Tag Archives: Kittery history

Skulls of history in a forgotten tomb

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Where was he, the most noteworthy man who ever called my town home?

Back and forth I wandered, searching. Where was the life-sized portrait of Sir William Pepperrell?

At the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem, Massachusetts, nobody seemed to know, at least not the two young gallery guards I asked. At last, an older gentleman led me through American Decorative Arts to my baron.

We turned a corner and came upon an entire wall taken up by the portrait, which easily was one of the largest on display at the PEM. But even here, Sir William was largely forgotten, just another guy on the wall.

Sir William Pepperrell, painted in 1745 by John Smibert, to commemorate the successful Siege of Louisbourg.

Sir William Pepperrell, painted in 1745 by John Smibert, to commemorate the successful Siege of Louisbourg, at Cape Breton, Nova Scotia.

Such is the fleeting nature of fame  — even when you were once one of the wealthiest and most famous men in the American colonies, and the only American-born Englishman ever awarded a baronetcy.

Reproductions of this portrait of Colonial William Pepperrell (the rags-to-riches orphan who built the Pepperrell Mansion in the late 1600s) are found in several 19th century histories. I have been unable to locate the name of the artist or the current owner/location of the portrait, which may or may not be that of the first William Pepperrell.

Reproductions of this portrait of the first William Pepperrell are found in several 19th century histories.

The Pepperrells were upstarts start-from-nothing Americans. Sir William’s father, William Pepperrell, came to New England as a teenaged orphan working on a cod fishing boat at the Isles of Shoals, just off the coast of Maine and New Hampshire.

After completing his apprenticeship, young Pepperrell used his earnings to buy his first boat. Eventually, he bought more boats, leased them out, and combined his knowledge of the fishery with his business acumen to build an empire. His 1682 Pepperrell Mansion still dominates Kittery Point’s Pepperrell Cove neighborhood today.

William, his son, expanded the empire and became a colonial real estate magnate, buying up property on Maine’s coast from Kittery to Scarborough. Both father and son, however, did more than count their dollars.  William senior helped to establish establish Kittery’s First Congregational Church, and was active in civic affairs, a legacy continued by his son, who served as a court judge and commanded the local militia.

By the 1740s, Kittery Point had little need for an active militia, as the threat of Indian raids on the coast had faded.  But Britain and France remained engaged in warfare. In 1745, Massachusetts Governor William Shirley, abetted by others, decided that the colonists should try to dislodge the French from their fort at Louisbourg, on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia. He asked William Pepperrell (the son) to raise an army of 4,000 men and take command of an expedition upon Louisbourg.

Pepperrell had no military field experience.  When he accepted the command of this inexperienced citizen-soldier army, he knew the outcome was far from certain.

Long story short: After a lengthy siege, Pepperrell’s force, aided by the British Navy, captured the fort, and King George II made him a baronet. The American who had commanded the force that defeated a European army returned home to much acclaim.

Three years later, New Englanders had to swallow a bitter pill when the fort was returned to France as part of a swap for a British fort captured by the French in India. But the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle couldn’t take away that fact that the colonials had learned, under Pepperrell, that they could hold their own against professional soldiers – a lesson the next generation remembered 30 years later on the eve of the American Revolution.

Sir William Pepperrell, some say, became an inspiration for New England’s patriots. Conveniently, he passed away in 1759, so he could be remembered for Louisbourg without having to declare himself a Patriot or a Loyalist, as his Loyalist grandson William Pepperrell had to do. In 1774, his fellow citizens recalled Pepperrell as a “great American.”

In the 1730s (or possibly earlier), William built a large tomb for his father – a crypt dug into the side of a hill on a field across from the Pepperrell Mansion. A slab of imported marble capped the tomb, and the first William, who lived into his 80s, was interred there in 1734.  Later, other family members joined the patriarch, including the Hero of Louisbourg.

A postcard depicting the Pepperrell Tomb circa 1910-1920, when the tomb was a tourist attraction for the thousands of visitors who stayed in Kittery’s five Gilded Age hotels.  The trees are no longer standing, but the basic appearance of the tomb today is the same (1908 postcard, creator unknown).

But by the mid-19th century, Sir William’s tomb had fallen into disrepair. Writing in 1875, popular historian Samuel Drake noted that when the tomb was repaired, at the behest of Pepperrell descendent Harriet Hirst Sparhawk, “the remains were found lying in a promiscuous heap at the bottom, the wooden shelves at the sides having given way, precipitating the coffins upon the floor of the vault. The planks first used to close the entrance had yielded to the pressure of the feet of cattle grazing in the common field, filling the tomb with rubbish. About thirty skulls were found in various stages of decomposition.”

These skulls inside the Pepperrell Tomb are likely the remains of different members of the Pepperrell family, including Sir William. The photo, courtesy of the Portsmouth Atheneum, was probably taken by descendent and local historian Joe Frost, as it was found tucked into a book he had given the Atheneum.

These skulls inside the Pepperrell Tomb are likely the remains of various members of the Pepperrell family, including (possibly) Sir William. The photo was probably taken in the 1970s by descendant and local historian Joseph Frost, as it was discovered tucked into a book he had given the Atheneum (Joseph W.P. Frost Collection, Portsmouth Atheneum).

Although the tomb was repaired then, it has repeatedly fallen into a cycle of neglect and renovation. Another source notes that at the turn of the 20th century, young boys played games in and around the tomb.  For many years, the Pepperrell Family Association maintained the tomb, but that organization disbanded in 1937, probably because its members had died, or moved away, or lost interest in a now-distant ancestor. At that time, according to notes and documents in the Frost Collection at the Portsmouth Atheneum, the tomb plot was signed over to a relative in a distant state.

For years, it seems, care of the tomb has depended on happenstance and somebody taking an interest. At the time of Drake’s writing, the proprietor of the Pepperrell Hotel, which overlooked the tomb, took an interest. But because the tomb is sort of an island onto itself, not in a cemetery, not in somebody’s backyard, it is easily forgotten.

At the Kittery Naval and Historical Museum, visitors can look at mourning rings crafted to commemorate the death of Sir William Pepperrell. These rings were worn by relatives and others to show they were in mourning. We should do more of that kind of memorial today, although the cost of purchasing 14K gold rings for a large number of mourners is probably reserved to the 1%, as was likely also the case in 1759.

At the Kittery Naval and Historical Museum, visitors can look at mourning rings crafted to commemorate the death of Sir William Pepperrell. The family distributed these rings to mourners.  I like the idea of this tradition — a small but public display of mourning — although I’m sure the cost of the rings limited the practice to wealthier Americans.

In more recent times, local historian and Pepperrell descendent Joseph Frost (now deceased) corresponded with state officials and others, trying to get a person, a state agency, or some entity to take responsibility for the tomb, to assure that it didn’t again fall into a state of disrepair or neglect (Joseph W. P. Frost Collection, Portmouth Atheneum).

Back in the early 1960s, two people who claimed to represent the disbanded Pepperrell Family Association filed a quit-claim deed signing the lot over to the owner of Frisbee’s Store. He built a parking lot on the lower part of the tomb plot and carried out his obligations, per the deed, to maintain the tomb.  But eventually, the tomb was forgotten again, with brush, grass and trees growing up around it.

I’m still not exactly sure who or what “owns” the tomb, but in 2008, volunteers from the Friends of Fort McClary cleaned up the tomb.  Once again, Kittery’s forgotten hero was remembered. Today, a small American flag and the Union Jack flutter on grassy knoll across the street from Frisbee’s.

I wonder how many years will pass before we forget him again. I know that with volunteers, keeping something going often depends on one or two key people. They get sick, or move away, or die, or just get weary of responsibility.

Is forgetting the tomb an inevitable result of our on-to-go individualistic American lives? I haven’t visited the grave of my paternal grandparents since my grandmother died in the 1970s. I’ve visited the grave of my maternal grandparents once or twice in 15 years. I don’t even know the locations of the graves belonging to my great-grandparents, even though one great-grandmother lived long into my adulthood.

But my great-grandmother didn’t lead an expedition that inspired  a generation of Americans that they had it in them to win a war against a world power.  That’s a man worth remembering.

Front view of the Pepperrell Mansion, looking out towards Pepperrell Cove.

Front view of the Pepperrell Mansion, looking out towards Pepperrell Cove.  The first William Pepperrell built this house, on a plot of land given to him by his father-in-law, John Bray, who lived next door.  Sir William the son  lived here with his family until his death in 1759, when Lady Mary Pepperrell built her own more modern mansion town the street.

PS: Readers, if you know anything more about the tomb, please add your comments or email me, and I will update the information in this post.

Sources and resources

For more on the Pepperrells, I especially recommended the last chapter of my book, Pioneer on a Mountain Bike, along with my posts, “Ghost of a Pepperrell Lady“, “Globalization,circa 1807, curses the Lady Pepperrell House“and “Nathaniel Sparhawk and the Art of Swagger.”

The Kittery Naval and Historical Museum has several Pepperrell artifacts on display, including — possibly — a telescope that William might have used at Louisbourg.

For more on 18th and 19th century mourning rings, see Historic New England’s online exhibit, Not Lost But Gone Before: Mourning Jewelry.

Drake, Samuel Adams.  Nooks and Crannies of the New England Coast. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1875.

 

Globalization, circa 1807, curses the Lady Pepperrell House

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The Lady Pepperrell House, apparently released from its curse, on a recent spring afternoon.

The Lady Pepperrell House, apparently released from its curse, on a recent spring afternoon.

Lady Mary Hirst Pepperrell had impeccable taste.  So say many sources, but the best indicator is the home  she built in 1760 on Route 103 in Kittery Point.

The Lady Pepperrell House is one of Maine’s outstanding examples of 18th century Georgian-era architecture.  Its simple clean lines, graceful ionic pilasters, and large windows that flood the home with light invite house envy today.  But by the mid-19th century, many said the luxurious house was cursed.

It certainly looked cursed. Writing in the 1870s, historian Samuel Adams Drake described the house as “a somber old mansion, having, in despite of some relics of a former splendor, an unmistakable air of neglect and decay.  The massive entrance door hung by a single fastening, the fluted pilasters on either side were rotting away, window panes were shattered, chimney tops in ruins, the fences prostrate. It was nothing but a wreck ashore.  This was the house built by Lady Pepperell, after the death of Sir William.  Report said it was haunted; indeed I found it so, and by a living phantom.”

Lady Pepperrell’s house, built for her after the death of her husband Sir William, had almost become a metaphor for downfall of the Pepperrell family, except that the home’s decline began many years after the Pepperrell family’s Revolutionary War misfortune.

Besides, Loyalist William (Sparhawk) Pepperrell (who I’ve written about in another post) might have lost his property and most of what he held dear, but he lived a purposeful life in England after the war and ushered his four children successfully into adulthood.  The Lady, his grandmother, lived peacefully in her house, with no curse ever in evidence, until her death in 1789.

Such was not the case for the branch of the Cutts family that purchased Lady Pepperrell’s home in 1800 from Catherine and Daniel Humphreys, who had acquired it from Elizabeth Sparhawk (who was Catherine’s grandmother and Lady Pepperrell’s daughter).

In the 18th century, the Cutts clan, whose ancestors were among the first settlers of Kittery, established itself as one of the leading families of Kittery and Portsmouth. By 1800, Joseph Cutts was a captain and merchant wealthy enough to buy the elegant home, keeping it in the family, more or less. (Cutts was a descendent, via his mother, of the original William Pepperrell family).

But on the other side of the ocean, troubles stirred by the rise of Napoleon set in a motion a chain of events that led to the chaining of Charles Cutts, the Captain’s son, in an upstairs chamber.  He suffered from mental illness and reportedly was often chained to the floor to prevent injury to himself or others.

Drawing of Joseph Cutts (the Captain, I think, and not his son), attributed to Albert W. Fiske (Portsmouth Athenaeum collection).

Drawing of Joseph Cutts (the Captain, I think, and not his son), attributed to Albert W. Fiske (Portsmouth Athenaeum collection).

The Captain himself lost his sanity, although he lived a long life, dying at age 97 in 1861.  In 1839, another son, naval officer Joseph Cutts, killed himself in what once had been Lady Pepperrell’s bedchamber.  His death might have been the culminating blow for his sister, Sarah “Sally” Chauncey Cutts, caretaker to her father and brothers.  She too developed mental illness.

The key event in the demise of the Cutts family was Thomas Jefferson’s Embargo Act, passed in 1807 in a misguided attempt to stop British and French ships from seizing American vessels and to stop the British from impressing American merchant sailors into military service.  The Act banned all trade with Britain and France, both of which were the new nation’s biggest trading partners.

With the bill’s passage, Captain Cutts lost his livelihood. He could neither buy nor sell. His ships rotted in an anchorage behind Gerrish Island. By 1813, he was bankrupt and indebted to the government for unpaid duties.  (Some sources say the house was seized by the government for non-payment of taxes, and later redeemed by either Sally or another relative in the extended Cutts family). Although it’s likely that a genetics  played a large role in the family’s mental illness, the strain of losing his fortune probably contributed to Captain Cutts’s breakdown.

Drawing of Sally Cutts attributed to artist Albert W. Fiske (Portsmouth Atheneum Collection)

Drawing of Sally Cutts attributed to artist Albert W. Fiske (Portsmouth Athenaeum Collection)

On his undated mid-19th century visit, historian Drake described Sally as “a harmless maniac,” who was “the sole inhabitant of the old house; she and it were fallen into hopeless ruin together.” Her appearance, he wrote, “was weird and witch-like, and betokened squalid poverty. An old calash almost concealed her features from observation, except when she raised her head and glanced at us in a scared, furtive sort of way.”

She invited Drake and his companion into the house.  “Fragment of the original paper, representing ancient ruins, had peeled off the walls,” he wrote,  “and vandal hands had wrenched away the the pictured tiles from the fire-places. The upper rooms were but a repetition of the disorder and misery below stairs.”

Sally led Drake and his companion to an upstairs “apartment,” where she “relapsed into imbecility, and seemed little conscious of our presence.”  In her room, “some antiquated furniture, doubtless family heirlooms, a small stove, and a bed, constituted all her worldly goods,” wrote Drake. “As she crooned over a scanty fire of two or three wet sticks, muttering to herself, and striving to warm her weathered hands, I thought I beheld in her the impersonation of Want and Despair.”

I am a little skeptical as to whether or not Drake visited Sally Cutts in the Pepperrell House.  She died in 1874, (a year before Drake’s book was published) and spent time prior to her death living with friends who had taken her in.  Another writer, James H. Head, wrote of a similar visit to Sally Cutts in November of 1864, with his account published in the Boston Journal.  Sarah Orne Jewett presented a barely fictionalized account of a visit with “Miss Sally Chauncey” in Deephaven: Selected Stories and Sketches (1877), so presumably she visited her as well.

Captain Cutts and his family are buried in the Old Burying Ground across the street from his one-time home and the Congregational Church. A table-like memorial stone tells his story. (As you enter the cemetery, look to your left to see the Cutts memorial).

Captain Cutts and his family are buried in the Old Burying Ground across the street from his one-time home and the Congregational Church. A table-like memorial stone tells his story. (Entering via the cemetery’s maine gate, the Cutts memorial is readily visible, to the left).

Did poor Sally regularly open her door to touring writers who wanted to invade her privacy?  Or did Drake build upon and embellish the accounts of Head and Jewett? And am I the latest in a series of writers fascinated by the Cutts family history, even if it is a history that they would have preferred to keep private?

The story of the Cutts family, however, is worth remembering, because their family history is a microcosm for the economic devastation that Jefferson’s Embargo wreaked in the Seacoast region. Their pain helps us to better understand how the region suffered during this period of economic collapse.  Ships rotted in harbors. Many merchants declared bankruptcy. A ripple effect reverberated throughout the local economy. Portsmouth, once a thriving port, became a backwater instead of a rival to Boston or New York.

The Embargo Act inadvertently paved the way for the Seacoast region to become what it is today: historically rich, but economically underdeveloped compared to what it might have become.  The Seacoast region is not Boston, with its packed roadways and paved landscapes.

The losses suffered by the Cutts family and many others during the Embargo era have become our gain, in that we live in  what is now an economically vibrant but beautiful and sustainable community.  The story of the Cuttses connects with our story today.

A fire ravaged the Lady Pepperrell House on December 27, 1945 and caused extensive damage. The home was restored by X and Y. Portsmouth Herald photo from Historic New England digital collections.

Another sign of the curse? A fire ravaged the Lady Pepperrell House on December 27, 1945 and caused interior damage. John Fellows of Kittery oversaw the restoration. Historic New England (formerly the Society for the Preservation of New England Antiquities) owned the home from the 1940s until the 1980s, when the organization sold the home to a private owner. Portsmouth Herald photo from Historic New England digital collections.

The Lady Pepperrell House is protected by a preservation easement administered by Historic New England.  Other Kittery landmarks, however, such as the Pepperrell Mansion and the Bray House, are not protected. Although both homes are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, and currently are owned by good stewards, they could be torn down tomorrow if a property owner wanted to take that path.

These architectural artifacts of history remind us that we are not historical islands, despite our high tech gadgets and way of life. We live in both a global economy and an historical ecosystem where the past reverberates into the present.

Embargoes and lost fortunes lead to economic decline, paving the way for resurrection and reclamation.  Trolleys connect the city to the country, and bridges and automobiles (as I’ve written about here) swiftly change a way of life.  A grange hall becomes The Dance Hall, and a building where the Masons gathered transforms to a collection of gathering places for locals and visitors discovering the pleasures of walking across bridges.

Beware of curses– but only when we forget them.  In remembering Sally Cuts and her family, perhaps we’ll take more care as we construct our own story.

Lady Pepperrell House, undated photo (Historic New England Collection).

Lady Pepperrell House, undated photo (Historic New England Collection).

Resources and sources

For a great example of connecting the past to the present, read about Stories from The Grange and Kittery’s Foreside, a project organized by Drika Overton of The Dance Hall.

For more information the architectural details of the Lady Pepperrell House, see “Palladian Perfection, New England Style, Part 2: The Lady Pepperell House at Kittery Point Maine” at The Down East Dilettante.

To read more about Drake’s visit, see Chapter 10, “At Kittery Point, Maine,” in Nooks and Corners of the New England Coast, by Samuel Adams Drake (1875).

James Head’s Boston Journal account of his 1864 visit to Sally Cutts can be found in the Pepperrell House vertical file at the Portsmouth Athenaeum.

For some detailed photos of the exterior and interior of Lady Pepperrell’s house, see Donna Seger’s “Lady Pepperrell and Her House” at Streets of Salem.

For more on the oldest homes in Kittery Point, see Colonial Village, by John Eldridge Frost  (1947, publisher unknown)

 

 

The Ghost of a Pepperrell Lady

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John Singleton Copley rarely painted children, but likely couldn't refuse the commission from Isaac Royall for the portrait of his two daughter. The Royall family amassed a fortune trading slaves and merchandise. By the 1750s, Isaac Royall was one of the wealthiest men in New England.

John Singleton Copley rarely painted children, but likely couldn’t refuse the commission from Isaac Royall Junior for the portrait of his two daughters. The portrait is owned by the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. Click portrait for larger view.

Elizabeth Royall was a royal – a member of New England’s informal royalty.  When she was a tween girl, she and her older sister Mary sat for a young John Singleton Copley when he came to their Medford, Massachusetts house to paint their portrait in 1758.

New England royalty differed from British royalty in that most of the region’s wealthiest families had earned their royal status via a combination of education, commerce and the luck of having arrived first.  Once having attained their status, New England’s royal families maintained it with strategic marriages, lots of social networking, and visits to England to establish and nurture helpful contacts.

Elizabeth’s grandfather Isaac Royall, born to a family of modest means in colonial Maine, kickstarted the family fortune as a merchant mariner who eventually amassed a fortune trading in rum, sugar and slaves. By the 1750s, Elizabeth’s father had inherited the family’s elegant home and farm in Medford and freely enjoyed the fruits of his wealth while continuing to add to his immense fortune.  The Royall family was the largest slaveholder in New England, and the 20-27 slaves they owned (at various periods) supported the Royall lifestyle with their labors in the house and on the farm.

This portrait of Elizabeth and her older sister Mary, according to the Museum of Fine Arts, is designed to show off the family’s wealth and status through both the silk dresses and laces worn by the girls, and the inclusion of their pet dog, a King Charles spaniel then fashionable with English royalty.

Elizabeth and Mary grew up in this Georgian-style mansion that their grandfather had built around a brick farmhouse on the site that originally was owned by colonial Governor John Winthrop. Their father, Isaac Jr., had to flee from Boston during the Revolution and the property was confiscated by the state. During the first months of the war, it was used by Generals Lee, Stark and Sullivan and visited by George Washington.

Elizabeth and Mary grew up in this Georgian-style mansion that their grandfather had built around a brick farmhouse on the site that originally was owned by colonial Governor John Winthrop. Their father, Isaac Jr., had to flee  Boston during the Revolution and the property was confiscated by the state. During the first months of the war, it was used by Generals Lee, Stark and Sullivan and visited by George Washington.

A few years after sitting for the portrait, Elizabeth caught the eye of fellow New England aristocrat, William Pepperrell.  Young William, from Kittery Point, Maine, was the great-grandson of a Welsh orphan who had parlayed a fishing sloop at the Isles of Shoals into a small fortune that was further expanded by the commercial dealings and real estate investments of his son, William Pepperrell, who later achieved fame as the commander of a colonial militia that succeeded in taking the fort at Louisbourg, Nova Scotia, from the French in 1745, service for which King George II awarded him a baronetcy. (The fort, however, was returned to France as part of a post-war territory swap).  Pepperrell’s only son died at age 24. Eventually, Sir William named his grandson William Sparhawk as his heir, on the condition that he change his surname to Pepperrell.

After graduating from Harvard in 1766, young William began to prepare for his role as keeper (and expander) of the family fortune. Exactly how Elizabeth and William met is not known, but as “royal” young people of similar ages, they would have readily crossed paths in the Boston social scene in which both were active. Even though William hailed from Maine, his grandmother Mary Hirst Pepperrell was a Bostonian. In addition to his time at Harvard, it’s likely that as William grew up, he and his siblings spent extended periods of time visiting relatives and friends in the city.

The pair met and fell in love.  Then and now, people tend to end up marrying others of similar social backgrounds, but that didn’t mean that these two young people didn’t feel a spark.  William was 21 when they married in Boston’s Anglican Christ Church on October 24, 1767 (some sources list the date as November 12).  Elizabeth was probably around the same age.   A year later, in the fall of 1768, William left a newly-pregnant Elizabeth and headed off to England to polish and secure connections that could enable the family’s fortunes to thrive.  He stayed aboard for almost two years, missing the July 1769 birth of his daughter Elizabeth, although he was quite thrilled when he finally got to meet her. “I found my little girl finely grown she stands very well & just beings to speak & tho’ I am a very young Papa,” he wrote to Lord Edgecumbe. “I find myself a very fond one.”

Elizabeth wrote him many letters while he was in England.  She didn’t hold back on sharing her feelings.  She missed him.  She felt that the Sparhawk family in Kittery Point, especially her mother-in-law, didn’t like her.  She filled him in on all the royal gossip, such as New Hampshire Governor John Wentworth’s marriage to his cousin Frances ten days after the death of her husband Theodore.  “A good hint to him,” she wrote on November 15, 1768, “of what he may expect, if she outlives him but I think he’ll deserve it.” (As it turns out, Elizabeth’s observation was on target: Frances Wentworth later had a scandalous affair with Prince William Henry, the third son of King George III,  and 20 years her junior, while John was serving as Lieutenant Governor of Nova Scotia).

But when William Pepperrell returned to Boston in the summer of 1770, after almost two years abroad, he found a world turned upside-down.  A series of Parliamentary acts had resulted in protests and boycotts. One-time college buddies had become political activities. People were taking sides, Patriot or Loyalist.  Like many who eventually came to be called “Loyalists,” William was conflicted – he didn’t like many of the laws passed by the British parliament — but he also didn’t countenance rebellion.

In 1774, William wrote letters to British figures such as Parliament member Edgecumbe and Prime Minister Lord North, urging conciliation and peaceful resolutions.  By 1774, however, the royal government had gutted the charter of Massachusetts. The elected Council on which William served was dissolved and replaced with a Council of appointed men.  William elected to not to resign, as so many others had done, and was branded as a Loyalist with a capital L, even though the title didn’t truly fit.

These years of stressful politics, however, were probably happy ones at home.  Elizabeth had three additional children, Mary, Harriot, and William, in the five years after William’s return from England. Baby William, their fourth son, was born in the summer of 1775.  By now, the Revolution had begun. Thanks to their costly victory at the Battle of Bunker Hill, the British still held Boston, but the town was blockaded by land.  Food and other supplies were scarce. For the Pepperrells, the world of luxury and privilege they had always taken for granted no longer existed.  But they had each other.

Then in September Elizabeth came down with a fever, sore throat, and a bad case of dysentery. Three weeks later, she was dead, and William became the single parent of four young children (including his two-month-old infant son).  William also took ill and almost died, but recovered, although he wrote to his mother that he wished not to.  Did Elizabeth contract cholera or typhoid fever? A virulent strain of influenza?  A bad case of food poisoning?  The cause is uncertain.

William blamed the war and the food shortages that resulted in a diet heavy with salted meat.  “But I still breath,” William wrote to his mother Elizabeth Sparhawk, in November 1775. “Love I never can again, till my soul is rewedded to that of my dear Betsy’s in the Joy of praising God forever.” She was, he wrote, “my deceased Friend & the worthiest of women.”

In the spring of 1776, grief-stricken and subject to arrest if he stayed in Boston, William, with his four children, set sail for England, where he became a leader of American Loyalists and an advocate for America prisoners-of-war.  By legislative act, all of his property was confiscated by the state of Massachusetts. He never returned to the U.S., nor did any of his children. (His Sparhawk brothers, however, eventually returned to Kittery).

In 1779, Copley painted this portrait of the Pepperrell family in London. The portrait (which is owned by the North Carolina Museum of Art) recalls happier times, as Elizabeth had been dead for three years.

In 1779, Copley painted this portrait of the Pepperrell family in London. The portrait (which is owned by the North Carolina Museum of Art) recalls happier times, as Elizabeth had been dead for three years.  Click on portrait for larger view.

Also living in London was Boston painter John Singleton Copley, who had moved there for artistic reasons.  In 1778, Copley painted his second portrait of Elizabeth Royall  — a portrait of her ghost.  In a family portrait commissioned by William, Copley depicts a happy family, the six Pepperrells, including Elizabeth, at the peak of her beauty and fashion, but dead now for three years.

As with most colonial women, the historical record provides only glimpses of Elizabeth.  Although her marriage to William is recorded, I have not found a record of her birth or death, or the location of her grave.  But she did leave us her voice, in letters that she wrote to William while he was in Europe; the Portsmouth Atheneum holds a transcribed collection of them.  The letters are chatty, sometimes petulant, loving, impatient, and brainy. Sometimes Elizabeth seems like a flighty young woman – after all, she was young, pregnant, and probably bored at her parents’ Medford home. But the letters also demonstrate that beneath the beauty lay a rigorous brain, as she asks William to bring home the latest books by scientists and philosophers.

What is most amazing about the letters is that they exist at all. William’s letters to her do not survive, although Elizabeth’s letters suggest that he wrote many.  As Henry Knox’s cannons set their sites on Boston, and Loyalists hurriedly packed up to evacuate with the British Army, William carefully packed up the letters, by then already almost ten years old.  The letters travelled to England, and then from one set of lodgings to another.  Did William take them out from time to time to read them again, and hear her voice? Did he share them with his sons and daughters, to help them know the mother they had lost so young?

The letters survive today, in a private collection in England, as do Pepperrell’s descendants.  William never re-married.  All of his children fared well, with good careers and marriages. In his older years, William was comfortable, though no longer well. Never again would he watch sloops cruise past Kittery Point up the Piscataqua River to Portsmouth.  Nor would he marry.

William was just shy of thirty when his wife died, and he lived to be 70. When he lost the love of his life, he still had his entire life ahead of him.  Why didn’t he marry again, at a time when many young men lost their wives (usually in childbirth) and remarriage was routine? Was William preoccupied with his work and with raising his children?  Was he not an attractive prospect because of his vastly reduced circumstances? Did he have flirtations and dalliances, or maybe a housekeeper/companion that shared his bed, if not his title?  Or did William decide that no woman could ever replace Elizabeth in the family portrait?

In politics, Sir William was conflicted, a loyalist with a small “l”.  In love, it seems, he earned his true title as Loyalist.

Sources and resources

Transcribed copies of Elizabeth Royall’s letters can be viewed at the Portsmouth Atheneum (although you have to go there in person to look at the letters).

For additional information on the portrait of Mary and Elizabeth Royall, visit the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.

For additional information on the Copley portrait, Sir William Pepperrell and his family, visit the North Carolina Museum of Art.

The Royall House and Slave Quarters, in Medford, Massachusetts, is open on the weekend for tours from May through October.   A beautiful location, and a secret hidden gem.  The slave quarters are the only extent slave housing in New England.

For more detailed information on William’s status as a “loyalist” (small “l”), see “A ‘Great National Calamity’: Sir William Pepperrell and Isaac Royall, Reluctant Loyalists,” by Colin Nicolson and Stuart Scott, in the Historical Journal of Massachusetts Volume 28, No. 2
(Summer 2000).

Why I go to church on Christmas Eve

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Growing up in an Irish-Catholic suburb south of Boston, I went to church 60 days out of the year:  52 Saturday or Sunday masses, seven holy days of obligation, and Thanksgiving, which was recommend by the church but not required, hence, we attended.

Although I enjoyed some aspects of the church community, such as our youth group “Gong Show” and ski trips to Vermont, I never liked going to church.   The service was boring and sometimes frightening.  I especially remember one sweltering 100-degree day in July, when our ancient pastor, Monsignor Sullivan, stood up to deliver his usual lengthy sermon.   “If you think it’s hot in here, “ he snarled at the congregation, “then wait until you experience HELL!”  Then he sat down, as we trembled, aware of our sin and our guilt in hoping for an early exit from the service.

By the time I was a teenager, the Monsignor had retired and was replaced by a series of kinder, gentler priests, but I never felt uplifted in going to church. Instead, my spirit felt oppressed.  Over the years, I have tried different parishes and churches, but I haven’t been a regular church-goer for many years. Sometimes feel that I SHOULD go to the church, for the sake of my son, but I really don’t want to.  I’ve told my son that belonging to a church is a good thing to do, but I just can’t quite bring myself to do it as I am ‘churched out’ from my childhood.

Still, I always go to church on Christmas Eve. Even if I’m not quite sure where I stand on the miraculous events of Christmas, I want my son to understand that Christmas exists for a reason apart from great deals at Best Buy.

The First Congregational Church, depicted in this early 20th century postcard, was built in 1730 and is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

For several years now, my family and I have been attending Christmas Eve service at the First Congregational Church in Kittery Point.  Catholicism is so deeply engrained in my mental fiber that I’m not entirely at home in this austere Puritan building, built in 1730 by descendants of early Puritan migrants.  Where is the body of Christ, hanging on the cross? The statues of Mary and Joseph?  The 13 Stations of the Cross depicting Christ’s suffering as he walked towards his death?

But the Lord’s Prayer is the same prayer I recited at my childhood Catholic church. We sing “Joy to the World” and other familiar hymns.  The Christmas Eve service is family-oriented and we see many friends and acquaintances.  The sermon is both short and uplifting.

I especially like going to the First Congregational Church because the church is almost 300 years old.  As an entity, the church was organized in 1714, and the 1730 building is the oldest surviving continuously used church building in Maine.  (Knowing this, I get a little nervous on Christmas Eve when children and adults alike walk to the altar to light candles).

The Parsonage, now known as the Parish House, was built at the same time as the church. The building has been altered, enlarged, and has modern plumbing (unlike the church, which has no running water), but the Parish House still definitely evokes the feel of an 18th century building. This postcard claims that George Washington slept here, but that is probably more legend than truth. Washington’s 1789 “inaugural tour” visit to Portsmouth, NH is well-documented. The new President briefly touched ashore at Kittery Point during that visit but did not spend the night.

In this church, 18th century minister Reverend John Newmarch  offered comfort at funerals for too many children when diphtheria struck in 1735 and he provided theological reassurance to those anxious souls who didn’t feel the spirit move them during the Great Awakening.  It’s likely that the great itinerant preacher George Whitefield spoke from the pulpit.   During the Revolution, Loyalists and Patriots walked the aisles and prayed together on many Sabbaths.  Later, the morality of slavery was debated and prayers were offered for President Lincoln.  The church bells tolled to mark the end of two world wars.  In the mid-19th century, once the Puritans/Congregationalists got over their aversion to Christmas, congregants gathered to celebrate Christmas, just as they will on this year.

Maybe someday, when I go to church on Christmas Eve, I’ll feel more connected to a sense of faith.  But for now, walking in the footsteps of the churchgoers who came before me feels like a sort of faith, maybe a faith in humanity and its ability to endure, and to keep an institution like this antique church up and running for almost three centuries.  The world is often an ugly place, then and now. But on Christmas Eve, the bells still toll. The churchgoers sing the songs. The children light the candles.

Nathaniel Sparhawk and the art of swagger

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“A wealthy merchant of Kittery, Maine”.

Nathaniel Sparhawk, one of Kittery’s most prominent 18th century residents.

So reads the caption, at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston, beneath this John Singleton Copley portrait of Nathaniel Sparhawk, one of Kittery’s most prominent citizens of the 18th century, mostly because he had the good fortune of marrying Elizabeth Pepperrell, the only surviving daughter of Sir William Pepperrell.  But the few words of the caption – which likely would have pleased Nathaniel Sparhawk — do more to obscure than to illuminate his story.  Neither the caption  nor the portrait hint at the darkness in his life: bankruptcy and financial ruin, children forced into exile, the humiliation of having his wife sign off on all checks.

I encountered this portrait of Nathaniel – I’m going to call him Nathaniel, because he feels like a long-lost neighbor  — last winter, when I visited the new Art of the Americas wing at the Museum of Fine Arts.  Unexpectedly coming face to face with Nathaniel gave me the same thrill that someone else might experience upon meeting her favorite celebrity. Here he was, maybe not in the flesh, but in a life-sized portrait that helped me to connect the dots of the Sparhawk story.  An added bonus was standing before the elaborately carved door of the Sparhawk Mansion, also on display in the new wing.

This 1764 painting was Copley’s first attempt at a life-sized portrait similar to those of royal monarchs on display at the Town House in Boston. Many of these full-length portraits came to be known as “swagger portraits,” because they were intended to create an aura of grandiosity around the subject.  Sparhawk poses before imaginary Grecian columns in a classical setting, and wears a richly textured red velvet coat, with extra buttons added to give him more girth and thus more status, since a large belly was associated with wealth.

Nathaniel is smiling and relaxed in this portrait and appears to be a perfectly contented wealthy merchant.  In 1764, he probably could smile, but only because his inheritance from Sir William Pepperrell, his father-in-law, had allowed him to settle his debts and re-establish himself financially.  In 1758, Nathaniel was forced to declare bankruptcy and much of his property was sold at public auction.

One source attributes Nathaniel’s bankruptcy to increased taxation on real estate imposed by the British to pay for the Seven Year’s War (the French and Indian War on this side of the pond), but I suspect that taxation was a convenient scapegoat for that age-old problem of buying and spending more than the purse allows.  (All of the major taxation efforts to pay off the war, such as the Revenue Act and the Stamp Act, happened in the 1760s, after the war’s end).  In the 1750s, colonial businessmen flush with raw materials and agricultural products developed a taste for imported British goods. When the supply of such goods waiting to be sold outstripped the demand, many New England merchants found themselves in debt to British vendors.

Although bankrupt, Nathaniel continued to live at Sparhawk House, a luxurious 13-room mansion that Sir William had built in 1742 as

The Sparhawk House of Kittery Point, built in 1742 and demolished in 1967.

a wedding gift for his daughter Elizabeth (and once located at the end of today’s Sparhawk Lane, next to the Congregational Church in Kittery Point).  In this house, which featured many examples of fine wood-working, the Sparhawks raised five children, four sons and one daughter (two additional children had died in infancy).

Sir William died in 1759.  Although he had a close relationship with Nathaniel, who often helped him to manage his business affairs, Pepperrell’s will suggests that he didn’t quite trust his son-in-law to provide for his family.

The will left many parcels of land formerly owned by Nathaniel to Nathaniel’s various children, but not to Nathaniel himself.  It seems that when Nathaniel went bankrupt, William Pepperrell bought up many of his properties, with the intent of keeping them in the family.  Also telling is the fact that in an age when women lacked a legal identity apart from their husband, Sir William was quite clear that while income from certain properties would go to Nathaniel for “the support of his wife and children,” the property was not his to sell or mortgage, with the will stating that Elizabeth was “required to sign all receipts and to have sole power to bequeath her legacy.”

But just because Nathaniel’s portrait suggests that he wanted to look more prosperous and more important than he truly was doesn’t mean he wasn’t a good man.  He represented  Kittery in the General Court of Massachusetts and served as a justice on the Court of Common Pleas, assuming the role of Chief Justice after the death of William Pepperrell. He attained the rank of Colonel in the local militia.

I wonder if working in the shadow of his famous father-in-law chaffed at him.  Perhaps he felt that the elite of Portsmouth and Boston gossiped about him and his financial troubles.  In 1766, he was “negative-d” from the Council of Massachusetts, probably because he no longer owned enough real estate.  In the end, being kicked off the Council might have been a fortuitous turn of events because it pulled Nathaniel out of the political fray that ultimately led to the forced exile of his sons.

By the time of the Revolution, three of Nathaniel’s Loyalist sons, including Sir William Sparhawk Pepperrell, were living in England, exiled from the only country they’d ever known.  Pepperrell lands up and down the coast of Maine were confiscated by the State of Massachusetts. The war caused division within Nathaniel’s own family, with daughter Mary married to Dr. Charles Jarvis of Boston, an ardent patriot.

By 1775, in his early 60s, Nathaniel was suffering from poor health, which perhaps explains why he was not pressed harder to declare where his loyalties lay.  After he died on December 21,1776, the Boston Gazette and County Post wrote, “In all which Offices he distinguished himself as the Friend of his Country and frequently lamented his weak state of health which would not permit him to take a more active Part in the present Troubles.”

Although his son Samuel eventually returned to Kittery (but not Sir William or Andrew), the family never recovered from the Revolution.  According to one account, the Sparhawk mansion was sold in 1815 for a thousand dollars.  Another reports that one of the Sparhawk sons was living in a poorhouse by the early 1800s, although that seems unlikely, given the abundance of family members in the area.

In the latter part of the 19th century, Sparhawk Hall was carefully restored by an owner with an interest in preservation.  Eventually, Kittery businessman Horace Mitchell, a Sparhawk descendant, purchased the house in the early 20th century and hosted a visit from President Taft. In 1949, the mansion  had  a role in Louis de Rochemont 1949 movie, “Lost Boundaries,” serving as the fictional home of Dr. Scott Carter, a black doctor passing as  white in a small New Hampshire town (check out the movie to see the interior of the house; the exterior shots appear as if they were shot in front of  the Lady Pepperrell House rather than the Sparhawk mansion).

But by the early 1950s, the younger Horace Mitchell and his family were living in only four rooms of the house, having closed off the others. The house was a beast to heat and maintain and the Mitchells began to sell off individual pieces of it. The sculpted main staircase and much of the woodwork ended up in a mansion in Winthrop, Maine; the elaborately carved door went to Strawberry Banke.  In 1967, what remained of the house was demolished before preservation efforts could save it.

Nathaniel had every advantage in life, but also plenty of troubles. Although his portrait conceals his difficulties, the man himself seems to embody the essence of  “swagger”: someone who wanted to be successful and important, but maybe deep down always wondered  if he would have been able to make it without his father-in-law behind  him.  I can almost see Nathaniel swaggering down Pepperrell Road, calling out greetings to his neighbors.  He had many losses in his life, but puffed himself up and carried on.

Sources:

Burrage, Henry  S. “Colonel Nathaniel Sparhawk of Kittery.”  Collections and proceedings of the Maine Historical Society.  Maine Historical Society.  Read before the MHS February 24, 1898. P. 225

“The Making of ‘Lost Boundaries”

“Nathaniel Sparhawk.”  Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.

Senge, Stephen V. “’The Sparhawk Effect’ in Financial Statement Analysis“.  An internet search on Nathaniel Sparhawk often links to this material from a Simmons College professor about practices companies have used or do use to make their financial statements appear better than they really are.  However, I find no evidence that anyone other than Professor Senge utilizes this term, which Senge may have coined in using the “swagger portrait” as a classroom lesson  illustrating how companies puff up their financial statements.

“Sparhawk Mansion on Death Row.”  Link to additional photos of the Sparhawk Mansion before it was demolished in 1967.

Ward, Ellen MacDonald.  “Only a Memory.”  Downeast Magazine. February 1993, pp. 53-54.

I welcome comments, additional information about the Sparhawks, and corrections.

On Bridges and the Jet Set

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At our Rice Public Library, I recently attended a fascinating slide show featuring photographs of “old Kittery” that was put together by Frank Totman of Kittery Point.

Of special interest to me were the photos of the Portsmouth, Kittery and York Street Railway (PK & Y), the trolley line that ran from Badger’s Island, Kittery, through Kittery Point, across Spruce Creek, Chauncey Creek,  and Brave Boat Harbor to York and York Beach.  Passengers travelled by train to Portsmouth, then hopped on a ferry to cross the Piscataqua River to Badger’s Island, where they picked up the trolley for the last leg of their journey. Vestiges of these trolley lines linger in the pilings visible at lower tides in Chauncey Creek and Brave Boat Harbor, and in secret trails concealed in the woods of Kittery Point.

The PK & Y line operated year round, but was especially busy in the summer months when thousands of tourists took the trolleys to stay at five seaside hotels in Kittery, and many more in York.  Summer visitors typically stayed at hotels such as the Champernowne or the Parkfield for a month or the entire summer.

Although I knew that the now-dismantled Memorial Bridge was opened in 1923, I hadn’t fully understood the impact of the Bridge upon the Seacoast.  It’s almost impossible to conceive that before 1923, travelers crossed between downtown Portsmouth and Kittery via ferries that ran through the day and into the night.  Upriver, a wooden toll bridge was built across the Piscataqua on pilings in 1822 and then expanded for railway use in 1844, just north of the current Sarah Long Bridge, but this old and creaky bridge (100 years old in 1922) was a one-lane affair originally designed for horses and wagons, and not to support thousands of cars.  Using the bridge required a toll, so the fact the new Memorial Bridge provided a free crossing was especially significant at the time, perhaps even more so than the fact that the bridge was designed for automobiles.

When the Memorial Bridge opened on August 17, 1923, a line of cars waiting to cross clogged the streets of downtown Portsmouth.  The traffic jams became worse each year, especially on summer weekends.  By 1927, the trolley line was out of business, and all of the hotels in Kittery Point had closed.   A synergistic combination of bridges, roads and cars had swiftly altered the way Americans lived and travelled.  People were on the move. Instead of vacationing for a month or the entire summer, seaside visitors became tourists who stayed for a week or two and who spread out among motels, cottages or other New England destinations now easily reached by automobile.

Although the Seacoast had always been ‘metropolitan’ with its ready connections to Boston and other cities by ocean and rail, the Memorial Bridge ushered in a new era and mindset for locals as well.  Prior to the 1920s, most residents lived locally.  Trips from Kittery to Portsmouth might be a weekly event for some major errand, but residents did most of their living close by their homes, especially in the winter, when living locally might mean weeks and weeks spent close by the home fires.  Yes, you could travel for miles and miles on sleighs or skis, but why would you want to spend a day half-frozen beneath a pile of blankets, unless you really had to?

These days, the Seacoast empties out during the February and April school break weeks, making for plenty of available parking at the local market and movie theater.  Families jet off to Florida for long weekends, while singles hop on planes for California weekends with old pals.  The term “jet set,” popularly used in the 1960s and 70s to describe the rich and famous, has disappeared from the tabloids because the middle class have all become members of that club.

Last summer, when the Memorial Bridge was open only for pedestrian and bike traffic, I began a habit of parking on Badger’s Island and walking to Portsmouth across the bridge. That small change shifted my perspective of knowing these two communities.  I noticed the boats docked in the marinas, the sounds emanating from Prescott Park, the ships that had pulled into port to unload cargo.  On a couple of occasions, I ate dinner at one of the terrific eating spots in Kittery Foreside and then enjoyed an after-dark walk into Portsmouth to see a movie. Now, with the bridge gone, I miss it often and mourn the changes that its closing has brought to my weekly routines.  Instead of walking downtown, more often I find myself in a car, shopping on Woodbury Avenue and at the malls in Newington.

Another era will begin in summer or fall of 2013, when the new bridge is scheduled to open. I will miss the sound and sensation of walking on wood-plank sidewalks, but can accept that non-slip treading will be a safety improvement, especially in wet weather.  Overall, the bridge will be more pedestrian and biker-friendly, as bikes will travel both ways in bike lanes instead of on the sidewalk.  The original Memorial Bridge helped the automobile hit the big time.  Perhaps its replacement will help us to better value what we lost in that transition.

Links:

Newsreel footage of the Memorial Bridge dedication ceremony on August 17, 1923. The little girl who cuts the ribbon is five-year-old Eileen Dondero, who, as Eileen Foley, went on to serve as Portsmouth’s Mayor for 16 years.

http://www.portsmouthbridges.com/Memorial_History.cfm

“Old Kittery photos.” Collection made available by David Kaselauskas. This collection includes photos of the Champernowne and Parkfield Hotels, various trolley photos and many other interesting photos, with comments, from early 20th century Kittery.

http://www.traip66.com/000/3/5/4/16453/userfiles/file/Kittery_Photos/KitteryPhotos2.pdf

Other sources and credits:

The Sarah Mildred Long Bridge:  A History of the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge from Portsmouth, New Hampshire, to Kittery Maine, by Woodard D. Openo.  Portsmouth, NH:  Peter E. Randall Publisher, for the Maine-New Hampshire Interstate Bridge Authority, 1988.

“Slideshow of Old Kittery Photos,” by Frank Totman.  Presented the Friends of the Rice Public Library Annual Meeting, May 24, 2012.

York County Trolleys, by O.R. Cummings.  Charleston, S.C.: Aradia Publishing, 1999.