Child’s dress, 1842-46

This little red cotton dress was worn by Ann Maria Jones, who was born in 1840 and died in 1846.

The handmade dress is simple, but not plain. The six buttons up the front are decorative (the dress fastens in the back with five plainer buttons), and piping was added at the neck, waist and arms. The skirt is full, and would have fitted over a petticoat and, most likely, a pair of bloomers. (Click here to see the overall effect, albeit with a fancier gown.)

In the mid 19^th century, both boys and girls under the age of 6 wore dresses like this one. Children’s clothing followed fashions just as adult wear did, but relatively simple dresses like this one were made for several decades. How, then, do we know that it was worn by a little girl in the 1840s? A previous owner took the time to write us a note – and not just any old note on paper, but a message written on the lining of the bodice: “Little Ann Maria’s dress. She was Grandma Jones’s oldest child. Died with typhoid and effects too much calomel. Age 6 years.”

The clues given here point us to Ann Maria Jones (1840-1846), daughter of David Trundle and Mary Ann Dawson Jones. Mary Ann (daughter of James Mackall and Ann Nancy Allnutt Dawson) grew up in “Mother’s Delight,” in the Boyds/Dawsonville area, and married David in January1840. Ann Maria was the oldest of their seven children; she, her mother, and three of her siblings are buried in Monocacy Cemetery, along with earlier family members who were moved from the graveyard at “Mother’s Delight.” Since the donor, Lawrence Elgin, is also descended from the Allnutt/Dawson family, Ann Maria Jones is almost certainly the original owner of this little dress.

Why was this dress saved? We don’t know. I know that typhoid (and other) patients were quarantined, but did you get rid of all their clothes and belongings while you were at it? (Or do I only think that because of The Velveteen Rabbit?) This dress seems a little small for a six year old; maybe it was an earlier gown, untainted by association with the disease. . . but in that case, why didn’t Ann Maria’s younger siblings wear it? Or maybe they did, but the lasting association was with Ann Maria. The message in the dress provides some good clues, but it doesn’t tell the whole story.

As for the mortal “effects of too much calomel” – calomel was a common remedy in the mid 19^th century, a heroic medicine used for many diseases (especially bowel illnesses like typhoid fever). Unfortunately, calomel contained mercury, and too much of it caused mercury poisoning; you might survive the illness but die of the treatment. Poor Ann Maria, not quite six years old, probably didn’t have much of a chance.

 

Platter, early-mid 19th century

This is a transferware platter, in an unknown pattern, that belonged to James MacKall Dawson (1775-1867) and his wife Annie Allnutt Dawson(1779-1854).  They lived in a home called “Mother’s Delight” in Dawsonville.  (James was the uncle of “our” John Dawson, who lived with his wife Amelia at the Beall-Dawson House, now our historic house museum.)  It was donated by Ellen Allnutt Elgin.

In 1781, English potter Josiah Spode introduced underglaze transfer printing to a public always hungry for new styles and fashions. Transfer printing, as opposed to hand painting each piece, was an economical way to create highly decorated ceramics. Designs were engraved onto copper plates, and a print was made onto treated tissue paper, which was then pressed onto the ceramic body. The piece was fired, sealing in the ink, and then glazed. By 1833, hundreds of different designs in this style were created by English potters, mainly in the Staffordshire area. Many designs featured Oriental scenes of pagodas and the like, but images reminiscent of Turkey, India, Italy and other ‘exotic’ locales were also popular (the Dawson platter shows a Mediterranean-looking house). This was part of the Romantic Movement (late 18^th through mid 19^th century), which emphasized emotion over thought and idealized the natural landscape. 

This platter is an example of how irritating it can be when there’s no maker’s mark.   Our volunteer curator for the glass and ceramics collection was unable to identify the pattern or maker (if anyone reading this blog has a thought, let me know).  One of these days I’ll check for inventories from “Mother’s Delight,” although the likelihood of the inventory taker conveniently noting “Transferware platter made by [X] in the pattern of [Y]” is pretty slim (darn those inventory takers!) – I’ll be lucky to find any kind of platter at all.  On the other hand, it’s a lovely piece (I’m personally quite fond of green transferware) and we have a great provenance for it, so who am I to complain about inexpensive potteries neglecting to mark their work?