Lost as Where We Are

 Many years ago, it was music that brought me to the story of the Franklin expedition -- Mícheál Ó Domhnaill's version of "Lord Franklin." And now, in a poetic turn, it's the Franklin story that brought me back to music -- in this case, Eric Vieweg and Shawn Tavenier, who as "The Golden Low" have just released an extraordinary two-LP set, Lost as Where We Are, that draws its inspiration from that famously ill-fated undertaking. And, this time, it's not just the simple elegy of a mournful tune, but a lovely, lively engagement with the hearts and minds of Franklin and his men, a kind of musical journey from the high hopes of their sailing from Greenhithe, through to the lonely graves at Beechey Island, and on to the last stumbling steps of the sledge-haulers on the shores of King William Island.

It all began, of course, on May 19th 1845, when, as Eric and Shawn put it, "we said goodbye to friends and relations / and to the grass under English skies," and thus the songs begin. Next comes a meditation on "What's Left Behind," followed by my favorite track, "Anniversary." This song takes it chorus from a line on John Hartnell's grave marker, "Consider your Ways," and turns it into an extended meditation on mortality and meaning -- but it's not a mournful one. Indeed, the tune is so catchy that even my non-Franklin-obsessed friends find themselves humming along in the car. Not since Stan Rogers has the story come alive in such a way; these songs not only memorialize the past but capture something of the mood of moment, here among us "tardiest explorers."

The story continues through the many stages common both to life and expeditions -- "The Problem with Progress," "Wilderness Tips," and "Starting to Change" -- and then to the final and eventually the ghostly journey from ships stranded in the ice. Even the odd Franklin relic gets a song, with "Rusty Copper Hinge." The final track, "Warm of the Morning," reflects both on the loss of the men and the endless curiosity of those who've search for the rhyme and the reason of it all -- "you question all that's created / well, having the answer can be overrated." The final lines are the most evocative: "I'll hold below with my good companions / out in the darkness, you'll hear us singing."

I was honored when Eric and Shawn asked me to contribute some liner notes! If you'd like to get hold of this on vinyl; you can order copies directly from the Record Centre in Ottawa. Or, if digital music is more your groove, the album can be purchased and downloaded directly via Bandcamp. Either way, clear your decks, turn down the lights -- if you're anywhere near where the 'Blizzard of '26' deposited its drifts, have a look out the window. Then drop the needle and listen.

The End of an Era

It's a day that everyone who has excitedly followed the dives made by Parks Canada's Underwater Archaeology Team knew might come, but hoped would not -- when governmental support would wind down. In one sense, we -- and the rich history that Erebus and Terror contained -- were fortunate; the initial funding for the dives was only for a few years, but in the end it was renewed multiple times under multiple governments, both Conservative and Liberal. The fruits of the Parks team's work have been of enormous value, and have already reshaped our understanding of what life on board the ships was like for Franklin and his men. It's also important to note that, with hundreds of artifacts already recovered, and some still at the conservation stage, there remains a great deal more work to do, and that work will surely bring revelations.

The news came buried in the ninth paragraph of an (otherwise welcome) update on the 2024 dive season, which included fantastic new photographs, including one of the ex-railway engine in the hold of HMS Erebus, a sight which so many of us had sought for so long. We can now imagine Franklin's men donning their leather raincoats, sleeping in their numbered hammocks, and pouring milk out of their blue 'Tam-o-Shanter' pitcher, with artifacts suddenly brought to the surface and the light of day. The Fraser Patent Stove, which brought warm air to sundry parts of the ship, is now revealed, as is one of the coal bunkers. And, while it's true that there will, for now, be no new dives, there is (I'm sure) much more imagery to come; from what I can see, many of the shipboard images appear to be stills from videos, whose other footage may not yet have been completely analyzed; the same may be true of other things we've only glimpsed so far.

And there's other good news to set against our disappointment: the Nattilik Heritage Centre has now opened a long-anticipated new wing, one designed for the safe storage and display of actual artifacts from the ships, there in Gjoa Haven where many of the descendants of Inuit whose eyewitness accounts led to the finding of Erebus live. And, back in Portsmouth, there's confirmation that the relics from the earliest dive seasons, including the ship's bell of Erebus, have safely arrived (and will hopefully at some point be on permanent display) at the National Museum of the Royal Navy.

Back when HMS Terror was found in 2016, I was asked by the anchor of the CTV evening news how I felt now that the mystery had been "solved." Of course, I had to point out that it wasn't solved at all -- using the metaphor of an onion, each of the layers of which must be peeled back patiently, I replied that what we had, now, was simply a much larger onion. I suspect that that, between the materials already brought up by the UAT, and the continuing work of archaeologists on land, we've still got a good deal more peeling to do.

New manuscript of John Rae's Voyages and Travels

As I've worked with Harry Goodsir's closest living relation, Mike Tracy, I've always been amazed at his thoroughness in finding things in archives that I'd never thought could be found -- or even knew existed. One of his more surprising discoveries came just a few weeks ago, when he let me know that there was a hitherto-unknown manuscript of John Rae's "Voyages and Travels of Dr. Rae in the Arctic Regions," an open letter from 1856 which had been privately published in pamphlet form, which even then is quite scarce. The letter, in its printed form, was simply addressed to "My Dear Sir," as it was apparently meant to be a public defense by Rae of his exertions, rather than a personal letter to any one individual. That there should be a manuscript version -- and in pencil! -- and in Australia! -- was a complete and utter surprise. As we waited for a paper photocopy, apparently the only sort that the Royal Geographical Society of South Australia could provide, we both wondered whether, perhaps, this manuscript might reveal something about its composition, or whether indeed it was initially addressed to any one person.

The photocopy, in that matter, was a disappointment; it added nothing about any particular recipient for the original text. However, from other materials in the same folder, Mike and I learned that the pencil version -- a copy rather than a source for the printed text -- had in fact been made for a gentleman named "Mr. Silver"; in an accompanying cover letter, Rae apologized that he had no copies of the pamphlet to spare, but had quite generously copied out the full text by hand. But who was this Mr. Silver?

Stephen William Silver, a London businessman, was known for much of his career for the concern he owned and managed, the India Gutta-Percha and Telegraph Works Company. In a manner similar to many other captains of industry, he was also a member and supporter of a number of learned societies, among them the Royal Geographical Society, of which he was elected a Fellow in 1856. Along with Dr. Rae, he served on its board, and they were likely acquainted from that moment. Silver had a lifelong interest in exploration, though his main focus seems to have been Africa -- but, apparently, he was interested in the Arctic as well. But how did this letter end up in Australia? 

The answer lies in the person of a gentleman named Edward Petherick, who served as Silver's "bibliographical advisor." When Silver died in 1905, Petherick was concerned that the collection might be broken up, and seems to have written a friend in Adelaide about the possibility of the Public Library of New South Wales acquiring it; when that was politely declined, Petherick worked through friends and associates connected with the RGS, via which it was eventually acquired with the intent of passing it along to the RGSA. As the "York Gate Library" it was warmly received, eventually being housed in the State Library of South Australia, where it was opened with some fanfare in 1908.

And so, while this discovery doesn't tell us much new about Rae's open letter, it does say something about the man himself: that he would take the trouble, for a friend and colleague, to copy out his whole article again by hand, just for his solitary benefit.

[The author would like to acknowledge his reliance on Valmai Hankel's excellent article, "Not Silver but Gold: S.W. Silver and the York Gate Library" (2005), for details as to Silver's collection and its transfer to Australia.]

On the finding of James Fitzjames

It's been a long, long time since anyone last heard anything from -- or of -- James Fitzjames. His last known letter was to Edward Sabine, and it closed with his characteristic optimism and high spirits:

    Sir John is very well and full of life and energy - and we are all as happy as possible looking forward to the commencement of our real work - No one I am sure will rejoice more than yourself at our success which we all anticipate eventually if not sooner.

It was dated 11 July 1845, and the next day went into the mailbag aboard the Barretto Junior. A little less than three years later, he penned the postscript in the margin to his own note, deposited at Victory Point, and telling of the deaths that had ensued while the ships were trapped, Franklin's included, signing himself "Captain Hms Erebus." After that, silence.

Which is not quite the same thing as nothing at all. His letters to his brother and sister-in-law were privately published, and came to serve a the first words most people read of all the letters sent home by the men of the Expedition. Every account told to the Inuit, every rumor and sighting and possibility of a sighting, was scanned for evidence of his presence. Most notably, perhaps, in 1999, the novelist John Wilson published North With Franklin: The Lost Journals of James Fitzjames, in which his familiar voice, by some sort of conjuring, returned, lively as ever, and again took up his tale. Fitzjames figured in numerous other Franklin fictions, chipper and loquacious, almost never despairing. Most recently, as memorably played by Tobias Menzies in the AMC adaptation of Dan Simmons's The Terror, he came to life once more, cheered and reconciled and eventually helped to an easeful passing from a world of pain by his friend and fellow in command, Francis Crozier.

But now all this fierce imagining is done -- he himself is found, and in a place that seems to defy all our auguries -- near one of the abandoned whaleboats in Erebus Bay, a site presumably reached by the retreating men of the Expedition within the first weeks of their southward struggle. Did he perish early on from some illness or accident? Or did he go further, but then return, perhaps to look after those who could go on no more? It may never be possible to know, but what he can say is that his jawbone -- known as "mandible 226" -- shows cut-marks consistent with survival cannibalism. It's hard to imagine a state of starvation in which either the hands or face, which as Dr. Anne Keeenleyside once remarked are "the most human parts of the body," would be used as food, but that state must have been reached at some point.

There are two horizons over which an answer to these uncertainties may someday appear:  first, through the continued work of archaeologists such as Doug Stenton and his team, who are patiently surveying all the known sites on land with Franklin remains, and whose DNA database may yet identify other individuals. Secondly, we can hope that just perhaps, from the wreck of the Erebus, some written indication may come that will give us further clues. Right now, what we chiefly lack is a timeline -- after the April abandonment and the VP note all is blank -- and if either ship was ever re-manned, the records there (if found) might advance our knowledge of these events. Until then, what more can we say? 

I'll let John Wilson's fictive Fitzjames have the last word:

My dearest Elizabeth, the end will come with you in my thoughts and your picture clutched in my hand. Remember me fondly. For the last time, I wish you Good Night.

New details on the career of Stephen Samuel Stanley

Thanks to the indefatigable researches of Michael Tracy, we at last have several additional tantalizing bits of information about the medical career of Stephen Samuel Stanley, the Surgeon appointed to HMS "Erebus" for the Franklin expedition. Tracy, who is Harry Goodsir's cousin and closest living relative, never takes "no" for an answer, and is willing to winnow through the most vast and general of documents in search of a single grain of valuable information. This has been the case with the records of the Royal College of Surgeons of England, an association no less ancient (though slightly less august) than the RCS of Edinburgh. Unlike its Scots counterpart, the RCS was not associated with a single medical school, but nevertheless did grant diplomas; thanks to Mike's researches, we now know that Stanley received one on the 11th of May, 1838. His examiner was the eminent anatomist Sir Astley Cooper, and on receiving the diploma Stanley paid the required fee of £21 (about £1200 in today's currency). 

As to where and how he completed his medical studies, he appears to have begun them at the University of Edinburgh under the renowned Robert Knox; we know this thanks to a memoir of the anatomist Knox by Henry Lonsdale. Stanley's dissection of an elbow took the first prize in 1836 (Sir William Fergusson, recipient of the recently-discovered Stanley letter at the NYPL, was at the time Knox's demonstrator). He then seems to have studied under Fergusson himself, who taught at King's College; although Mike had the College archivist check their Entrance Records, no mention of Stanley could be found, as the volume for the relevant period has gone missing. 

Mike has also found that Stanley had two medical publications -- one, in the venerable Lancet, on "Dropsy of the Pineal Gland" (1838) and another "“Case of Perfect Ankylosis of the Five Superior Cervical Vertebrae” in the Edinburgh Medical And Surgical Journal in 1841. All told, his training and published work would seem to have fitted him more for a brilliant career as an anatomist than the more humble one of a Surgeon in the Royal Navy. On joining, he was initially posted to Haslar Hospital, where he was stationed from 5 June 1838 to 11 November 1839.

Just a few months into his posting, on the 10th of November, Stanley seems to have become involved in what, despite the word-mincing of press reports, can only be described as a duel. The cause of this contention is unstated. Stokes Bay is not far from Haslar, and one can imagine that the site was chosen for its shingle beach, which in November one could assume would be fairly sparsely populated.

The following year, he finally joined his first ship, as he was posted to HMS Blonde on November 16th and dispatched to China; Stanley's next few years would be on a series of ships involved in what became known as the First Opium War: the Algerine, the Cornwallis, and the Siren. Although it's often cited as his principal posting, his time aboard the Cornwallis was relatively brief, from June to August of 1842; there, fatefully, he was to meet Le Vesconte and Fitzjames. His service aboard the Siren would have qualified him for a China Medal, but according to Glenn Stein, with whom I checked, there's no indication that one was sent to him or his relations. And, despite all these new bits of information, Stanley's date of birth and parentage remain elusive, as do any details pertaining to his life before he commenced his medical studies. And since, despite his marriage to Mary Ann Windus on the eve of the Franklin expedition's sailing, he never updated his will -- which left his entire estate to one Robert Barr -- no further information can come from that quarter.

The diploma first mentioned does, though, perhaps shed some light on one (since lost) Franklin relic, a board or plank found on Montreal Island and said to have the inscription, "MR STANLEY." It's an oddity of the College of Surgeons that, in order to qualify for membership one must already have completed one's medical studies, and would be known as "Dr. so-and-so." And yet, on receipt of the Diploma, one becomes a qualified Surgeon, yet as such entitled only to be addressed as "Mr."

The Mystery of Catherine Tozer

The essential details of the life of Solomon Tozer, a sergeant in the Royal Marines assigned to HMS Terror, are well-known, and have been documented in Ralph Lloyd-Jones's article "The Royal Marines on Franklin's Last Arctic Expedition" (Polar Record 40 (215) (2004). He was born in Axbridge, near Cheddar, in 1815 or possibly 1817, and may have been a Nonconformist (a religious term from the day, signifying those who did not agree with the 29 articles of the established Church of England). 

However, what is far less well-known is that he may have had a sister, Catherine, who was a nonconformist in a much more modern sense of the word. According to the 1913 press article, she'd worked as a schoolmistress, but suffered so much abuse from her husband that she left him (it should be borne in mind that divorce was essentially impossible at this period in time), and chose to adopt male attire for the rest of her life, going by the name of "Charley Wilson" and finding employment as a painter. Further details about her are scarce -- the two newspaper items in this post contain almost all of what is known, and my efforts to contact the family descendant who first drew my attention to her story have not (so far) met with success, but apparently the family genealogy is -- by that account -- fairly certain.

(The few other items about her online are often accompanied by a photograph said to be hers -- but in fact the image is a glass plate photograph of Marie Høeg (1866-1949), a Norwegian photographer and suffragist who had taken private photographs of herself wearing a theatrically fake mustache). 

The Catherine Tozer known in these newspaper columns seems to have been born in 1837, which would make her twenty years younger than her brother, quite a stretch but not an impossibility. By this earlier account, she first came to public attention after a scandalous affair -- circumstances rather different from those described in the Cheltenham Chronicle years later. The details are in this item from the Bury Times of September 8, 1860 (the dates given here are inconsistent by two years with those of the other article). 

One of the last records I could find was a notice from the Gloucestershire Echo of 15 October 1897 noting that she will be able to leave a workhouse in West Ham thanks to the support of the Painters' Union and an offer of employment in "some light business." If I have her correct date of birth, she would have been sixty years old at that time. 

More recently, a lengthy research article on the Tozer family has come to light, compiled by a user known as @dustygnome; a link to this article may be found via Tumblr. There's a tremendous amount of valuable information in this article, which covers several generations of the Tozer family. I've also located a couple of additional resources in more specialized archives, including this trans history page which links to a newspaper article that contains an actual interview with Charley Wilson conducted shortly before his death. From this site, it's also fascinating to learn that Wilson was employed painting ships for the Peninsular & Oriental shipping company, including the Rome, the Victoria, the Oceania, and the Arcadia. P&O, as it was known, continued in business until 2006, when it was sold to DP World; a reconstituted part of the company operates P&O Ferries, infamous for sacking its entire staff in 2022. Charley Wilson is said to have died in 1911; I have so far been unable to locate a burial site.

Parks Canada 2023 finds

Marc-André Bernier examines the seaman's chest

The news is in: Parks Canada has just made its first official release of results from the 2023 dive season. It was a relatively short one -- just twelve days -- but the objects recovered from HMS Erebus are remarkable both for their number -- said to be in the hundreds -- and for the light that those so far publicly identified cast upon the lives of those aboard Franklin's flagship.

It's a slow and patient process, as divers have to ensure that they disturb the context of the objects they recover as little as possible, knowing full well that this means that there will always be items that must wait until the next dive season. The Underwater Archaeology Team (UAT) has been moving slowly through the accessible spaces of Erebus, continuing their work on the captain's steward's storage area just forward of Franklin's Great Cabin, and looking into one of the officer's rooms -- likely that of lieutenant H.T.D. Le Vesconte. At the same time, with an eye to learning more about the onboard lives of regular sailors, a seaman's chest in the fo'c'sle -- forward of the wardroom but astern of the sick bay -- was investigated. The finds in each of these areas have already transformed our understanding of the lives of Franklin's men, even as we must be cautious -- since such a small portion of all the artifacts on board has yet been recovered -- of the ways in which finds yet to be found may re-shape the story.

Beginning with the captain's steward -- Edmund Hoar -- new items have been found in what was likely a storage area of which he was in charge. Notable among these is a bottle, embossed with the "broad arrow" signifying government property, as well as a letter "K." Dubbed the "K bottle" (after a compressed-air bottle in quite common use among divers), it may contain some sort of medicine; similar bottles with different letters have been recovered from marine sites elsewhere in Canada. The location seems to have been well-contained, which suggests that perhaps Hoar, or the Captain he served, had some need of it. Further along the companionway, a room believed to be likely that of H.D.T. Le Vesconte disclosed an unexpected find: the reel of a fishing rod (found with other parts of a fishing kit), which quite alters one's imagined view of Le Vesconte or any Franklin officer if the room were theirs. Once, we knew them only in their dress uniforms; now we must imagine at least one of them with rod and reel, which conjures up quite a different image.

But it's the seaman's chest in the fo'c'sle that piques the imagination most -- among the objects within appear to have been some pistols, one of which has been recovered to the surface and will be undergoing conservation. Why would side-arms have been kept in such a chest? Were they stored there under lock and key in case of need, or perhaps cached for safety when the ship was deserted? It's worth noting that the Royal Marines would have shared this area with the regular sailors, and yet such pistols were not necessarily standard equipment (though Nelson's navy had its sea-service pistols). One thinks also of the long rifles hanging from the beam in Terror's great cabin -- was the attitude toward firearms more relaxed while on Arctic service? More context is certainly needed to answer such questions; it may perhaps emerge in future dive seasons, when the chest is further excavated.

It's the suggestive and enigmatic quality of these objects that makes them so special. My personal favorite is a stoneware bowl, also found in the chest; unlike the fancy flo-blue and transferware from the officers' mess, the regular sailors would surely have made do with humbler vessels, and this is one. It's a reminder that, both in written records and in artifacts, the daily life of most of the men aboard Franklin's ships has only just now begun to be accounted for.

Repost: Christmas in the Frozen Regions

At this time of year, many of us are seeking a bit of Christmas past by revisiting Charles Dickens's "A Christmas Carol." There are innumerable local productions, dozens of film versions (I'm most fond of the one starring Alistair Sim, or else the Muppet Christmas Carol, which I actually feel is the best recent adaptation), and of course the book itself is always available. But most today are less acquainted with Dickens's other Christmas tales -- at one point he was writing a new one every year -- or with the many special Christmas numbers of his magazines Household Words and All the Year 'Round, which Dickens personally selected and edited with great care. It was, in fact, in 1850 -- the very first year of his first magazine, Household Words -- that Dickens, hoping to revive the fading hopes that Franklin and his men might yet live, selected a piece describing an Antarctic Christmas aboard the "Erebus" and "Terror" -- the very ships that Franklin had taken on his expedition a few years later. Making this connection was important enough that Dickens wrote a fresh introduction to the article, as well as a brief coda, himself, and his words are animated with all his usual spirit:

"THINK of Christmas in the tremendous wastes of ice and snow, that lie in the remotest regions of the earth ! Christmas, in the interminable white desert of the Polar sea ! Yet it has been kept in those awful solitudes, cheerfully, by Englishmen. Where crashing mountains of ice, heaped up together, have made a chaos round their ships, which in a moment might have ground them to dust; where hair has frozen on the face; where blankets have stiffened upon the bodies of men lying asleep, closely housed by huge fires, and plasters have turned to ice upon the wounds of others accidentally hurt; where the ships have been undistinguishable from the environing ice, and have resembled themselves far less than the surrounding masses have resembled monstrous piles of architecture which could not possibly be there, or anywhere; where the winter animals and birds are white, as if they too were born of the desolate snow and frost; there Englishmen have read the prayers of Christmas Day, and have drunk to friends at home, and sung home songs."

The account that follows is by Robert McCormick, who had recently served under James Clark Ross as surgeon and naturalist aboard HMS "Terror," and describes the first Christmas of their Antarctic voyage. McCormick seems to have been an excellent writer, and this account is all the more notable as it's his earliest publication; he found himself unable to write up the expected naturalist's report for the Ross expedition, and his own account of his career, Voyages of Discovery in the Antarctic and Arctic Seas, was not published until 1884. As Dickens hands the narrative off to McCormick, the mystery and anxiety then surrounding Franklin's name is directly evoked:

"In 1819, Captain Parry and his brave companions did so ; and the officers having dined off a piece of fresh beef, nine months old, preserved by the intense climate, joined the men in acting plays, with the thermometer below zero, on the stage. In 1825, Captain Franklin's party kept Christmas Day in their hut with snap-dragon and a dance, among a merry party of Englishmen, Highlanders, Canadians, Esquimaux, Chipewyans, Dog- Ribs, Hare Indians, and Cree women and children.

In 1850, some commemoration of Christmas may perhaps take place in the Frozen Regions. Heaven grant it! It is not beyond hope ! and be held by the later crews of those same ships ; for they are the very same that have so long been missing, and that are painfully connected in the public mind with FRANKLIN’S name."

You can read McCormick’s account in full here. Of course, much of the resonance of his story is how it shows the explorers keeping the traditions of home, evoking an elaborate Victorian Christmas even in the most desolate regions of the world. On this occasion, the ship was redecorated as a "hotel," and the drinks were kept cold by being served atop an enormous block of solid ice. McCormack, oddly, says very little about the food, but other explorers were far more voluble; you can follow the links here to read of a feast of "Banks Land Reindeer" in "Christmas-Keeping in the Arctic Regions, 1850-51," relish Elisha Kent Kane's Christmas on the Second Grinnell expedition, at which mere "pork and beans" were disguised as all manner of delicacies by the men's scurvy-fed imaginations, or devour A.W. Greely's luxurious first Christmas with the Lady Franklin Bay Expedition at Fort Conger, which featured mock-turtle soup, salmon, tenderloin of musk-ox, plum pudding with wine sauce, dates, figs, cherries, egg-nog, and an extra ration of rum -- a sad contrast with the meals of the last few survivors three years later, who endeavored to support life by fishing for brine-shrimp through a sieve.

Wherever readers of this blog may find themselves this Christmas, I hope that your evening meal is enriched by all the warmth and spirit of domestic tranquility that these men's meals -- whether in reality, or in their imaginations, or both -- sought to evoke so far away from home.

Franklin's knowledge of the Daguerreotype Process

One of the questions about the Daguerreotypes by Beard that were auctioned off last week at Sotheby's has been whether or not Beard's operator would have used a reversing prism or mirror (there could also have possibly been more than one operator, and more than one sitting). Harry Goodsir noted the photographer's arrival, though he mistook the process, calling him a "Talbotypist," as he had some experiece with that process, and had sat for a portrait using it, back in Scotland.

Franklin himself, though, was already quite familiar with the Daguerreotype process, and indeed with Richard Beard's studio. Francis Russell Nixon, the newly-consecrated Bishop of Van Diemen's Land, had in fact brought with him several of Beard's Daguerreotypes when he arrived in Hobart Town in 1843, and it's very likely Franklin saw them. Nixon also showed them to Alfred Bock, who was so delighted by them that he embarked on what was to be a lengthy career as one of Australia's pioneering photographers. Bock tried to establish a commercial studio, but was discouraged when George Barron Goodman -- who had purchased a sub-patent from Beard -- complained about Beck's advertisements. This pushed the opening of his establishment to 1847, though he seems to have been privately active as a photographer throughout the period of the delay.

Dr. William Bland, by Goodman

Goodman had opened his first studio in Sydney in 1842, urging local citizens to "endure half a minute of immobility" to obtain a fine portrait, using a structure he built on the roof of the Royal Hotel in Sydney. He was not, alas, as successful in this endeavor as Beard; his images came out rather dark, one local reviews spoke of a "want of life" while another decried their "cadaverous and unearthly appearance." The surviving images don't seem quite as awful as all that, though many do seem to lack contrast. For our purposes, what matters is that Goodman left Sydney for Hobart in 1843, opening a Daguerreian studio in a boarding house at 20 Patrick Street, which was in business from that summer to February of 1844. After his departure, he continued the pattern of running his studio out of temporary quarters, and after a few years of further moves, he quit the business and retired to the Continent, dying in Paris in 1851. 

The takeway from all this is that Franklin, either through Bishop Nixon (who became a close friend of the Franklins), Bock (who was the son of the ex-convict painter Thomas Bock, known for his portrait of the Franklins' adopted daughter Mathinna), or Goodman, was surely acquainted with the Daguerreotype process. Further confirmation comes via an item published in the very first issue of the Tasmanian Journal -- the organ of the Royal Society of Tasmania, founded by the Franklins -- in which an excerpt from a letter from Dr. Richardson to Franklin was published, touching specifically on Daguerreotypes, their use in photographing natural history specimens (!), and a method for turning them directly into printing plates in order to reproduce them. While this method -- which was destructive of the original Daguerreotype -- never caught on, the fact that Franklin and Richardson were discussing it with such easily familiarity as early as 1840 seems quite clear evidence that both men had already taken a keen interest in the process, even before local operators arrived in Hobart.

courtesy Sotheby's

So when, in May of 1845, Franklin sat for what (so far as we know) was his first and only Daguerreotypic portrait, he had been familiar with the technology for more than five years -- and, I suspect, would have noticed the presence or absence of a mirror or prism on the front of the camera, and deduced (or inquired about) its purpose. In either orientation, his Daguerreotype shows the medals on the "short" side (underside) of his uniform, which is the wrong side, so he must have anticipated their being reversed.  And I believe he would have noticed if Beard's operator had used a mirror or prism -- so my surmise would be that he did not. Beard's may well have advertised -- and produced -- non-reversed images, but that may just as readily been done in the copying process as when the image was first taken. 

Richard Beard, the Daguerreotype and the Images of the Franklin Expedition

Guest post by Frank Michael Schuster

The month of May 1845, when Sir John Franklin's expedition set sail started out as a cold and unfriendly one throughout Europe. An outbreak of the flu was raging in London, which had also caught the expedition's leader. But by mid-May the weather improved and the 15th and 16th of May were sunny and noticeably warmer than the days before and after. Perhaps that was why a camera operator, or as they called it in those days, a Daguerreotypist from one of Richard Beard's studios, was just then coming on board HMS Erebus. He had been commissioned by Lady Jane Franklin to take photographs of Sir John and the other officers of the flagship, as well as Franklin's second-in-command Francis Crozier. With the help of a heavy curtain and a simple wooden chair, a makeshift studio was created on deck, where the men, supervised by the officers, still stowed provisions and other supplies. This might be why the officers in the pictures are wearing only their "undress uniform" instead of one of the more formal ones usually more appropriate to the occasion. Some, like Lieutenant James Walter Fairholme, are not even wearing their coats given the surprisingly mild weather. For, when it was his turn to be photographed, he simply borrowed “Fitzjames' coat [...], to save myself the trouble of getting my own,” as he later wrote to his father (Potter et. al., May We Be Spared 146). Unfortunately, we know nothing about the wind on those days, but the camera operator obviously wanted to take advantage of the sunny day.

The entrepreneur Richard Beard (1801-1885), whose employee was taking the pictures, was interested in everything he could make money from. That is why he had become fascinated by the new possibilities of photography. A few weeks after the new invention by he Frenchman Louis Daguerre (1787-1851) in 1839 he had acquired a license for his process for England and Wales. Knowing that Daguerre's process only produced a one-off image,  Beard also took an interest in the calotype process invented by William Fox Talbot (1800-1877). Talbot’s pictures could be reproduced relatively easily, but Beard could not come to an agreement with the inventor. 

figure 1

So Beard set out to solve the three major problems his customers had with the daguerreotype as quickly as possible: The exposure time was too long for portraits, the images were slightly distorted and mirror-inverted, and they could not be duplicated. By hiring the chemist John Frederick Goddard (1795-1866) and by using an American camera patented in March 1840 in England he was able to reduce the exposure time considerably to under a minute. As the inventors Alexander S. Wolcott (1804 -1844) & John Johnson (1813-1871) did not use a lens, but a concave mirror instead, the images were not reversed, and thus the second problem was solved. (figure 1) That the images were slightly distorted, just like today, hardly bothered anyone, apart from the Duke of Wellington, who complained that his nose was too big in the image. 

The pictures were tiny, just 2 x 2.5 inches (5 x 6 cm), a format usually referred to as the “Ninth Plate”, because the plates originally produced for the photographs could be cut into nine pieces. But as many people were used to miniature paintings, which had been very en vogue before, this was not a problem, which left just one, problem to solve, and Beard again did what others didn't.

Figure 2

The Frenchman Antoine Claudet (1797-1867), also held a license from Daguerre since 1839 and thanks to this was able to open his own studio in London in 1841, despite Beard’s license for the whole of England. Claudet used two cameras (figure 2). In this way he got two nearly identical pictures at once. Beard’s operator's used their relatively easy reloadable camera a to take two pictures in quick succession. As John Johnson also had invented a device for preparing and polishing the silver-coated copper photographic plates, there was no need to do this by hand anymore. Thus Beard’s operators were faster then Claudet's, as an astonished Journalist of The Spectator reported on 4 September 1841.  This led to the erroneous surmise that Beard's camera allowed two photos to be taken at the same time by adjusting a mirror. 

Figure 3

In early 1843 the problem of how to duplicate a daguerreotype was finally solved, when Wolcott and Johnson invented a copying apparatus. It was basically a daguerreotype camera to photograph daguerreotypes, which additionally was suitable for enlarging and could be used as a projector (figure 3). Using mirrors, the copy was reverted to the original. This meant, in order to obtain an identical image of the original, it was necessary to make a copy of the copy. The inventors themselves came to London to set it up in Beard's studios. After all, the customers had become more demanding and expected larger pictures. 

Therefore, at the same time Beard also changed his camera. From then on, he used a camera that could take pictures in the "sixth plate" format, that is 2.75 x 3.25 inches (7 x 8 cm). Even the ever critical William Henry Fox Talbot called Johnson’s and Wolcott’s improved Daguerreotypes in March 1843 “the most perfect thing of the kind I have yet seen."

But unfortunately little is known about the new camera itself. The only thing certain is that it used the powerful lens newly invented by the Hungarian-German mathematician Joseph Petzval (1807-1891) and distributed throughout Europe by the Austrian optician Friedrich von Voigtländer (1812-1878).

As the images were now taken with a lensed camera, it was usually assumed that they were now inverted. As the images of the Franklin expedition officers where taken with the same camera, it was (up to now) thought that the daguerreotypes of Sir John Franklin, Commander James Fitzjames, Lieutenant Henry Thomas Dundas Le Vesconte, the purser Charles H. Osmer and the surgeon Stephen S. Stanley from the collection of the Scott Polar Research Institute are originals, as well as the images of Captain Francis R. M. Crozier, James Fitzjames, the mate Charles Frederick Des Voeux, and the assistant surgeon Henry Goodsir, which have now surfaced, because these images are inverted, while the others would be copies. But as with everything related to the Franklin expedition, it is not that easy. 

Figure 4 

And yet, a year after the expedition had left England, Beard’s competitor Claudet proudly declared in an advertisement in The Times on 20 May 1846 that all his portraits were now taken with “the right and left side in their natural position,” whereupon the angry Beard responded in the same paper on 9 June by pointing out that his pictures had always been non-reversed, "first by means of his patent concave reflector, and also (for more than three years past) by the use of a reflector in combination with a lens." (The Times, 9 June 1846; figure 4).

Figure 5

What this reflector looked like, we don’t know for sure, as we don’t know much about the camera improved by Johnson and Wolcott. The easiest solution to get a non-reversed image was to put an adjustable mirror in front of the lens at a 45° angle, as for example a lens marketed from the French photographer Pierre-Ambrose Richebourg (1810-1875) shows. (figure 5)

 The problem with such a simple device was that it easily shifted, especially in windy conditions. Unfortunately, we neither know if it was used at all, if the camera was aimed at or past the sitter, nor what the wind conditions were like during that particular days. It may be that the camera operator sometimes used the correction mirror and sometimes not. It could very well be that all the newly discovered daguerreotypes are originals, whether or not they have been reversed. The two mirror-inverted shots of Fitzjames might indeed be originals, as they are not identical. The same may be true of the different shots of Des Voeux, although one is mirrored and the other is not. Perhaps the original also went to the family and one of the surviving daguerreotypes is a copy. 

However, most of the surviving images of the officers of the Erebus, of which there are two identical photographs, are not reversed. If they are not both copies, then Beard's employees must even have made copies of copies, which may well be the case, given the high demand. James Fitzjames alone wanted three or four pictures, as he wrote in a letter. (see Potter et. al. May We Be Spared p. 117).

 Looking at the Illustrated London News of 13 September 1851 (p. 329) does not help either. Although the images, or rather engravings after the daguerreotypes, finally appeared in the press the comment published with them tells us nothing about how they where taken. On the contrary: It even contains at least one major error: While it's true that Richard Beard had supplied the Franklin expedition with a complete Daguerreotype apparatus, as the author of the comment to the images explained, this was probably not the same camera with which the pictures were taken. As the polishing apparatus invented by Johnson in 1841 has been discovered in the wrack of HMS Erebus recently, we know, that the camera on board the ship must be Wolcott's original mirror camera, as the polishing device was made for ninth-plate images, as Peter Carney has noted.  It's a forgivable mistake more than half a decade after the pictures were taken, especially as the author was not a specialist in daguerreotypes but rather in maritime matters, as it is none other than William Richard O’Byrne, (1823–1896) the author of the “Naval Biographical Dictionary” published two years earlier in 1849.

 So what remains but confusion? 

If photos were indeed only taken on one day, and the camera operator only came back on the second day to present the pictures, or if the studio was still in the same place on the second day as it was on the first, it may even be possible to tell from a close examination of the images whether and when a corrective mirror was used. For Daguerreotypes are so clear that one can sometimes sense the reflection of the camera and the camera operator behind it in the pupils of the sitter. Or since there is at least one shot (that of Le Vesconte) where you can see where he was sitting, you might even be able to tell from the reflections on the caps where the camera was pointed. 

But this is a matter for others, for whom the question of whether it is an original or not is more important than for me and who, above all, have more patience than I .

The author would like to thank Gina Koellner, Mary Williamson, Peter Carney, Michael Robinson, Bill Schulz and last but not least Russell Potter for their inspiration and helpful comments.

The newfound Franklin Daguerreotypes

Courtesy of Sotheby's

Sometimes, historical artifacts can be doubly lost -- lost in the sense that their present location is unknown, but also lost in the sense that nobody even suspected that they existed. Such is the case with the set of Daguerreotypes soon to go before the hammer at Sotheby's -- they are apparently Lady Franklin's own presentation set -- and will offer yet another doubling of the views we now possess.

The main reason that no one was previously aware of them -- other than the fact that their owner, a direct descendant of Sir John, is said to have been very private -- is that we thought we already had them. That is, we'd assumed that the fine, gold-toned ones at the Scott Polar Research Institute -- given as part of the Lefroy bequest (these were Sopia Cracroft's relatives) were Lady Franklin's set. And yet, all the while, this extraordinary set had remained in family hands, well and quietly looked after, in what appears to be its original presentation case from the firm of Richard Beard.

A close look at the set reveals that it's not completely unseen -- in fact, this very set was used as the source for the full-page woodcut in the Illustrated London News. Both the left-right orientation and the order of the Daguerreotypes match; this makes it quite clear that this set was the likley source. Somewhat confusingly, the ILN seems to say that the set they engraved was based on Beard's set, but if so it must have been identically arranged. Another curious feature, noticed by Peter Carney, is that -- judging from the buttons -- some of these images are copy Daguerreotypes, since the copying process reverses the reversed image and puts the buttons back on the "right" side!

The one other set of images that we have -- the mounted copies now in the Derbyshire Record Office at Matlock --  seems to have used the same source Daguerreotypes, but in a different order. This set is associated with Franklin's daughter Eleanor, and there's reason to regard it as her personal one (it's since come to light that the paper prints were more probably made around 1875, so a set of the originals certainly remained in family hands at that time).  All this of course leaves even more mystery around the long-known Daguerreotypes at Scott Polar, many of which show the subjects in different poses, and which set is missing any image of Francis Crozier -- had Sophy purchased some "second poses" at the same time as her aunt's set? Did some of the officers not claim their likenesses?

But whatever the actual differences in arrangement and provenance, it's clear that, as Sotheby's has indicated, the set they have on offer is the "premier" set -- one assembled at the time, in a contemporary case that may very well have been made for them by Beard's. In his letter of May 19th, Reid underscores this point: "Lady Franklin hase ordered all the officers Likeness to bee taken and mine amongst the Rest, with my uniform on - She keeps them all by herself." All that is consistent with the newly known cased set.

Image on left Courtesy of Sotheby’s

 

So what do we learn from these new images? Well, for one that the engraver for the ILN was not a terribly good portraitist; many of the faces seem quite wrong, and (by way of example) Reid seems a good two stone lighter in his woodcut. But now that we can compare the original Daguerreotypes to the paper copies, we can see how much was lost in the translation. Nowhere is that more apparent than with the images of Francis Crozier, who seems almost a different man in his Daguerreian version; as my friend and fellow Franklin researcher Logan Zachary put it, 

"It's an extraordinarily different Crozier, despite being the exact same photograph.  His face has quite literally been "fleshed out" now, with details added back in that we didn't know we were missing.  His eyes and chin have much more definition, and somehow even his lips and nose look fuller in the new image.  He simply looks like a different man.  The worried, almost indecisive look from the old photograph melts away -- he looks like a Captain now, someone who gave orders."

Part of this, of course, is due to the careful gold-toning and tinting with which these new images were prepared, in addition to the going-over of all the buttons and hat-bands with a translucent golden ink. But the level of detail is simply magnitudes higher; Calotypes are paper prints from paper negatives, and are by their nature a tad "grainy"; Daguerreotypes are metal plates, sensitized and developed by vapors, and their thin skin of exactitude has a grain size not much larger that a molecule of silver halide, roughly 1-2 micrometers.

Image Courtesy Sotheby's

Seeing Crozier whole is thus a powerful experience on so many levels. Some, I know, might wish they'd skipped the golden ink, and its application to his slightly-scrunched hatband looks a tad silly -- but, combined with the flesh tones of the face, it seems to me to add considerably to the sense of "presence." Daguerreotypes, as a form, have that particular ghostly quality, one that the cultural historian Walter Benjamin called the "aura." And -- though there is nothing quite like holding a Dag in one's hand and tilting it until, in a feat of angular magic, lo, the apparition comes! -- it seems to me that these crisply digital copies have nearly that same aura. They will give me, and many others for whom this is such an essential story, food for thought for a long while yet.