allow the development.  Here's what Auburn intends to build. 

OK, the proposed highrise isn't much uglier than what's built anywhere else these days. You may like it or you may not. But those of us who oppose the rezoning are concerned about more than aesthetics. There are good reasons why a highrise shouldn't be built at this location:

* City Planning Department recommended that City Council refuse the Auburn application. Why does the city employ expert staff if the politicians won't take their advice?

* The proposed development is not consistent with the Provincial Policy Statement of 2020 which promotes intensification in appropriate locations while preserving heritage.

* The proposed development does not conform to the Official Plan of 1989.

* The proposed development is not in keeping with the policies outlined in the West Woodfield Heritage Conservation District Plan.

* The proposed development sets a precedent that may enable more highrises around Victoria Park and in other city HCDs.

* The city is developing a Victoria Park Secondary Plan to establish maximum building heights and densities around the park. The plan is not yet completed. Why should the city make zoning decisions prematurely?  

What London should do, of course, is:

1) Build highrises outside of HCDs, preferably on the downtown parking lots.

2) Allow a one-block low to mid-rise buffer zone around Victoria Park.

As I've said before, there's not much point in having guidelines if any developer can override them by pressuring City Council. Why have rules when exceptions apply to anyone who asks?

Update: May 2022:  City Council has voted to give the Victoria Park Secondary Plan the go-ahead, despite there being very little agreement about what the perimeter of Victoria Park should look like. But of one thing there can be no doubt: allowing highrises to flank the park will detract from this valuable core-area green space. 

The Lost Art of Letter Writing

How wonderful it is to live in the technologically-advanced twenty-first century, with email, texting, and instant digital communication. It's comforting to be able to contact friends and relatives on the other side of the world and receive an immediate response. Our pioneer ancestors would have appreciated the convenience, not to mention the prompt reassurance that loved ones were alive and prosperous, though they might never see them again.

And yet, there's something charming about handwritten words. For those of us who have piles of old family letters, there's nothing like curling up and perusing them. The letters my relatives saved tell me about their lives and the world in which they lived and struggled. I often feel like I know those people who died decades, even more than a century, before I was born. 

Take the letter my great, great grandmother, Jane "Jennet" Moore, wrote home to her parents in Ireland, on July 12, 1847. It was a great help for compiling our family history. Jennet writes her parents that she now has five children, William, James, Robert, Eliza Jane, and John:

Of course, family historians have lots of ways to find the names of their relatives these days. Ancestry and other genealogy websites speedily grow family trees. But it certainly saved us time to have Jennet record the names of her children. What we didn't know for many years was that she had three children after this letter was written - three more boys, in fact. That's where census records came in handy.

From the address label we learned the name of her father, James Richie, and where she came from, Larne, County of Antrim, Ireland. The postmark is for Oxford County, Upper Canada (U.C.), although the province was officially Canada West by that date. 

Jennet's return address appears at the end of her letter, informing her family that they can reply to her at Ingersollville, Oxford, Brock District, Canada West, N.A.

Whether it was common to call Ingersoll "Ingersollville" at that time or whether that was a Jennet-ism I don't know. The hamlet was not even officially a village until 1852, so perhaps she could call it whatever she liked. As for Brock District, it was created in 1839 from the London District but abolished in 1849. 

Jennet's letter home may have been prompted by news of suffering in her homeland. Since she and her husband John had left Ireland in the late 1830s, conditions there had deteriorated. In 1847, the year remembered as "Black '47," the Great Famine was at its worst. "We are sorry to hear of the distress in Ireland," Jennet writes.* "We hope that none of our friends are suffering under it. We hear bad accounts from the south of Ireland." The accounts she'd heard were correct; the west and south of Ireland were the worst hit. 

But Jennet could report that her husband had a good-paying job and she urged a relative to join them. "We had a letter from Robert Moore. He thinks of coming to this country ... he could do better here ... John has wrote to him ... John is serving a time in the iron foundry. He can do well by it. When he serves one year he can get a dollar and a half a day." (I haven't calculated that daily wage into today's currency but would be pleased to learn how.)

John and Jennet eventually moved to St. Marys where John operated an iron foundry. They died in 1895 and 1855 respectively and are buried in St. Marys. The kids mentioned in the letter grew up and did their own thing. William became Moderator of the Presbyterian Church of Canada; James and Robert, my great grandfather, became hardware dealers; Eliza became an overseas missionary; John went off to South Africa. 

Robert married my great grandmother, Fanny Clarke, in 1882, but not before sending this charming love letter from his home in St. Marys to hers in Ingersoll on May 15:

"I will be glad to drive over to Woodstock with you on Sunday. You think four or five weeks a long time between my visits. I assure you I do too. I would like to go oftener but it is so inconvenient getting back & forth that it is hardly possible.

My Dear Fanny the months will soon wear by and then we will be together all the time. I will be glad when that times comes for I do love you and am sure you love me so that I expect we will be very happy together.

I have no fear of getting my eyes opened the way you speak of (jokingly of course). I believe it will be just the opposite. The more I know of you the more I will love you and I hope it will be the same with you toward me." 

Robert and Fanny were married in Ingersoll on November 9, 1882, the ceremony being performed by his brother, Rev. Will. They remained together until Robert's death in 1910, I hope as lovingly as he anticipated. They had two daughters, my grandmother, Helen, and Kathleen.

The girls, of course, became letter writers themselves, even at an early age. When Robert was away on business, he could expect an in-depth report on everything going on at home, including the activities of family pets like "Caesar" and "Jack." This letter is from his younger daughter, Kathleen, who had yet to perfect her calligraphy skills. A note at the bottom from Fanny explains that "Helen is busy reading," in case Robert wondered why there was no note from his older daughter. She did write at times, however, because we have letters from her too. 

When she was 11, in 1901, Kathleen helped herself to Papa's company letterhead to comment on the recent letter he'd sent home to his business partner, Mr. Browne. Fanny had read aloud the letter Robert had sent to "Mr. B." Here Kathleen comments on Robert's ride in one of those newfangled automobiles: "I was wishing that I was there to have a ride in a horseless carriage." Naturally! What could be more exciting to a turn-of-the-twentieth-century child? Well, maybe a glimpse of royalty. "Did you see the Duke and Duchess?" she continues. "What did they look like?"

The couple in question were the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall and York, later King George V and Queen Mary, who visited Canada in the autumn of 1901. Their visit lasted five weeks but where Robert was so that he might have waved at them we don't know. His letter was probably returned to Mr. B.

After Robert's death in 1910, and my grandmother's marriage to my grandfather in 1911, Fanny and Kathleen decided to see Europe. Unfortunately, their timing couldn't have been worse, sailing overseas in the summer of 1914. Although they did enjoy a tour of Britain, they never made it to the Continent. In this letter of August 5, mailed to a London hotel, Helen tries to contain her panic: "Where are you and what are you doing? Have you been attacked yet or sent home or what? We hear such terrible rumors of war and I am so glad it has broken out before you got over to France. It might have been so terrible if you had got over there & couldn't get back." Only the day before, Germany had invaded Belgium and George V had declared war on Germany for its violation of Belgian neutrality. World War I was about to begin. 

We also have various letters soldiers wrote to their friend Kathleen, thanking her for the "sox" she'd knitted them, and asking after friends in Canada. There's never any mention of  battles, attacks, or the horrors of the trenches. As her friend, Elliott points out in the excerpt below, "anything interesting would not pass the censor."

But in another note from that same year, Elliott states: "Remember me to Jack and tell him I said this death or glory stuff is not what it's cracked up to be." That message was for my grandfather, Helen's husband, who was in the military but didn't leave Canada. It may be among the great understatements of all time. Perhaps it was Elliott's way of saying "Be grateful you're home."

Elliott, by the way, was Lt. Elliott Manery Durham of the Canadian Expeditionary Force, who enlisted at Sault Ste. Marie in August 1914, aged about 22. Information about him and other WWI personnel may be obtained here. 

And envelopes can be interesting too:

The letter inside this envelope is nothing remarkable, just a note from Fanny to her niece, Sadie, letting her know about her upcoming trip to Britain and hoping she and Kathleen can visit. But the letter was carried on the S. S. Empress of Ireland, a Canadian Pacific Liner that sank off the Gaspé Peninsula on May 29 of that year. The Empress took only fourteen minutes to sink after colliding with a freighter in the fog. 1,012 people drowned in the worst marine disaster in Canadian history. 

Since the ship sank in relatively shallow water and was apparently carrying about £200,000 of silver bullion, the insurance underwriters decided to conduct salvage operations. Much of the mail the ship carried was recovered, dried out and hand-stamped "Recovered by divers from wreck of S. S. Empress of Ireland." The postage stamp is missing; it would have fallen off when immersed in water. 

I don't have letters from every branch of my family, but Kathleen was one of those sentimental savers who hung on to letters, postcards, and photos. Most of them she kept in her portable writing desk. As a child, I liked to take this box off the shelf, place it on my knee and have a good rummage through it, reading the letters and looking at the old photos. 

This isn't the proper way to store archival material of course. Old letters should be placed in acid-free envelopes, archival crystal clear bags, or three-ring page protectors, all of which will keep delicate paper from being exposed to harmful dust, moisture or pollutants. In defense of my family's preservation efforts, though, I can confirm that some material, such as Jennet's letter, has indeed been removed from the desk and protected in proper archival fashion. The rest of it I need to work on ...

So the next time you're thinking about emailing someone, consider sending a handwritten letter instead. Your email may be read and forgotten, perhaps not read at all. But there's nothing like a letter delivered by "snail mail" to get people's attention. It's personal and charming. And, since it takes more time and effort, a letter or card shows you care enough about the recipient to write. 

But, best of all, if your letter is saved, future folks will learn all about you and your life in 2021. Your efforts will be appreciated by future historians, genealogists, and kids who like to "rummage." 

* I have modernized the spelling and grammar in all excerpts. 

Tombstone Tourism: Denfield (Welsh) Cemetery

There's lots of reasons for visiting cemeteries. Some people visit the graves of loved ones to honour their memories. Others find hallowed ground a source of comfort, visiting for spiritual contemplation and prayer. Genealogists look for information about deceased relatives.

Some of us just like cemeteries. 

Whether it's the silence and tranquility, the interesting grave inscriptions, or the feeling of closeness to those who walked the Earth before us, there's something emotional about older graveyards. And you can learn a lot about a community from reading the monuments raised to its founders.

Take Denfield Cemetery. It's located on the west side of Denfield Road, just south of the hamlet of Denfield in the former London Township (now part of Middlesex Centre). Without knowing anything about the history of the area, a visitor quickly deduces that many of the early Denfield settlers were Welsh, the Matthews and Rosser families being among the most prominent. Small wonder that, when a memorial service was held on site in 1934, local historian Dr. Fred Rosser was chosen to deliver the historical lecture.

But I should start at the beginning, 200 years ago in 1821. That was the year three Welsh families arrived in the district - the Matthews, the Morgans, and the Rossers - three couples with no fewer than 25 children among them. Typical for those days, the first burial was one of the little people. William Matthews, aged seven, was the first interment, in 1826. 

It was David Morgan who donated the land for the cemetery, on the northwest corner of the 15th Concession and Denfield Road. A frame Baptist church was built at the cemetery in 1841, replaced in 1854 by a brick building after a storm blew off the first structure's roof. Not surprisingly, early services were conducted in Welsh. And until a baptistery was built in the church in 1870, chilly baptisms took place in nearby Denfield Creek.

Another church building was built closer to Denfield's main intersection in 1890, presumably for convenience. If you're thinking the original building was hardly worlds away from Denfield, you're right, but the distance between concessions in horse-and-buggy days seemed farther than now. And a row of newer houses now fills the gap between the 16th and 15th concessions, so what constitutes "Denfield" has widened. The 1890 church is still standing.

The young Lombardo brothers are said to have played a charity concert at the church during the temperance era. Apparently Carmen Lombardo sang a song entitled "Nobody's Going to Get the Key to My Cellar" which didn't go over well with the stricter locals - until they counted the money brought in by the collection. Then all was well.*

By the twentieth century, the old cemetery was looking a little rough. In 1925, the plot owners set up an endowment fund for upkeep and that same spring the grounds were tidied and trees planted. The current fence and gate were added in 1933. Then came the the 1934 memorial service, held to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the Baptist congregation, founded before their actual church was built. Historian Frederick Thomas Rosser, author of The Welsh Settlement in Upper Canada and London Township Pioneers, gave a talk that day. I wouldn't be surprised if the London Free Press sent a reporter to the event but, not knowing the exact date, I haven't found a record of it yet. Hence, I can't tell you what he said.  Maybe one day.

In May 1953 the legendary tornado of that year damaged many of the older stones. The cemetery was restored as much as feasible but it was noted that many of the early monuments were deteriorating anyway. Hence, the addition of this memorial stone which commemorates little Willy Matthews as well as other pioneers, both old and young:

*A story recorded in London Township: A Rich Heritage 1796-1997 Volume I. Another source of information about this church and cemetery is "Highlights in the History of Denfield Cemetery" by W. D. E. Matthews, in Western Ontario Historical Notes, Vol. XX, No. 1, March 1964.