Temperance song written by Brother J. E. Snodgrass, M. D., tavern owner. Broadside, July 4, 1845, MdHS.

The American Temperance Society, organized in 1828, counted ten thousand groups within four years and reported upwards of 500,000 members. The Baltimore Temperance Society – the first in Maryland – organized in late 1829, and by the eve of the Civil War dozens of groups and thousands of people supported the promise of a sober republic, most visibly in Fourth of July activities such as parades and picnics.

Songs, stories, and poems in male-centered temperance literature salute the brotherly camaraderie, sobriety, and cold water—and uniformly condemn intemperance. Longtime temperance gadfly, Joseph Snodgrass* wrote a song for the Sons of Temperance “to be sung at their great jubilee in Baltimore, July 4, 1845.” This stanza from the Pledge Glee illustrates the austere character of the songs:

Temperance men, particularly the Sons, expressed a vibrantly patriotic identity, rich in the symbolism and rhetoric of American independence, one that they felt logically included freedom from alcohol. Many had rejected the habits and examples of the hard drinking Revolutionary generation, who sought companionship and exchanged radical ideas in taverns. Many in this younger generation declared independence from the tyranny of “King Alcohol” and from a masculine identity linked with drinking “ardent spirits” and wanted to create a patriotic identity of their own.

Are you ready to take the Pledge for genuine sobriety? Detail of Brother J.E. Snodgrass’s Temperance song.

Sons of Temperance officers and members, adorned themselves with patriotic regalia, “for a subordinate division, a white linen collar, with a rosette of red, white, and blue, with two white tassels suspended from the rosette.” Patriotism in antebellum America served as a civic religion for those who idealized the Founding Fathers and the still-new United States. “Residents of the young republic consecrated the state’s origin and made a fetish of the union that resulted.” This era saw the rise of the country’s state historical societies, a plethora of romantic paintings of the heroes, battles, and monuments of the Revolution, and a distinct American identity. Yet the meaning of patriotism varied between political and religious groups, all of whom incorporated their agendas and positions into grand public displays, particularly on the Fourth of July.

Liberation from the liquid tyrant made good copy in print and oratory, “Our fathers on that day threw off the shackles of British tyranny—their sons should scorn to permit themselves to be bound by the servile chains of intemperance.” Red, white, and blue regalia adorned proud breasts at public gatherings such as Fourth of July celebrations. On July 8, 1843, one older commentator noted that the “singularly striking” difference in recent Fourth of July celebrations and those of a “few years past [is] drinking.” In those bygone years, only those hearty enough to endure the “fatigue of a march and the danger of a carouse” participated in the honors paid to the day. “Now,” he noted, “children by the thousands, male and female, take the lead and learn . . . the lessons of sobriety and patriotism.” Yet in the not-so-distant-past, he recalled, only men who drank were considered patriotic. And this reflectively smug observer took care to mention the men who might drink throughout the year yet “take care not to disgrace the 4th.” In these few short sentences, the writer clearly articulated a changing expression of masculinity and pointedly mocked those who claimed genuine sobriety. Regardless of critics such as this one, the Fourth of July remained a popular public holiday for members of Maryland’s temperance societies.

King Alcohol and his Prime Minister by John Warner Barber, engraver. Date unknown, Library of Congress.

In Baltimore, Members of the Asbury Total Abstinence Society, the Old Wesley Temperance Sabbath School Society, and other “Temperance societies of Color” met at Mechanic’s Hall in Old Town and proceeded to Moschach’s Woods on the Bel Air Road, about three miles from the city. They spent the day singing with a choir, made up of singers from “different colored churches,” they prayed under the leadership of their president, Reverend Thomas Watkins, listened to addresses on the merits of total abstinence, and enjoyed a “delightful” dinner. There is no mention of patriotic rhetoric or pageantry as Baltimore’s free black community did not acknowledge white America’s liberty, choosing instead to commemorate Haitian independence on January 1st. This Fourth of July picnic spoke clearly of the group’s declaration of independence from alcohol.

In 1849, Sons across Maryland celebrated Independence Day. In addition to the Baltimore divisions gathering at Ryder’s Grove, where members sang a temperance song to the tune of “Oh Susannah!,” Sons gathered in Westminster, Carroll County, and processed to the Union Church where they opened the day’s festivities with a prayer, read the Declaration of Independence, and sang the “Ode to the Order.” Elkton Sons attracted 3,000 people to their parade, including members of the Northeast, Principio, and Susquehanna divisions. They too began the day with a prayer and a reading of the great document.

And 1862, the second summer of the Civil War, went by in much the same way as the previous year. Federal troops stationed in and around the city maintained control of a relatively quiet population, yet Baltimoreans celebrated the Fourth of July much as they had in the past, with picnics, excursions to the Eastern Shore, speeches, and fireworks. Thousands gathered at the Washington Monument, an “orderly” crowd, for a speech and a blessing. The largest number of people picnicked at “the great resort of the day,” Druid Hill Park, and “enjoyed plenty of pure water from its numerous springs.” Another group of families, “principally Germans,” had a picnic near Bel Air Road where “some were intoxicated, but with no disturbing results.” The reporter of this story linked drunkenness with ethnicity as had temperance reformers, and the majority of native-born citizens, from the earliest days of the reform’s activity. Those native-born picnickers, at Druid Hill Park this Fourth of July, drank only water, of course. (Dr. Patricia Dockman Anderson)

*In an ironic twist, Snodgrass owned and operated a tavern for about ten years. He inherited the business from his father but refused to continue to sell alcohol at the establishment. The business inevitably suffered, and he eventually sold the tavern. (http://www.eapoe.org/people/snodgrje.htm)

Dr. Patricia Dockman Anderson specializes in U.S and Maryland History, Nineteenth Century; Social and Cultural History; Catholic History; and Civil War Civilians. She has served as a member of the History Advisory Council for the Women’s Industrial Exchange, the Baltimore History Writers Group, and the Maryland War of 1812 Bicentennial Commission. Dr. Anderson is the Director of Publications and Library Services for the Maryland Historical Society, editor of the Maryland Historical Magazine, and a professor at Towson University.

“The White Masks Inspecting a Prisoner at Detective Headquarters,” Hughes Company Photograph Collection, unknown photographer (possibly James W. Scott), ca.1909, MdHS, PP8-585 / Z9.584.PP8.

Last week we reached out for help understanding a photograph, and wow, did we get it. Our photo from the Hughes Company collection traveled far and wide. The image, known then as “Detective room, Police Department,” was not only a headscratcher, but also a Rorschach Test of sorts. Different eyes saw different things happening. Speculations, observations, and facts, sent via e-mail and comments, ranged from thinking it was initiation ritual to a theatrical production still. The majority who weighed in felt that what’s depictied is a police line-up. Within less than two day’s time enough evidence mounted to reasonably argue that it is a police line-up.  Whether or not it was staged or the real thing is one of the few questions left unanswered.

We now know to call this photo “‘The White Masks’ Inspecting a Prisoner at Detectives Headquarters.” The first info to arrive came from Bill Zorzi, a former Baltimore Sun editor and writer/producer/actor of The Wire. In an early afternoon e-mail to this writer he wrote:

“At first I thought it looked as if it might be a courtroom—which they used to have in the old police station houses—given the paneling and the brass bar. Then I counted the masked men, which totaled 15—too big for a jury (even with alternates) and too small for a grand jury. Then I thought, hmmm, I bet this is the forerunner of the ol’ police lineup… before 2-way mirrors…”

Zorzi followed his e-mail with another containing ten articles from The Sun. But before his second transmission arrived, commenter Bill Lefurgy, archivist/digital preservationist at the Library of Congress, quoted a Sun entry titled “Sleuths Have Mask System: First Prisoner Subject to Ordeal Turns Pale,” from July 29, 1908:

“…the Baltimore Detective Department initiated a ‘mask system’ that ‘enables detectives to examine crooks without being recognized.’ The description is of masks ‘of the ordinary white dominoes with white muslin covering the lower part of the face,’ worn by 20 detectives; the detective captain is described as unmasked….”

The article details how a young pickpocket, Hymen Movitz (18 years old) faced 20 masked detectives, turned pale, and clutched at the brass rail in our photo. Now we know when the practice was first implemented in Baltimore. Our photograph was taken after July 1908.

Several articles in the historic Baltimore Sun (accessible for free via ProQuest if you have a Pratt Library account) detail the story behind our photo. The paper has since posted some images of these articles on their DarkRoom blog. Sherlock Swann, whose collected papers are available at the MdHS Special Collections Department, was appointed president of the Police Board in 1908. Well known and highly regarded for his tenure as the Burnt District Commissioner after the Great Baltimore Fire of 1904, Swann is apparently the first head of police to actually put serious effort into the job.

“Operations and Photographing Department—Bertillon Bureau,” History of the Baltimore Police Department, 1774-1909 by Clinton McCabe, Pratt Library, Md. XHV8148.B21M2.

In March 1908, Swann traveled to New York City to school himself on the operations of a big city police department. One of the many practices he brought back with him was a ritual known as the “facing of the masks.” This practice was developed by Inspector Byrnes of New York in the mid-1880s. It was presumably a preventative measure. Masks were employed on the speculation that some career-minded criminals might have themselves arrested simply to learn the faces of detectives, thus adding to their skills and value.

In what seems a rather intimidating practice, police would parade detainees about to be released due to lack of evidence before detectives wearing the white masks seen above. It was all part of the daily morning routine. In New York the practice was done on a much larger scale involving up to 100 detectives. Officially, the line-up was held so that detectives could learn the features and mannerisms of individuals who would surely be passing through their doors again and again. However, one can’t help but speculate this was as much as a shaming/intimidating ritual as a useful law enforcement practice, especially considering that a photography department existed even at Baltimore’s small Bertillon Bureau. Each arrestee had already had his picture taken for the “Rogue’s Gallery.”

By 1911, the NYPD had abandoned the masked line-up for being time consuming and wasteful of the detectives’ time.* These factors didn’t stop the Baltimore police from using it for many years.

History of the Baltimore Police Department, 1774-1909 by Clinton McCabe, Pratt Library, Md. XHV8148.B21M2 (below), an earlier edition held at MdHS (above).

The most definitive piece of evidence we received was sent in by Jeff Korman of the Maryland Department at the Enoch Pratt Library. He identified the photo from a book in the Pratt’s collection, History of the Baltimore Police Department, 1774-1909 by Clinton McCabe. The photo, Korman said, appeared on page xvii. This came as quite a surprise to me, as the MdHS library has an earlier edition of the book without the photo. (HBPD 1774-1907)

The following day I went to the Pratt and met with Korman. He showed me the five different editions from their holdings, earlier ones like ours without the photo and later editions with the detectives faces obscured by a gilt stamp to protect their identities. We are now able to identify two of the three unmasked men. The moustached man on the far left is Detective Joseph E. Coughlan. Two spaces down and slightly turned to his left is Sergeant, Detective Harry P. Schanberger. They’re probably not wearing masks because they were the brass of the department and did not have to do undercover work.

Whoops, redaction! History of the Baltimore Police Department, 1774-1909 by Clinton McCabe, Pratt Library, Md. XHV8148.B21M2 (below), an earlier edition held at MdHS (above).

All the information above dates our picture between 1908-09. It’s the only photo of its kind in our Hughes Collection. We may never know the identity of the African-American man on the riser. We may never know if he was arrested or if this was a staged demonstration for a photographer. But we have heard from enough voices who agree that this image is at once disturbing, perplexing, and stunning. It speaks volumes about our recent past.

MdHS would like to thank everyone who shared the photo, sent comments, clues, and criticisms, and enjoyed helping. (Joe Tropea)

*A New York Times piece from Feb. 9, 1914, “Police Line-up Is Resumed Today” details the discontinuation of the practice before it was reinstated in a modified form—less detectives—some three years later.

Sources and further reading:

The Baltimore Sun

“Colonel Swann ‘At School,’” Mar. 14, 1908: 14; “Col. Swann Returns,” Mar. 16, 1908: 7; “Must ‘Face the Masks,’” May 6, 1908: 12; “Sleuths Have Mask System,” July 29, 1908: 12; “Police Use Spotlight,” July 31, 1908: 12; “His Record on Police Board,” Apr. 21, 1910: 14; “Line-up of Crooks Stopped,” Aug. 13, 1911: 2; “Alleged Thief Silent,” Dec. 7, 1913: 7.

McCabe, Clinton, History of the Baltimore Police Department, 1774-1909 available at MdHS and the Enoch Pratt libraries.

On March 9, 1963, Sgt. Richard T. Davis and his Baltimore County Police force exited Jervis Marshall’s barn having made two arrests, written 67 summonses, and seized 11 dead chickens. The chickens or more appropriately, gamecocks, were the unfortunate victims of the Chinkapin Game Club (CGC), an illegal gambling ring operating in various barns around Baltimore County. When the police raided the barn at 11 p.m., there were an estimated 130 people present, some of who slipped out of back doors or squeezed through broken windows to avoid getting pinched. The other 65 who did not get away had their names printed in the pages of The County News Week, a Towson-based weekly that then served Baltimore County.

The scene of the crime: Interior and exterior of Jervis Marshall’s Barn. Note the nine gamecock carcasses in front of the barn. Photo #4 and Barn, Subject Vertical File, unidentified photographer, MdHS, SVF (Sports – Cockfighting – Chinkapin Game Club).

While today cockfighting is not thought of as an issue in Maryland, the sport is in fact a prevalent part of the state’s darker history. Cockfighting in Maryland dates back to its colonial youth, as the sport travelled along with European migration. The sport seemed to diminish in popularity during the 19^th century due to its gruesome content. However, a Baltimore Sun article published in 1937 highlights that cockfighting was still flourishing in Maryland’s farmlands. John Arnold wrote that the fights were, “part of an elaborate well-organized sport… with small arenas holding as many as 500 spectators.” He also noted that authorities were well aware of the rings, but imposed little to no resistance against the organizations. Arnold noted this oversite was most likely due to the sport’s popularity amongst Baltimore County’s elite.

Like horseracing, cockfights were planned in advance, leaving time to make schedules like these. Cockfighting schedules, Chinkapin Game Club, 1962-63. MdHS, Sports Ephemera Collection (V1, folder 2).

Cockfighting rings operate much like horseracing. People of means purchase a bird or several birds and pay a handler or “feeder” to mold them into gamecocks. Roosters of particular breeds are selected by handlers based on strength, agility, and aggression (the Baltimore Top-knot was bred specifically for cockfights). These men then trained the birds in a fashion similar to boxers via sparing matches, exercise, and diet. Once a feeder determines a cock ready to fight, usually around 2 years old, they will enter the bird into a wagered fight. Gamecocks are generally retired by the age of 4 (the average lifespan is 15-20 years), but this is of course if they are lucky enough to win all of their battles as any loss means immediate death.

In the weeks before a fight, the feeder will pluck body feathers, trim tail and wing feathers, and clip the wattle (the flappy red jowls) as a means of increasing its chances of victory by decreasing areas the other bird can attack. The feeder’s final fight prep is the addition of the spur. Roosters have natural bone spurs on the backs of their legs and to make these weapons more lethal, feeders file the spurs down and attach metal ones. Again like horseracing, money can be wagered by spectators on the outcome of each match. In ’63, the CGC had enough local popularity that it handed out schedule cards and even scheduled memorial fights for one Harry Keller (unknown).

Photo of a Baltimore County cockfighting pit from a police raid. Subject Vertical File, unknown photographer, March 9, 1963, MdHS, SVF (Sports – Cockfighting – Chinkapin Game Club).

For his involvement in the CGC, the court fined Jervis Marshall $150 (about $1000 today) for “maintaining a disorderly house and animal cruelty.” Marshall’s accomplice Joseph Woolford received a similar fine of $100 for animal cruelty. Of the other 67 men summoned, none appeared in court. All simply paying the fine of $11. Current Maryland state law deems cockfighting a felony and punishable by three years in prison and a max fine of $5,000. Possession of a gamecock is a similar offense, while spectators are charged with a misdemeanor. (Ben Koshland)

A photo taken during a police raid. Interior of barn showing holding coops. Subject Vertical File, unknown photographer, March 9, 1963, MdHS, SVF (Sports – Cockfighting – Chinkapin Game Club).

The good news is that CGC was stopped before its next “derby.” Subject Vertical File, unknown photographer, March 9, 1963, MdHS, SVF (Sports – Cockfighting – Chinkapin Game Club).

Notes:

Arnold, John. “Cockfighting In Baltimore County: In the Darkened Barns Of The Gentry The Mains Still Continue,” The Baltimore Sun, May 30, 1937.

Crews, Ed. “Once Popular and Socially Acceptable: Cockfighting,” Colonial Williamsburg Journal, Autumn 2008.

“Cockfighting Charge Laid To Two Men: Police Surprise 130 In Raid On Heated County Barn,” The Baltimore Sun, March 11, 1963.

“Feathers Fly as 69 are Arrested in Police Raid of Cockfight Here,” The County News Week, March 14, 1963: p.1.

“2 Are Fined In Cockfight: 67 Others Forfeit $778 In Collateral In County,” The Baltimore Sun, Mar 23, 1963: p.32.