Murder Aboard the Ohio Belle

Above: the Ohio Belle

Crowdsourcing is really the most exciting development in historical research in, oh, the last jillion years. Sometimes institutions set up crowdsourcing efforts, like the toothsome University of Iowa effort I mentioned last time. But sometimes things just crowdsource themselves. The family history movement is a wonderful source of transcribed documents. Just recently I happened upon some murderous doings aboard the side-wheeler steamship Ohio Belle, transcribed out of the Cairo (Illinois!) Weekly Times and Delta, by one valiant Darrel Dexter on Rootsweb. The Ohio Belle itself has an interesting history; it was a Confederate steamship seized by the Union after the Battle of Island Number 10 in the Civil War, as described in this first-hand account. (Note that that account is privately transcribed too!)
But without further ado, the murderous dealings aboard the Ohio Belle, and what happened afterward.  I reproduce the bolded names of the transcription, which help one follow the dastardly developments.  And one has to admire the spirited Miss Heron!

Wednesday, 19 Mar 1856:
Last Friday, Capt. Ed Stevens, clerk of the steamer Ohio Belle was shot through the heart by a man named Joseph B. Jones. All the facts we could gather are as follows: Jones got on the Belle at Smithland, Friday morning and when the boat was opposite Cache Island about six miles above Cairo, Jones went to the office to pay his fine. He handed Mr. Stevens a bill, which Stevens pronounced counterfeit and handed back to him. Jones, at this, became very indignant and commenced using the most violent and abusive language. Stevens took him by the arm, walked him to the door of the social hall and pushed him out, remarking as he did so that his language would not do in the cabin. Jones attempted to return to the cabin, but was met by Stevens, who shoved him back and told him that he should not go into the cabin again. Jones then drew a Colt’s revolver and placing it about against Stevens’ breast, fired. Stevens threw up his arms to knock the pistol off, but missed it. The ball entered between the fourth and fifth ribs passing through the left lung and in all probability through his heart. After the explosion of the pistol, Jones ran on the guard outside the cabin toward the stern and Stevens followed after him until he reached the middle entrance to the cabin, where he fell. An elderly gentleman who was witness to the murder pursued and overtook Jones before he reached the stern of the boat. He knocked him down and held him in durance until the officers of the boat and some of the passengers took possession of him. He had cocked another barrel of his pistol to shoot Stevens the second time. He said it was his intentions to get to the stern of the boat, jump overboard and drown himself. He was under the influence of liquor.
As soon as he was captured, one end of a strong rope was placed around his neck and preparations were rapidly making to string him up, at the juncture. Miss Heron, the actress, who was on board, appeared and made a strong appeal to them in behalf of the young man and insisted upon their turning him over to the laws of the country to be dealt with. His execution was abandoned and he was taken to the engine room, securely lashed to a stanchion and a guard placed over him. The greatest excitement prevailed and it was feared that the friends of Capt. Stevens would take summary vengeance. The boat left here about 5 o’clock with the intention of lodging Jones in jail at Hickman. Capt. Stevens was beloved by all who knew him. He leaves a wife and three children at Newport, Ky.
Jones is an intelligent-looking, handsome young man, apparently about 22 or 23 years of age, says he lives in Marshall County, Mississippi. We do not know how true the statement is. We feel somewhat inclined to doubt it, as he did not seem inclined to communicate anything respecting his name or family connections. We think from what he said, that he has connections in both Memphis and Nashville.

Wednesday, 2 April 1856:
The Columbus Citizen states as a report and the Hickman Argus as a fact, that the body of Jones, the murderer of Stephens [sic], was found floating in the river near Hickman, tied to a chair. The Argus states that on the authority of a wharf boatman, that one of the officers of the Belle, as she was leaving the landing, said that they need not be surprised if they found a dead man floating there about. The only presumption is that Jones was thrown overboard from the Belle, tied in such a manner as to prolong his sufferings and thus drowned. The killing of Stephens was manslaughter; that of Jones was cold-blooded, deliberate murder.

16 April 1856:
The name of the young man who killed Capt. Stevens on board the Ohio Belle was not Jones as he represented, but Cocke. Some years ago he killed a man in Mississippi named Anderson and has been a fugitive from justice ever since. The name of Jones was assumed. His parents live in the northern part of Mississippi, near Memphis and are of the greatest respectability. The father and sister of the young man came up as far as Hickman, looking for his remains, but returned after an unsuccessful search.
The grand jury of Ballard Co., Ky., have indicted Capt. Sebastian of the steamer Ohio Belle for the murder of Cocke.

Crowd-Sourcing Private Life, plus free recipe for Biskit Pudin (with Suckit!)

“I never travel without my diary.  One should always have something sensational to read on the train.”                            — Oscar Wilde

A handdrawn illustration from an Iowa cookbook. But what is that under the table — a platypus?

Even better than one’s own diaries are other people’s diaries.  So when I found out that the University of Iowa needs us all to spend a little time poking through other people’s diaries, I said Sign me up!  That is, I said it to myself, since you don’t actually have to say it to the University of Iowa.  You just go to the website and start poking through a bewildering line-up of fascinating documents.  And here’s the thing — it’s not nosiness, it’s scholarship.  Disguising nosiness as scholarship — my modus operandi!

It works like this: archives with piles of unedited material post the photos online, and civilians like you and me do the transcription.  To give it its official description, the transcription is crowd-sourced.  The page is open before you on the site, and you just type your transcription into a little box undernearth.  You do as little or as much as you want.  Someone will come along later and check your transcription — or you can spend some time checking someone else’s.

The University of Iowa library’s “DIY History” site is bulging at the seams with documents to be transcribed: diaries, letters, and cookbooks.  Or you can go for pictures and tag historical photos.

They have a whole collection of Civil War diaries waiting to be transcribed.  Among the other diaries is a set called the Iowa Byington Reed diaries.  Here the “Iowa” is misleading — the author of the diaries was named Iowa.  This leads me to think of all kinds of lame jokes, but thankfully I’ll move on to a description.  Iowa Byington was a housewife, teacher, and seamstress who married a farmer named Will Reed.  She left eight boxes of diaries — 2.25 linear feet — covering her courtship, wedding preparations, news, family, wars, celebrations, and everything in between, from 1879 to 1936.  She’s not a particularly elegant or effusive writer, but somehow her ordinariness speaks volumes.  As you can imagine, you could easily get resolve only to peek into a page or two and end up getting lost for an afternoon.

The cover of Iowa Byington Reed’s diary

The part I’ve been transcribing comes from 1920, when Iowa (the person, not the state) was 69.  She appears to be living with her daughter.  What was there to do in the long winter months?  No television, of course, and apparently no radio.  Visitors drop by, she goes on visits, and she spends much of her time making coverlets and writing letters to her sister Hattie.  She doesn’t seem to note Valentine’s Day.  But her late husband Will is never far from her mind.  She writes:

Thursday February 12 1920. Fourteen months today and same day of the week since we put Dear Will away. I looked over our papers and crocheted.

Friday February 13 1920. A cold day.  Read my papers in forenoon and worked on Venes spread in afternoon and evening.

Saturday February 14 1920. A very cold unpleasant day.  Lora went to Peoria. I crocheted some. Wrote Hattie and sent papers to Aunt Sarah. Vene and Edith busy with the work.

Sunday February 15 1920. Still cold. I read the papers some. Wrote … Lawrence. We had our dinner in the kitchen.  Lora went to church.

Monday February 16 1920. I was home all day.  I kept busy with my crochet work.  It was 19 years ago today since Will and I moved to Coralville, to make the house that he loved so well and now I have neither him or that house. 

Browsing around in her earlier life provided some flashier spots, but somehow I found the sameness of her later life quite moving.  Similarly moving was the Civil War diary I transcribed.  In the part I tackled, the man hadn’t yet left home; he was a bachelor doing farm chores, rising at dawn, to bed at nine o’clock.  He didn’t know that soon he would be off to war and that the hard round of farm chores would soon seem paradisical.

The handwritten cookbooks are equally fascinating.  From an American cookbook of 1850-1870: “Pickled oysters.  Take a hundred and fifty-five large oysters…”  A cookbook from the 1920s features Divinity Pie and Butterscotch Pie.

And here for your delectation is a recipe from the euphoniously named Penelope Pemberton, dating from 1716.  I’ve added punctuation, but this is otherwise a faithful transcription.  You can tell how Penelope pronounces her words by her phonetic spelling, e.g. “crame” for “cream.”  “Orring” must be an orange.    A “pudin” is of course a British pudding, i.e. a dessert, not the creamy American kind of pudding.  I wonder if biskits/biscuits refers to American-style baking-powder biscuits or British-style cookie-like objects? “Sack” is wine.  But — what is suckit?  Or have I transcribed it wrong?  Suggestions? (The original is down below, atop the rest of the transcription.)  The suckit doesn’t actually seem to figure in the recipe, so perhaps you have to bring your own suckit to the feast.

Biskit Pudin with Suckit.

Penelope Pemberton’s recipe for Biskit Pudin — with Suckit!

Take 1/2 pound of savi biskits, poiver [?] one gill [?], a quart of crame boyld, when coldd masht too gether. 

Beat 8 eggs, lave out 4 whits, mix with y^r biskits, sweeten it to y^r tast. y^r have rady cut in thin short slises 2 ounses of canded Lemmon, 2 of orring. Stir it with y^r outher things. If it be too thick, ad some spoonefolls of crame more too stir it up, when y^ll put it in y^r dish which must be butterd and past laydd a bout. Be quick with it into oven when it is stord up, 1/2 an ouer or 3 quarter will bake it.  Sarve it with sack, butter & suger.  If y^ll plase y^ll may make 1/2 pudin and put in 3 ounses of all Lemon or 3 ounses of all orringe or 3 ounses of sittron.

Those spare minutes and hours spent noodling around on the internet can now gratify your nosiness be both entertaining and helpful!  As you eat y^r Biskit Pudin, wander over to the University of Iowa “DIY History” project and have y^rself a look.

Drop-Dead Gorgeous

“Got Caught — Stealing Hearts”

There’s something startling about historical people who are drop-dead gorgeous.  Two of them make their appearance in this post, one already popular, one more obscure.

The current gorgeous bad boy is the preternaturally handsome Daniel Tohill, whose photo has been flying around the internet.  Tohill was a New Zealand petty criminal whose mug shot was taken in 1908, when he was charged with stealing a fur necklet and a bicycle.  He was acquitted of stealing the bicycle, and as one modern commenter noted, he would have looked quite fetching in the fur necklet.

The dapper, Errol Flynn-esque criminal Daniel Tohill (his name misspelled on the photo), New Zealand, 1908. From the New Zealand Police Museum.

His photo first appeared in an online exhibit, “Suspicious Looking,” on the website of the New Zealand Police Museum in Paremata, New Zealand.   “Suspicious Looking” features a whole array of fascinating mug shots from 1886 through 1908.  Daniel Tohill’s mug shot stands out for his ridiculously interesting good looks, so ridiculously interesting that he made it to Tumblr and from there was featured on the website of the Museum of Ridiculously Interesting Things. Since then Daniel’s been all over the internet, often accompanied by the notation “Got caught — stealing hearts,” and inspiring a bounty of besotted comments.

Chelsea Nichols, the curator of the Museum of Ridiculously Interesting Things and a PhD student at Oxford, did some research and discovered that Tohill already had a criminal record at the time of the ridiculously interesting mug shot, having stolen some items from a railway shed in 1907 and some ferrets — ! — in 1906.   Tohill was born in 1881 and so was twenty-seven years old when the 1908 mug shot was taken.  Nichols discovered that he was the third of eighteen children, and that he married one Frances O’Kane in Otago in 1903.  For the theft of the necklet he served four months’ hard labor. A little more sleuthing on my part reveals that he was a private in the seventh division of the Otago Infantry Battalion in the first World War. He died in Auckland in 1950 at the age of 68.  So far no other photos have turned up.

The second man has not yet flown around the internet, but he is no less ridiculously gorgeous.  As you can see, here we have a photo of two Plains Cree men from the Round Lake Reserve in Saskatchewan.

Two Plains Cree men from Saskatchewan. c. 1900? From the collection of the Museum of the American Indian.

You can tell from the clothes and leggings that these men were used to a chilly clime.  The man on the left is holding a rather interesting feather dance bustle.  The man on the right — whoa Nelly!  What is a male model doing in this picture?  Of course he’s not a male model; he’s a Cree man with lovely long hair and a fascinating headdress.  And he happens to look like a movie star.  The cheekbones.  The jaw.  The set of his mouth.  Good golly.  Doesn’t he just jump out of the picture and make you wonder about him?  What was his name?  What is he thinking?  Is he free for dinner?

What is it about gorgeousness that makes us so fascinated?  As I recall, Aristotle replied, “That is a blind man’s question.”  It’s a paradox that gorgeous looks make historical people seem strangely modern, almost timeless.

I have a photo of a gorgeous frontier woman too, in front of a tumbledown shack in the middle of the wilderness.  Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, for a different set of gorgeous historical men, see My Daguerreotype Boyfriend.

Boy-Life Among the Cherokees

In 1888 the Reverend F. R. Goulding published Sal-O-Quah; or, Boy-Life Among the

A most extraordinary book

Cherokees.  Some parts of this extraordinary book suggest that the author is drawing from memories of his own boyhood.  Others are most remarkable for the propaganda which no doubt seemed plausible to the author at the time; but they certainly stick in the craw now.  I cannot resist citing this section from the first chapter, in which the boy narrator goes with his father to visit a local inhabitant of Cherokee Territory.  Ah, the advanced civilization that brings picturesque climbing vines to those in need!  A climbing vine and some white clay absolutely purify things, don’t they?  And purity (which equals non-Indian ways) equals happiness.  What a telling symbol: making things white on the outside.   I can’t speak for other aspects of the passage, but this is certainly an authentic record of how the nineteenth-century missionaries to the Cherokees viewed themselves, as well as how the prosperous viewed their affluence — as a virtuous object lesson for the benighted.  With picturesque vines!

            Without further ado:

 The house was white, as if covered with a coat of lime; and there was a piazza-like shed in front, supported by posts set in the ground.  The floor of this piazza was of earth, a little raised above the surrounding level; and the eye was delighted with the sight of a luxuriant vine gracefully climbing around each post.

            “That my house,” said Kaneeka, pointing to it, with pride.

            “A very different house from the one in which I first saw you,” said my father.

            “Had not been in white man’s country then,” returned Kaneeka, quickly; “had not learned white man’s ways.”

            “Is your pretty house white-washed with lime?” cousin Aleck asked.

            “No, only white clay,” Kaneeka answered.

            “It certainly is very pure and very pretty,” said my aunt, with delight.

            As we drew nearer, we saw Saloquah’s pony hitched near the gate, for the house was surrounded with a little stockade fence, giving to it, and to all around it, a very picturesque appearance; to add to which we saw Yellow-Bird (or Chescoo-teleneh,) Kaneeka’s wife, standing in the doorway, holding little Sallicoo by the hand, while a boy, seemingly eight or ten years of age, dressed in fringed deerskin, was running as fast as his nimble legs could carry him to meet his father.

            “We are glad to find in these wild woods such a happy-looking home,” said my aunt. “I was hardly prepared for it.”

            “Few homes in my own dear Scotland seem to be happier than this,” said cousin Aleck.

            Kaneeka’s eye kindled.

            “Not everybody so in Injin country,” said he.  “I not so either till he come,” he added, pointing to my father, who, with a blush of pleasure, hastily inquired:

            “And pray what did I do to help your cause so much?”

            “You show me white man ways,” said Kaneeka, with enthusiasn, and growing eloquent as one thought suggested another.  “You read me white man Bible.  You tell me white man Saviour.  You teach me and my wife love God, love pray, love good, love everybody.  Then our corn begin to grow, our hog begin to get fat, our cow give plenty milk.  We get happy, and we get rich.”

The sorrow of a life without ornamental vines

            My father looked down for a moment, then, seemingly impressed with Kaneeka’s assemblage of facts, he turned to cousin Aleck, and asked:

            “Do you recollect the thought you read to me the other day about the ancient patriarchs? that in those days, when men had little faith in a future life, God gave great prosperity to Abraham, Job, and other of His distinguished servants, in order probably to convince men by sensible signs that godliness is gain.”

            “Yes,” replied cousin Aleck; “and I recollect you added to it the thought, that it was probably for a similar purpose toward the present heathen, that God causes Christian countries to be so far in advance of pagans and anti-Christians in all that pertains to worldly well-being.”

It leaves one speechless, doesn’t it? Except for that one give-away word, “probably.”

Excuse me while I go plant some climbing vines.

A State of Perfection Never Before Attained

The advertisements in newspapers of the 1820s rival modern ads for extravagance of claims. You’d think everything was impeccable, especially in schooling — unless you’ve taken the precaution of reading Dickens.  The brutal and squalid Dotheboy’s Hall in Nicholas Nickleby comes to mind. The first one of these ads below sounds sincere and upright, but it is outdone by the sincerity and comprehensiveness of the second.  Everything for the education of the young Gentleman!  But one wonders why young Gentlemen would need to know merchant accounting … perhaps the students are not quite so high in station as the proprietor would like to imply.  And as for morals,  the final claim of the second ad makes one think.  Am I wrong, or does that imply — ?

Without further ado, here are two ads for schools from the London Times of 1827, and one additonal bonus ad:

EDUCATION. — At Mr. CLARKSON’S ACADEMY, Bowes-hall, near Greata-bridge, Yorkshire, BOYS are liberally BOARDED, furnished with books, &c., and carefully instructed in every branch of education necessary to qualify them for any situation in life, at 20 guineas a year; the French language is taught by a native of France at half-a-guinea per quarter extra.  Mr. Clarkson pledges himself that every indulgence is afforded his pupils, consistent with health, morality, and religion; and that his friends and the public in general may be thoroughly convinced of the truth of what he asserts, it is his particular wish that parents and guardians travelling into the north should, if convenient, call at Bowes, and inspect the above establishment.  For cards, and references to parents of youth who have been educated at this Academy, apply to Mr. Smith, the agent, 26, Lombard-street.  Mr. Clarkson is in town, and may be consulted daily, between the hours of 11 and 1, at the Carolina Coffee-house, Birchin-lane, Cornhill.

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 ADVANTAGEOUS PLAN OF EDUCATION. — At an established BOARDING-SCHOOL, pleasantly and beautifully situate, 14 miles from London, a limited number of young Gentlemen are BOARDED, and EDUCATED in the Greek, Latin, French, and English languages, reading, writing, arithmetic, elocution, history, astronomy, geography, use of the globes, mathematics, merchants’ accounts, &c. with a monthly lecture in philosophy, chemistry, mechanics, mineralogy, etc. with the use of an extensive apparatus: terms, including all the above branches of education, books, stationery, washing, &c. 50 guineas per annum, and no extra charge whatsoever: no entrance required: gentlemen above 14 years of age are charged 60 guineas, and no extras. It is presumed the plan of education is calculated to promote with unusual facility the improvement of the pupils, while their morals and domestic cleanliness and comfort receive the greatest attention: the pupils occupy separate beds. Cards may be had of S. E. Sketchley, Esq., Kensington, Mr. Smith, optician, Royal Exchange; and of Mr. Bagster, bookseller, 31, Strand.  Several London coaches pass daily.

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 Other enterprises are not to be outdone by the claims of schools!  Here is the most extravagant advertisement in the same paper — soda water!  In a state of perfection never before attained!  —

SODA-WATER, in a state of perfection never before attained, prepared with patent Glass Machinery to prevent any unwholesome metallic impregnation to which all other Soda-Water is liable, being made with brass and copper pumps, tubes, and vessels.  As this is a matter of some importance to the drinkers of soda water, they are respectfully infomred that this superior Water is manufactured and sold by R. JOHNSTON, chymist, No. 15, Greek-street, Soho, in oval glass or common stone-bottles, at the same price as the common Soda Water is sold.  The great celebrity of this Patent Water, has induced the common Soda Water-makers to imitate the patent oval bottles; the intention is obvious; and to guard against the imposition, consumers will please to observe the genuine has the following inscription in the glass: ‘Hamilton’s Patent, sold by R. Johnston’ as above.  These waters are exported safer, in better condition, and cheaper than any other.  For the convenience of merchants and shippers, orders are received at 60, Cornhill.

Two Tiny Mysteries from the Newspaper

Browsing the small ads of the London Times is always amusing, as much in 1827 as now.  In the first of these, you can almost smell the emotional blackmail.  I wonder if poor T.F. went back — I suspect not.  The ad for Fanny Saunders is of a surprisingly common type.  Apparently they were uninclined to say “You have come into an inheritance”; instead they give mysterious hintings.  The phrase “If Fanny Saunders … should be living” reminds us of how difficult it was, without centralized record-keeping or Google, to know even basic information such as whether someone was dead or alive.

Two small ads from the Times (London), 1827:

 T. F. will have to charge himself with having broken his mother’s heart, unless he returns home immediately; but if he will COME BACK, his fault will not only be pardoned, but the utmost kindness will be shown to him, and every means employed to conduce to his comfort.

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If FANNY  SAUNDERS, of Greenwich, whose maiden name was Abbott, and a native of Northamptonshire, should be living, she may HEAR of SOMETHING to her ADVANTAGE, by addressing a letter, post paid, to Mr. R. H. Taylor, 16, Bull-ring, Birmingham.

How Long Did the Battle of the Little Bighorn Last? “As Long as It Takes for a Hungry Man to Eat his Dinner”

In the aftermath of the Battle of the Little Bighorn, people wanted to know how long it took for the Sioux, Cheyenne and Arahapo forces to annihilate Custer and the men of the 7th Cavalry.  Interviewed about this later, Two Moons, a chief of the Cheyenne, said that it took “as long as it takes for a hungry man to eat his dinner.”

This a phrase worth mulling over for its expressive value alone.  I can well imagine that after everything that had preceeded the battle, the Indians consumed the forces of the 7th Cavalry as ferociously as a hungry man eats his dinner.

 But the phrase is also distinctive as a sort of direct human-based measurement.  The people who decide these things have an ongoing debate: should measurements be based on “scientific” units — objective measurements arising from the physical universe as  interpreted by scientific instruments?  Or should they be based more on tradition and the human world?  As an example of the latter you have the foot.  As an example of the former you have the metre, which is offically defined as “the length of the path travelled by light in vacuum during a time interval of ¹⁄_299,792,458 of a second.”

 Obviously the poets will vote for the human world.  The scientists will point out that they’re the ones who have to work with measurements all day long and please could they have them in decimal, at the very least? And you can’t really write, “The instrument detected that the neutrino passed through the item in question in ¹⁄_299,792,458 of the hungry/man/dinner interval.”

In an interesting advance on modern philosophy that actually makes sense to civilians, the philosopher/linguists George Lakoff and Mark Johnson have been weighing in on our tradition of defining things by human experience.  In Metaphors We Live By and Philosophy in the Flesh, they point out the extent to which the human body underlies our orientation to everything.  This is not just in units of measurement like feet, cubits (the length of your forearm), inches and ounces (both your thumb), and ells (your arm — with a bow in the middle).  It’s also in the fact that we talk of things facing outwards, as if their fronts were faces like ours.  Or how when we talk about time, we say that “January comes ahead of April,” as if time is walking along like a person, with its head primary.

 In my muddy unscientific way, I love descriptions I can visualize without doing mental calculations.  Clearly the world needs precision.  I don’t want my car designed by someone who just eyeballed the engineering or my medicine calculated by a pharmacist who measures with his thumb. Nevertheless I think we should also celebrate the powers of experience-based measurement.  I know how long it takes a hungry man to eat his dinner.  But I don’t have a gut feeling for the duration of 9,192,631,770 periods of the radiation corresponding to the transition between the two hyperfine levels of the ground state of the caesium 133 atom. (In other words, a second.) And when I read that the regulation size of an Olympic handball field is 40 metres, I don’t really know how long that is.  Heck, I’m not even sure I can eyeball 40 yards.  Before people measured everything out, they would have said that from here to there is about a stone’s throw.  And I do know how far a stone’s throw is.

 (The fact that “a stone’s throw” was a common medieval description of distance gave rise to a catch-riddle found in many folktales.  The lowly suitor eager to win the hand of the princess agrees to answer three questions asked by the conniving king.  One of the tricky questions is “How deep is the sea?”   The clever suitor’s answer is, of course, “A stone’s throw.”)

So the precise, scientifc units are good for measuring, but the old human-based measurements are better for describing.  They’re also direct — you use what you have on hand to do the measuring and the describing.

Back before the caesium 133 atom had been quantified, those Lakota, Cheyenne, and Arapaho warriors were still able to measure the passage of time — they used the movement of the sun around the poles of their tipis.  The poles were equal distances apart, and the movement of the sun divided the day into equivalent units, marked by the poles.  It was like living in a giant sundial. 

 This thought about depending directly on the sun leads me finally to a passage from Dorothy Canfield Fisher’s Understood Betsy (1916), a book aware of the movement from one kind of measurement to the other:

              “Sun-dial,” repeated Betsy. “What’s that?”

            “Why, to tell the time by, when —”

            “Why didn’t they have a clock?” asked the child.

            Aunt Abigail laughed.  “Good gracious, there was only one clock in the valley for years and years, and that belonged to the Wardons, the rich family in the village.  Most people had sundials cut in their window sills.  There’s one on the window sill of our pantry this minute.  Come on, I’ll show it to you…. There!” said Aunt Abigail, opening the window.  That’s not so good as the one at school.  This only tells when noon is.”

            Elizabeth Ann stared stupidly at the deep scratch on the window sill.

            “Don’t you see?” said Aunt Abigail.  “When the shadow got to that mark it was noon.  And the rest of the time you guessed by how far it was from the mark.  Let’s see if I can come anywhere near it now.”  She looked at it hard and said: “I guess it’s half-past four.”  She glanced back into the kitchen at the clock and said: “Oh, pshaw!  It’s ten minutes past five!  Now my grandmother could have told that within five minutes, just by the place of the shadow.  I declare!  Sometimes it seems to me that every time a new piece of machinery comes into the door some of our wits fly out at the window!”