As well as being essential items of clothing to help people stay warm on those cold winter nights and to cover their modesty, people clothed only in their night apparel provided the caricaturists of the day with a plentiful supply of material, so we thought we would take a quick, lighthearted look at a few of these to cheer up a cold winter’s day.
A lean old woman in night-cap and shift sits in an arm-chair pouncing on an insect on her upraised knee.
People wearing just their nightwear was yet another way of mocking the ‘great and the good’ of the Georgian Era, so here we go with just a small sample of the amusing caricatures of the day.
Here we have the Duke of York and his mistress Mrs Clarke, neither bearing any resemblance to the actual people however, as you can see from the painting of Mary Anne below.
Next we have a satire on Napoleon in 1815, as he sits at a table wearing a night-cap writing his will, with English soldiers on guard, not a very flattering image!
Here we have a print by Rowlandson depicting both George III and the future George IV, always a character ripe for mockery.
This one was produced around the time of the marriage of the future George IV to Caroline of Brunswick; Prinny in his very short night shirt and nightcap looking decidedly worried and Princess Caroline smiling! This was not going to end well, as history teaches us!
And finally, we move from the nobility to political mockery with a terrified Charles James Fox and his wife in bed, Napoleon standing over them and William Pitt to the left.
We recently told you about the miser Mary Luhorne, that we came across in the book Lives and Anecdotes of Misers. Needless to say we unearthed a few more, but unfortunately, unlike Mary, we are unable to validate most of these, apart from to confirm that details of their stories also appeared in the newspapers some years later. Once again, amongst many questions, it does beg the question ‘where were the relatives when they were alive?‘ sadly, we have no answer to that question.
Anyway, here we go:
In 1768, in Nether-Shuckburgh, in Warwickshire, lived an old maid, named Elizabeth Wilcocks, whose life was very similar to that of Mary Luhorne. For many years before her death, she ate nothing but horse-beans or a few curlings: she had hardly any clothes, and had nothing but a bundle of straw and an old blanket to lie upon; yet, at her death, twelve pairs of sheets, and a large quantity of other linen, was found in her drawers.
She hid her wealth in the most unaccountable places. In a pickle-pot, stowed away in the clock-case, was discovered eighty pounds in gold and five pounds in silver. In a hole under the stairs a canister full of gold: in an old rat-trap a large quantity of gold and silver, and in several other places similar hoards were discovered by her executors.
In addition to all this wealth, this miserable old miser was possessed of an estate in houses and land producing a handsome revenue. She left the whole of her property to a very distant relative.
Many years ago, there used to sit in the streets of Exeter an old woman selling lemons and apples. In the very hottest day she did not flinch before the sun; and in the very bitterest of December nights she was sure to be found at her accustomed place.
Now and then she did business in her little way, and took a few coppers from the urchins in the streets. Her appearance bespoke the utmost poverty, and her rigid habits of parsimony were regarded by the charitable as the shifts of indigence.
She had been an old inhabitant of the city but all her relatives were poor, and one of them had long been an inmate of the workhouse. There were but few who, knowing these circumstances, did not pity poor old Joanna Horrel, the apple-woman, of Exeter; and loose halfpence were often quietly dropped into her fruit-basket.
These tributes of compassion were always carefully hoarded up, and however much she obtained by such means, she never altered her appearance, never lived more generously, never indulged herself in luxuries or comforts at home, and never once thought of her relative in the poor-house. In the year 1789, Joanna had grown old, and her span of life was at an end. Her relatives came to fulfill the last duties for the dead and on searching her room, hid here and there in cracks and corners, behind bricks and under the flooring, they discovered a fortune of near ten thousand pounds.
In an old newspaper, called the General Evening Post, of the date December 21, 1779, there is an announcement of the death of Miss Maria Vooght, the female miser, of Amsterdam. She was the last of three singular and parsimonious sisters. Lest they should not be enabled to gratify their propensity to accumulate and save, they resolutely declined all offers of matrimony.
They lived huddled together in one room—gloried, like true misers, in filth, and lumber, and vermin. They ate the coarsest food, and of that but sparingly, and they were never known to have bestowed a fraction in charity. There never, perhaps, were seen such miserable, dirty, and untidy old maids. In all three, the passion of avarice was equally strong: it appeared in them a family vice: they were not induced to become so parsimonious from the fear of any future want, for they had each a fortune which would have secured all those comforts and enjoyments it is in the power of gold to provide.
Maria Vooght, the last of these eccentric characters, left at her death, a fortune of five millions of guilders, equal to five hundred thousand pounds. She died intestate, and the money went to strangers.
Margery Jackson, The Carlisle miser and misanthrope (1722 – 1812)
This story is somewhat different, but equally sad, so rather than sharing her whole story with you, we will simply redirect you to this brief online Memoir of Margery Jackson, it makes fascinating reading, we would definitely recommend having a quick read of it, she even created mayhem after her death! – not the most pleasant of women.
Tullie House Museum and Art Gallery in Carlisle even have a dress owned by Margery in their collection.
Margery Jackson, the Carlisle Miser, by William Brown (active 1811-1837). Tuille house Museum and At Gallery
We are thrilled to welcome Dr Jacqueline Reiter who has written a guest blog for us about her first book The Late Lord: the life of John Pitt, 2nd Earl of Chatham, which was published by Pen & Sword Books in January 2017.
Jacqueline has a PhD in late 18th century political history from the University of Cambridge. A professional librarian, she lives in Cambridge with her husband and two children. She blogs at The Late Lord and you can follow her on Facebook or Twitter.
So we will hand you over to Jacqueline to tell you more about The Late Lord.
I freely admit that, when I started writing my biography of John Pitt, 2nd Earl of Chatham, I hoped to overturn some of the myths surrounding him. Chatham was the elder brother of William Pitt the Younger and infamous for his lazy command of the Walcheren Expedition of 1809, which was a notorious failure.
In reality, Chatham was a fascinating, complex person, certainly not the indolent fool he has been made out to be, but it seems there is no smoke without fire. I often came across what I called “oh dear John” moments (and yes, I do feel my reading all Chatham’s available personal correspondence entitles me to be on first-name terms with him).
There was the occasion when “the late Lord Chatham”, as he was known, turned up four and a half hours late to a royal function; the newspapers po-facedly traced his lacklustre attendance at Board meetings while First Lord of the Admiralty. Even in private life he was a bit of a flake, and spent five weeks screwing up the courage to propose to his future wife, while everybody about him (including the object of his affections) got increasingly tetchy.
Possibly the least expected laugh-out-loud moment of all occurred while I was plodding resolutely through the 12th Report of the Commissioners of Military Enquiry (1810), focusing on the Office of the Master-General of the Ordnance.
Chatham was Master-General of the Ordnance from 1801-6 and 1807-10. His department was responsible for the production and provision of gunpowder and firearms, as well as the building and maintenance of permanent fortifications. It trained artillerists and engineers at Woolwich, thereby providing advanced scientific and mathematical education (for all classes, not just the privileged). It sponsored scientific innovation, and not merely by developing new ways of killing more people in the most explosive possible way; the Ordnance Survey Maps are so named because they were first produced by the Ordnance Office.
The Ordnance was a big, cumbersome, bureaucracy-heavy department, but its structure had evolved because it had to be clearly accountable as a public office handling an awful lot of money. Between 1803 and 1815, the Ordnance Ordinaries, Extraordinaries and Unprovided funds (voted on a yearly basis by Parliament based on pretty detailed financial breakdowns) rose from £1.27 million to between £4 and £4.6 million (with a spike of £5.3 million in 1809, when Britain fielded two enormous armies in two different fields of battle).
These were hefty sums: in 1813, Britain’s total annual budget was £66 million. Part of the remit of the Military Commissioners, indeed, was to work out why Ordnance expenditure had grown so much and so rapidly during the war, and to suggest ways of reducing it.
Chatham did not appear before the Commission in person, although he did answer several questions about the office of Master-General by post. One of his staff, however, Colonel Charles Neville, did appear (on 2 April 1810). Neville did quite well during his cross-examination, but at one point he stumbled and inadvertently revealed something Chatham would probably rather had remained confidential.
Neville was only an under-secretary: the actual Secretary, Sir William Bellingham, had done virtually nothing to justify his salary since his appointment and had in fact been in Ireland for a lot of the time (because of this, his office was very much up for the chop). Neville was asked several questions about the structure of the Master-General’s personal department. It was quite small, Neville said: there were only three official messengers, two of them attached to the Ordnance Office and one personal messenger to the Master-General, who attended him when he was travelling.
This, Neville explained, was something Chatham did a lot. He was a busy man. The Master-Generalship was only one of his many official hats, the next most important of which was his appointment as Commander-in-Chief of the Eastern Military District. Britain was divided up into several districts, each commanded by a high-ranking general officer who controlled the military resources and the regular, militia and volunteer forces in the geographic area under their command. Chatham’s Eastern District headquarters were in Colchester, and his correspondence bears out Neville’s evidence that he spent a significant portion of each year there.
Did Lord Chatham charge travel expenses? Yes, Neville said, he did. (But of course: he was entitled to do so.) Were these checked by anybody? Neville replied: “The Bills are brought to me by his Lordship’s personal Messenger; and I strike out all Journies [sic] that do not appear directed to an Ordnance Station.”
The follow-up question was obvious: “Did Lord Chatham, whilst Master General, charge his Travelling Expenses to the Ordnance, when going to, or returning from the District in which he had a Staff Command?”
Maybe he was nervous about appearing before a parliamentary commission, but Neville blithely stepped straight into the trap laid out for him: “Yes, as he went to Colchester, which is an Artillery Station.”
“Are you aware,” the anonymous commissioner continued, “that General Officers on the Staff are not allowed, by His Majesty’s Regulations, any Travelling Expences for Journies within their Districts?”
At which point an ominous silence probably fell across the room, and Neville must have thought: “….. Oh no.”
He responded with a bland “I am not aware of any such Regulation.”
Thankfully Chatham was at this point already out of office, or Ordnance-Expensegate might well have followed…
(And if you’re wondering, Chatham charged £421.14.8 in travel expenses in 1807 – a sizeable sum!).
All of which just goes to show that expenses were as much an issue in 1810 as they were in 2010. Some things, it seems, never change.
All quotations come from Commissioners of Military Enquiry, Thirteenth Report of the Commissioners of Military Enquiry: The Master General and Board of Ordnance (London, 1811).
Great Tom is the name of the bell which hangs in Tom Tower at Christ Church, one of the colleges at Oxford University. The following print was produced for Valentine’s Day in 1816, playing on the names, with two Oxford men fleeing underneath Great Tom away from a Christ Church Belle.
We were drawn to this print as it relates, in a loose way, to our latest book, A Right Royal Scandal. Valentine’s Day 1816 found Lord Charles Bentinck, a younger brother of the Duke of Portland, embroiled in a highly scandalous Criminal Conversation trial following his elopement the previous year with the wife of Sir William Abdy. The lady was the niece of the famed Duke of Wellington and the amorous couple had eloped just weeks after his triumph at the Battle of Waterloo. Tongues had not stopped wagging since!
A divorce and a swift remarriage followed and for a while the Bentincks lived quietly and tried to let the scandal die down.
But it was the eldest son of Lord and Lady Charles Bentinck who we think of when we see the print above. Charley Cavendish Bentinck did not attend Christ Church, instead studying at Merton from 1837, and he did not flee from his Belle: instead he ran directly into her arms! In the village of Summertown, just outside Oxford and nestled against the Cumnor Hills, lived the Lambournes, a humble working class family.
James Lambourne was a horse dealer known to settle disputes with his fists and his wife Sinnetta was a full blooded gypsy who had left her family and peripatetic way of life upon her marriage. The couple had a daughter, named Sinnetta like her mother, who was a dark-haired beauty, and she captivated not only the aristocratic Charley but a rival too. Charley won her heart but it was a romance which had to be kept secret and one which had devastating consequences for the two star-crossed lovers.
Not a few Oxford men, of nine or ten years’ standing, could tell a tale of frantic passion for a Gipsy girl entertained by two young men at one time, one of them with ducal blood in his veins, who ultimately wooed and wedded his Gipsy love. So that it is no way impossible (the heirs to the dukedom being all unmarried, and unlikely to marry) that the ducal coronet of ____ may come to be worn by the son of a Gipsy mother
And why was it a right royal scandal? Because Charley Cavendish Bentinck is the great-grandfather of Queen Elizabeth II. Our book looks at the Cavendish Bentinck and Wellesley families, at their ‘scandalous marriages’ and shows how our modern history, as it concerns the British royal family, could look very different indeed, if not for a young gypsy girl.
Reviews for A Right Royal Scandal
…Major and Murden keep their text entertaining and light throughout, making for an easy read of a subject that keeps you engrossed from start to finish. This book is brilliant for those who enjoy the scandals of historical television, with the added authenticity of historical fact. History of Royals, February 2017
Awesome real life biography that could be a scandalous historical romance novel. Loved it. NetGalley, reviewed by Nikkia Neil
The biography reads like a saucy Regency/Georgian novel with love affairs, mistresses, illegitimate offspring, elopements and unsuitable (and unhappy) marriages galore. A golden thread weaves through this colourful tapestry of indiscretions leading us from the Battle of Waterloo to the present day, from the Duke of Wellington’s niece to our very own Prince William… Buy it, read it, you won’t be disappointed – a true 5* gem of a book! Amazon, reviewed by Lally Brown
This really is a case of ‘You couldn’t make it up’. The plots may seem to come straight out of the world of Regency Romance but they are all true, and carefully annotated and verified by Major and Murden. Amazon review – reviewed by Nomester
Mary Manlove married Nicholas Luhorne, some seven years her senior, in 1715 at St Andrews Holborn. There’s nothing especially noteworthy about either of them on the face of it until after the death of Nicholas, a captain in the navy, when the story of Mary’s life after the loss of her husband became particularly tragic as we discovered in a book, titled Lives and anecdotes of misers. What became of Mary…?
In the month of August of the year 1766 there died at Deptford a wretched old woman, in her ninety-sixth year; she was the widow of Captain Luhorne, of the East India service. She survived her husband forty years, and during the whole of that period she lived a most miserly and penurious manner. She not only denied herself the comforts, but even the most common necessaries and decencies of life.
Her clothes were so tattered that she was almost in a state of nudity, and the rags which she hung upon her shoulders were so filthy, and so animated with vermin, that passengers took the precaution to keep at a distance from her in the streets.
She was never known to have lit a fire in her room, and never indulged in the luxury of a candle; she wore no under garments, and had no sheet to cover her at night; she eschewed all the rules of cleanliness, and appeared never so happy as when surrounded with filth and loathsomeness. She would frequently wander along the roads to beg of passers by, and always professed the utmost poverty.
The demon of avarice was so strong within this covetous soul, that she was more than once detected pilfering some trifling articles from her neighbours. One Tuesday the old woman was missed; she had not been observed to leave her room, and she had not been seen in her accustomed walks: Wednesday past, and the neighbours began to suspect that the old miser must be ill; they knocked at her door, but no voice replied; they waited for the morrow; and when the day had far advanced, and she did not appear, they got in at the window. They found her in bed alive, but speechless: with the attention she revived a little, but on Saturday the old woman died.
Her relatives were sent for, who on opening her drawers and chests found securities and gold to the amount of forty thousand pounds, besides clothes of the most sumptuous make and texture, plate, china, jewels and linen. For years she had been surrounded with this wealth and possessed these luxuries, which if rightly used would have served to comfort her old age, and have been the means of relieving the miseries and wants of others; the remembrance would in return have proved great solace to the bed of sickness and death.
Yet although her drawers were thus crammed with costly apparel, which was slowly moldering and rotting before the effects of time; that wretched object of penury chose rather to wear rags so filthy that it became the imperative duty of her relatives to burn them immediately after her death.
In a life so wretched, so devoid of purpose, so laborious, so self-denying and so debased, we have a striking ample of the littleness of human wishes, and the ignobility of the human mind, when unguided by reason, and when swayed by the despotism of the passions. Her life is indeed, a problem the philosopher will find some difficulty to solve. With forty thousand pounds, no fraction of which she would venture to enjoy – with none for whom affection would prompt her to save – here was a wretched being whose lust for gold and whose propensity to hoard was so overwhelming, that she would beg of strangers in the streets whatever she could lay her hands upon; and although surrounded with an abundance, deprive herself of every enjoyment – of every hope and consolation, that she might gratify this most senseless propensity of her life, of her avarice, as manifested in all its strength at the age of ninety five, and of her lonely and comfortless death bed, we are prompted to exclaims, with the psalmist:
We thought it was about time for another fashion post so today we’re focusing on the pink fashions of the Georgian Era – we hope you’ll enjoy.
During the 1700s pastel colours were all the rage across Europe. Madame de Pompadour (below), was at the forefront of fashion, loved the colour pink and whatever she wore, others were bound to follow.
Pink at that time was regarded as sexy, although the perception of it changed towards the end of the 1700s after which time it became the colour of innocence.
Until around the middle of the nineteenth-century both girls and boys wore pink, so our stereotypes of girls in pink and boys in blue to differentiate gender is a far more recent concept.
The fashion for wearing pink was in no way simply the domain of women. Men were certainly not afraid to be seen wearing this vivid shade of pink, they would without a doubt have stood out in a crowd wearing this outfit.
Clearly French author, Jacques Cazotte was very comfortable in his pink attire.
As you can see, the draped fabric behind such a regal portrait as that by Allan Ramsay of King George III was pink.
To accessorize, pink shoes were very much in fashion as we show here
And of course, no outfit would be complete without an accompanying fan.
The newspapers were always ready to provide descriptions of the attire worn by the ‘great and the good‘ of the day as we can see from these excerpts.
The World, January 19, 1793
Hon. J. T Townshend
A corbeau colour striped and pink spotted velvet coat and breeches, and white satin waistcoat, richly embroidered in silver spangles, stones and coloured silks, pink satin and net-work border, lined with pink satin; very elegant and rich.
Below we have a description of the pink dress worn by Princess Augusta, courtesy of The Oracle and Public Advertiser, April 18 1795.
We finish this post with a modern catwalk image which shows that the style and the colour have remained very much in vogue, if somewhat modernized for the 21st century!
Featured image: Maria Luisa of Parma by Anton Raphael Mengs.
We trust that you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Year and so we kick off this years monthly roundup with some blogs we came across during January. As we didn’t have a December roundup we have a bumper roundup for January covering an incredibly eclectic mix of subjects – we hope you enjoy our selection as much as do.
Here in Lincolnshire in the English Midlands, we’re yet to see any real snow this winter and it’s beginning to look a little unlikely now. Certainly, we have not yet been able to build a snowman so, while we wait for a good snowfall, today we’re going to take a closer look at an engraving of a snowman built by a young boy and his friends in the eighteenth-century.
Thomas Bewick, wood engraver and natural history author, was born in 1753 in the village of Mickley in Northumberland, in a cottage known as Cherryburn. With a talent for drawing, young Thomas was apprenticed at the age of fourteen years to Ralph Beilby, a Newcastle engraver, later becoming a partner in his business.
The following two vignettes supposedly show Thomas Bewick as a child, building a giant snowman at Cherryburn. Bewick is the boy standing on the stool, putting the finishing touches to the snowman, while his childhood friend, Joe Liddell, stands behind him, shivering and with his arms crossed.
The cottage shown in the background is Cherryburn and, in the latter image, Bewick’s bedroom window, which was next to his bedhead, is visible to the right of the horse’s head. The image appeared as a tailpiece woodcut engraving at the end of British Birds, 1797. Another tailpiece in the book shows Joe Liddell out hunting in the snow.
With so much interest in the Royal Collection’s Georgian Papers Project, we thought we would examine some of the portraits of Queen Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz who was also patron of the arts. We took a brief look some time ago at some of the portraits of George III’s children, so other portraits of the Queen with her children can be found by following this link.
As you would imagine, both the King and Queen were painted by many of the leading artists of the day so we’ll take a look at just a few of them.
We begin with a miniature of Queen Charlotte by the artist Jeremiah Meyer, who was appointed miniature painter to her majesty.
Our next being portrait is attributed to Johann Zoffany, 1766. According to John Zoffany, His Life and Works by Lady Victoria Manners and Dr. G C Williamson:
Unfortunately for our artist he was addicted to the practical joke of introducing into his groups ‘without the permission of the original and often in unflattering guise‘ the representations of living persons with whom he had quarrelled or against whom he had grievance. He is said to have scandalised the English Court by sketching out and showing to his friends a bold replica of his ‘Life School‘ in which he had introduced a portrait of Queen Charlotte before she was married and had placed it opposite to the figure of one of her former admirers in Germany.
As Zoffany’ s Life School wasn’t painted until after this portrait of Queen Charlotte, it rather begs the question as to what she had done to upset him – perhaps she didn’t think he had captured her likeness in this portrait! We will probably never know.
In 1789 Queen Charlotte sat for the artist Thomas Lawrence but, according to the National Gallery, apparently unwillingly, having recently undergone the shock of George III’s first attack of apparent insanity. The pearl bracelets on Queen Charlotte’s wrists were part of the king’s wedding gift to her; one clasp contains his portrait miniature, the other his royal monogram. Although Lawrence’s portrait was considered to be very like Queen Charlotte, it failed to please the king and queen and remained in the artist’s possession
This next painting is by one of the monarch’s favourite artists, William Beechey. In the biography of William Beechey R.A. written by W. Roberts in 1909, he notes that in 1793 Beechey painted a full length portrait of Queen Charlotte, the Queen in turn honoured him by the appointment of Her Majesty’s Portrait Painter.
Interestingly, there is another copy of this portrait at the Courtauld Gallery, dated somewhat later – 1812 – and with slightly different dimensions.
Probably one of the most well known portraits of her is the one by Allan Ramsay.
And finally, a portrait after Thomas Gainsborough.
For our first guest post of 2017 we are thrilled to welcome back the collaborative Anglo-Canadian husband-and-wife team of writers and historians, Marilyn Livingstone and Morgen Witzel also known as AJ Mackenzie to tell us about part of their research for their latest book, The Body in the Icewhich will be available from April this year.
While planning our new novel, The Body in the Ice, we discovered we needed an additional plot device. Two of our American characters needed to disappear as children and be presumed dead, only – in finest Gothic style – to reappear as adults many years later. The question was, what happened to them in the meantime? Where did they go and what did they do?
One reason why white – and black – children sometimes disappeared in colonial America was abduction by Native Americans. This sounds brutal, and it was, but there was more than simple child-snatching behind these abductions. During much of the eighteenth century, the tribes of the eastern forests of North America were in a state of war with their white neighbours, who were constantly encroaching on native lands. The fighting was often extremely vicious, and there were frequent massacres. As always in conflicts, women and children were often victims on both sides.
The white soldiers and settlers were more numerous and better armed and the thinly populated Native American tribes took losses they could ill afford. One way of making good those losses was to take white captives – children usually, but often women and sometimes men – and adopt them into the tribe. (And it must be pointed out that white settlers also kidnapped Native American children, for a different purpose: these children were to be taken away and educated, converted to Christianity and generally ‘civilised’. This practice continued in the as state, provincial and national policy in the US and Canada until well after World War Two.) Not all interactions were violent: : Penn’s Treaty with the Indians, by Benjamin West
Contemporary white accounts painted lurid pictures of captives being brutally tortured and killed. Those stories were not entirely apocryphal. Massy Harbison, abducted with her family in 1784, saw two of her young children killed before her eyes, ostensibly to stop them from crying and alerting the rescue parties that were tracking her kidnappers. Mary Jemison, captured during a raid in 1755, woke up one morning to find that her parents and several siblings, taken with her, had all been killed; her captors told her this was to prevent them from escaping.
But for other white captives, the experience was quite different. Jonathan Alder, taken at the age of nine, was treated well by his captors. After a short time he was adopted by a childless couple from the Mingo people in modern-day Ohio, who treated him as their own son. He lived a carefree life as a boy, roaming the forests hunting for game, and was entirely happy in his new situation.
Then, one day in his late teens, there came an unpleasant shock. Rather like Samuel and Emma in The Body in the Ice, Alder was told that he was now an adult, and could choose his own destiny.
One morning my Indian father called me and told me that I was now near the age that young men should be free and doing for themselves. I now had the right to come and go and stay where I pleased and was not under any restraint whatsoever, particularly from himself and my mother.1
In other words, Alder was now free to return to his original, white family. But, he says, he regarded his Mingo parents as his true family, and loved them as would have loved his own mother and father. He chose to stay.
I thanked them both very kindly for the liberty they granted me, but told them I had no desire to leave them; that I preferred to stay with them as long as they lived if I should outlive them; that they had been very kind and good to me and that I would feel an obligation to them as long as I lived. “My white mother I have almost forgotten and, of course, I shall never see again,” I told them. “I accept you as my parents. I acknowledge myself to be your son by adoption and am under all obligations to you as such.” My mother came up to me and held out her hands. She was so overcome that she did not speak, but I saw that her eyes were full. My father came forward and shook hands with me without saying anything more.2
Only much later, when both his Mingo parents had died, did Alder return to white society. Even then, he retained fond memories of his life among the Native Americans for the remainder of his days.
Others did the same. William Wells was captured at the age of eighteen by the Miami people, another tribe based in modern Ohio, and settled with them for a number of years. Adopted into the tribe, he married Wanagapeth, daughter of a chief named Michikinikwa, or Little Turtle. He became an intermediary between the Miami and the American settlers, and even though he served as a captain in the US Army, he never forgot his bonds with the Miami. Unfortunately, this incurred the distrust of both sides; the Miami came to believe that he was selling them out to the Americans, while the Americans considered him to be a Miami spy.
Life for many returnees was not easy. Simon Girty, captured by the Lenape, or Delaware people as a boy before being set free some years later, encountered many of the same prejudices as Wells. His obvious sympathy for the Native Americans incurred the anger of the American colonists (especially those who had lost family in Native American raids). Girty was branded a traitor to his people, and became an infamous hate figure on the American frontier.
Women captives often married into their adopted tribes, and ‘white’ genes were present in many Native American nations. There is a persistent rumour, unproven, that the legendary Shawnee chief Tecumseh was the son of a Shawnee father and an American mother. More prosaically, Mary Jemison grew up as the adopted child of a Lenape family and later married twice, a Lenape man named Sheninjee and, after his death, a Seneca man named Hiakatoo. She had children from both marriages. Offered her freedom and the chance to return to her own people, Mary refused. She remained with the Seneca all her life, becoming an elder of the people and assisting negotiations between the Seneca leaders and the American authorities.
Of course, the British and American authorities made efforts to recover captives, and often made the release of captives a condition of any peace settlement. But not every captive wanted to go. Of the sixty white captives handed over to the Americans near Fort Pitt (modern Pittsburgh) in 1864, at least half resisted their rescuers, and many tried to escape back to their adoptive tribes. Mary Campbell, a girl of eighteen who had been with the Lenape people for six years, was among those who preferred life with her captors.
Was this simply Stockholm syndrome? Perhaps, but it should be remembered that the white settlers in Pennsylvania and New York lived very hard lives indeed, making a meagre living from agriculture and the surrounding forests. The Native Americans had been making their lives from the land for thousands of years, and their living conditions were not so very different from those of their white captives. And some young people, at least, found more freedom and tolerance among the tribes than they did in their own society.
This is not to gloss over the harsh realities. There were cruelties and there were killings, as the accounts of Massy Harbison and Mary Jemison remind us. But, as Mary Jemison’s account in particular makes clear, there was much more than violence to life among the Indians. She talks of the kindness of her adoptive sisters in helping her to forget her sorrows and sufferings, and then, gently but movingly, tells us why she chose to stay with the Seneca people:
No people can live more happy than the Indians did in times of peace… Their lives were a continual round of pleasures. Their wants were few, and easily satisfied, and their cares were only for to-day – the bounds of their calculation for future comfort not extending to the incalculable uncertainties of to-morrow. If peace ever dwelt with men, it was in former times, in the recess from war, among what are now termed barbarians. The moral character of the Indians was (if I may be allowed the expression) uncontaminated. Their fidelity was perfect, and became proverbial. They were strictly honest; they despised deception and falsehood; and chastity was held in high veneration, and a violation of it was considered sacrilege. They were temperate in their desires, moderate in their passions, and candid and honorable in the expression of their sentiments, on every subject of importance.3