Making Millions in Early Toledo: A Lesson in Penmanship

    

     

The letter was postmarked Toledo, July 1, 1849.  That was clear enough, but the handwritten address and text needed some study.  The address was sharp and bold:  C. H. Boris, or possibly Bores, in Hudson, Michigan, just across the state line.  A business letter, very short and to the point, written by (I thought) one H. Ketcham.  It read:

            Dear Sir

                                    Yours of yesterday is at hand   agreeable to your request I have called on the cashier of our Bank & they tell me they are not discounting any Paper (Excepting dfts [drafts] on the East, at present)   In fact it is seldom they take such paper as you mention

            It was probably just some correspondence about state currency, notoriously inflationary and untrustworthy in the years before the Civil War.  There was not enough detail to say what was going on.  One man was stuck with some worthless, or badly devalued, paper money.  I thought there might not be enough for a decent story, but I decided to check on who or what “C. H. Boris” was.  It was thus that I learned to be careful with nineteenth century handwriting, and after some missteps, followed the trail from a merchant in Hudson to one of Toledo’s richest men.

            Checking and rechecking the Lenawee County census left me aggravated.  The various online census indexes did not lead me anywhere near Hudson Michigan, nor anytime near 1849.  And the name on the envelope was so clear, Bores, only one letter off from my own patronymic.   After enduring much frustration, I decided on a different approach.  The writer was apparently a banker, or someone with ties to bankers.  I decided to at least skim a history of banking in Lenawee County, and see what I could find.

The first bank in Hudson was called the Exchange Bank, and it was established by Henry M. Boies, John K. Boies, and Nathan Rude, in 1855.  (Memoirs of Lenawee County, Michigan, Vol. 1 (Madison, 1909), p. 632.)

Wait a minute!  Boies?  Not Bores?  I took another look at the front of the letter.  Surprise, surprise; there was a dot floating rather high above the last name.  Not an “r’ but an “i.”  So I had been looking for the wrong last name, after all.

            Once I had the correct last name, my newly refocused search for C. H. Boies was easy.  The Census of 1850 for Lenawee County, Michigan, taken just a year after my letter, showed a Curtis H. Boise (the census taker had written it wrong as well),  a 41-year-old merchant in Hudson.  A native of Massachusetts, he had a wife, Sarah Ann, and four children, thus far.  He had two more children by 1860.

            So much for the recipient of the letter.  Having caught one error in my reading of old handwriting, I took a careful look at the signature of the sender, “H. Ketcham.’  Wait – what was that squiggle before the “H?”  When I first read the letter, I thought it was just that – a squiggle.  Then I realized it was an alphabet letter:  a “V”

            The letter was from Valentine H. Ketcham, Toledo’s first millionaire, and namesake of the Valentine Theater.

            A native of Cornwall, New York, Valentine Ketcham (1815-1887) arrived in Toledo’s earliest days, starting out as a wholesale merchant in August, 1836.  He married into the influential Berdan family when, in 1841, he wed Rachel Berdan, the daughter of mayor John Berdan.  In 1851, he switched to the financial industry, when he “commenced a private banking and brokerage business.”  After some mergers and name changes, it emerged as the First National Bank in 1863.  Ketcham held the position of president until his death in 1887.  Like many businessmen, he speculated in land, and owned 900 acres of land in various parts of the city.

At one time, Ketcham owned a gilded chariot, which he took in trade for a grocery debt, then traded it for some “worthless” bank paper in Monroe, Michigan lost in a poker game.  The bank paper turned out to be securities that gave him ownership of thousands of dollars of real estate in downtown Toledo.  Fond of outside work, he cut the brush himself from land he owned at St. Clair and Madison, for which he paid $1,000, selling it later for $55,000. When Valentine Ketcham died in 1887, he was able to leave each of his surviving children one million dollars.  [Valentine Ketcham clipping file, Toledo-Lucas county Public Library.]

If we are looking for a common thread between the Toledo millionaire and the Michigan merchant,  it may be that both their stories feature bank “paper,” whether securities, deeds, mortgages, or the “wildcat” money that circulate so freely and lost value so quickly before the Civil War.  That Valentine Ketcham dealt in this financial world we know, and now that we know who C. H. Boies was, we can connect the dots.   Although it is too late to teach them better penmanship!

[Quoted material comes from the Valentine Ketcham clipping file, Toledo-Lucas County Public Library.]

Two Cats in Bowling Green (Ohio) – and Others

          As a boy in Bowling Green in the early 1970s, we had an orange tiger cat named Fido.  Unlike the stereotype of the uncooperative, persnickety feline, Fido was happy inside or outside, good with children, and had quite a repertoire of tricks.  He was fascinated by water, and carefully watched my dad shave in the morning, darting a paw out when the tap was running.  Fido also enjoyed our toy race cars, and would occasionally chase them.  He was an amazing jumper, and could jump six feet into the air from a standstill.  He did this to reach one of his favorite sleeping spots, the curtain rods above the kitchen window.  We laughed when people said, “But Fido is a dog’s name.”  His warm fur, purring, and quirky ways still bring a smile to me after forty years.

The cat in the second picture is anonymous, but I can tell you a few things about it.  The picture was taken before 1918 on an unnamed street in Bowling Green.  The cat was probably black and white.  The feline seems to be in a good mood.  When cats have their tails sticking straight up vertically, they are usually happy.  But be careful when a cat’s ears are cocked slightly, as this one’s are.  It may be afraid of that hand behind it, which may be friendly or may be ready to swat. The Charlie Chaplin-moustache on the cat looks humorous, but the cat looks wary.  Should I purr or run?

            Cats have an unusual pedigree.  Archaeological evidence suggests that cat were domesticated as far back as 8000 years ago, although there is some evidence that cats were hanging around humans as far back as 12000 years ago.  Cats were originally domesticated for their rodent control skills.  They were worshiped as gods in Egypt, yet reviled in medieval Europe as creatures of the night.  Even now, cats are something we either love of hate.                     

                       

Cats slip easily from domestication to a feral state.  Feral however, does not mean “wild.”  Barn cats, for example, are feral, but still depend on the world that humans built.  Barn or farm cats are rarely given names, as they come and go at will.  They have some wild characteristics, like established territories, an understood hierarchy.  But the mice and rats they eat, and the barns in which they shelter, are there because of the presence of humans.  At the other extreme, house cats are named, pampered with canned food and litter boxes, and allowed to enjoy indoor heat.  Keep in mind, however, that canned cat food only appeared in the 1930s and kitty litter after World War 2.  “Garfield,”  “Morris,” and any number of pet cats are a product of the modern world.  My pre-1918 cat, even if a pet, was likely kept outside, found part of his own food, and like most feral animals, might or might not come when you called..

One might think that feral cats are a cute, natural touch to the landscape.  My two Bowling Green cats might have understood the pull of the wild.  In 2011, the AP wire service ran a story headed, “Feral cats overrun I-75 rest area near Bowling Green.”   Twenty to thirty cats had colonized the rest stop, left there by travelers and encouraged to stay by others who fed them.  The Wood County Humane Society was called in, which live-trapped as many cats as they could.  They were then spayed/neutered and offered for adoption.

So cats have as many roles as colors.  Whether house cat, barn cat, stray, or feral, companion, worker, or pest, people must take responsibility for the cats they encounter.   Cats were domesticated to control rats and mice.  Left unrestricted cats will over-breed and become a nuisance.  Unfortunately, domestication is a one-way street.  Once we domesticated them, they became our responsibility, whether we want them or not.

[Other pictures of "Fido" are below.  The third picture is my little sister Lisa holding the Fido in 1973.  Not real clear, but how many cats would let a four-year-old hold him long enough for a picture like that?] 

Another Lighthouse Keeper on Turtle Island

            I was reading a letter dated February 21, 1847 which was advertised as being postmarked “Manhattan.”   New York, the vendor said, so I hurried through it.  But halfway down the page the writer made mention of riding on the Toledo & Monroe Railroad and visiting the village of Adrian, Michigan.  This piqued my interest.   I rechecked cancel - somewhat blurred, but definitely Ohio.  [Figure 1]  Thus, the “Manhattan” in the dateline was not the island on which the city of New York is built, but the long vanished village of Manhattan, Ohio, one of the constituent villages that now make up the city of Toledo.

           

The letter was quite chatty.  The writer was one Gideon Kelsey and was addressed to his nephew Eber L. Kelsey in New York State.  As we do now, Gideon Kelsey complained about the weather.  Those of us who have experienced Toledo winters can sympathize with his description:

This part of the country is very dull . . . .not snow sufficient for sleighing & the roads not good for waggons… muddy sickly gloomy winters…

Fortunately, we have overcome the next problem, as Gideon relates it:

…to this add for the present winter the small Pox which has been quite plenty of which several have died &c &c

The Toledo area was famous for its cholera, but smallpox was just as deadly.  One wonders if Kelsey was making a correct diagnosis.

            Gideon Kelsey liked what he saw of Adrian, just across the state line:

...had a pleasant ride & saw a very pretty village of some 3000 inhabitants most all from the Eastern States & quite yankeyfide [sic]  & quite lively….

             But what exactly was Kelsey doing in Manhattan, Ohio? What was his occupation?  I quote from the middle of the letter:

I left the Island the last of Dec some what out of health but have since been getting better.  I am now with the same family that I have stoped [sic] with every winter – 7 winters – a good kind & benevolent people.  I have been twice out to the Island since - once with a sleigh & horse once on skates…

            The “Island” to which Gideon Kelsey kept referring was none other than Turtle Island in Maumee Bay, which sported a lighthouse from 1832 to 1904.  Although I have not discovered much about Gideon Kelsey, I have confirmed that he served as the lighthouse keeper on Turtle Island from April 23, 1839 to November 3, 1847.  The letter I have quoted from dates from February of 1847, in the final year of Kelsey’s job as keeper.

            As we can see from the quote, Kelsey did not spend the whole year on the island.  Once Maumee Bay froze over, or “closed to navigation” as Kelsey put it, he sleighed or skated into Manhattan, and boarded with a family, the same family as in the past in 1847.  One the bay was open, Kelsey would presumably return to Turtle Island.

            Gideon Kelsey, who may have died in Cleveland in 1878 (if that was the same Gideon Kelsey) is the second Turtle Island lighthouse keeper I have stumbled across in recent years.  The story of Gordon Wilson, a later keeper, appeared in this blog.   One cannot see Turtle Island, looking out from Toledo, over a gray February lake.  But I have been lucky, twice, to unearth letters from men who experienced late winter on the island 150+ years ago.

“I am Known to be a True Whig:” James Manning Hall, Postmaster of Perrysburg

“I am Known to be a True Whig:”  James Manning Hall, Postmaster of Perrysburg

                                                                                                by Alan Borer

            Before the Civil Service Act of 1882, getting a government job depended on who you knew.  If you were a Democrat and worked hard to get local Democratic candidates elected, you might reasonably expect to be favored with a postmastership, a consular position, or some other emolument.  That is, of course, if your party won the election.

            Before 1882, all federal government jobs were filled by the President.  No matter how small the office, it was the President’s prerogative to give or take away.  Since the President could not possibly be acquainted with every candidate personally, he relied on the postmaster-general and other aides to point out party loyalists and workers who were deserving of federal jobs.

            Needless to say, that arrangement led to cases of bitter irony.  Take as an example the postmastership of Perrysburg, Ohio, in the winter of 1840-41.  On February 15, a new postmaster was installed named James Manning Hall.  We do not know many details of the life of Hall.  Born in New Hampshire in 1809, James Manning Hall settled in Perrysburg in the 1830s. He was a merchant, running a general store, a Freemason, and a Presbyterian.  He married a girl named Roxana Allen in 1838, and they had two children, a boy and a girl.  And in February of 1841, he wrote an interesting letter to the folks back home, which survives.

            In that particular February, Hall complained of how bad the business situation was in Perrysburg.  A financial panic in 1837 had caused bank failures, a collapse of western land values, and driven Martin Van Buren from the White House:

Business is exceedingly dull, & Cash! the article is hardly to be seen in these “diggings” but we have got “Old Tip” Elected and hope for better times soon

“Old Tip” was of course William Henry Harrison of “Old Tippecanoe” fame.  Elected president by the Whig Party in the fall of 1840, Harrison spent the winter of 1840-41 being pestered by federal job seekers, especially for the many would-be postmasters who clamored for jobs under his Administration.

            James Manning Hall got the postmaster’s job in Perrysburg.  The cover in Figure 1 may therefore be a “first use of postmaster’s frank.”  In his own words,

You will perceive by this that I am the P.M. [postmaster]  at this place.  I have this day taken the oath of office, it has happened in consequence of it becoming necessary for D. Allen (my Brother in Law) to leave for Newport…

            David Allen, who had been the postmaster of Perrysburg since 183x, was Roxana Allen Hall’s brother.  Family business had forced him to resign.  While Allen (a Democrat) would likely lose the postmaster job in March of 1841 when Harrison was inaugurated, he found a way to please his sister, taking advantage of the “lame duck” situation in Washington to give his sister’s husband a recommendation.

            There were doubts about Hall’s party loyalty:

Whether I retain it or not remains to be seen, as there are some few who object in consequence of the appointment coming from the present Administration and (as they insinuate, through Loco Foco difference), but as I am known to be a True Whig.  I think  it is doubtful whether they will think it best to remove me…

Hall did not sound concerned.  “Loco Foco,” a contemporary obnowious nickname for Democrats, might hold up the appointment while Van Buren was still in office, but Hall felt comfortable about his Whig credentials.  As he said, he was a “True Whig,” and had nothing to fear from the incoming President’s postmaster-slashing.

            Except…

            Hall served as postmaster of Perrysburg until 1846.  Although “Old Tip” died after only a month in office, Harrison’s successor, John Tyler, let him keep the job.  It was not until July of 1845 that Hall was turned out of office by a new Democrat, James K. Polk.

            Shortly after, James Hall died in1847 when he was only 37.  Roxana lived much longer, dying in 1885 in Haskins.  She never remarried.  James left no other letters that I know of; his declaration that he was a “True Whig” could serve as a summary of his short life.

[Other than the letter itself, see http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=53623129 and http://webpmt.usps.gov/pmt003.cfm.]