Round and Round the Mulberry Bush

The Seavey, Foster & Bowman
Eureka Silk Mill circa 1878.

A blog on the Internet extolls the virtues of hidden fishing spots around Massachusetts. One entry in particular cites the Silk Mill Pond as a covert spot in Canton that might be of interest to anglers. The source writes of the secluded pond, “It gets pretty deep in the middle so if you want to use a deep running crank bait or let a swim bait sink a little deeper, you should be able to pull out a few. Most of my success has come from working the lily pads against the eastern shore along Old Shepard St.  The weeds are pretty thick tho so you'll have a tough time getting ur bait down to the fish.  Instead, fishing the edges of the lily pads will allow you to get the bait to their level and within their range.”

It would seem that bass masters are seeking out the same spot that Virgil and Vernon Messinger sought out, but for very different reasons. The Messinger Brothers built an empire along Silk Mill Pond. Take a drive down Old Shepard Street to see the pond - the mills have long since disappeared. For almost a century the Silk Mill complex was a driving force in our industrial history.

Textile manufacturing in Canton began with James Beaumont’s mill on Walpole Street, built in 1801. It was Beaumont’s belief that he produced the first piece of cotton cloth in America. The claim, however, was not quite true, as it seems cotton cloth was being produced in a small factory in New York as early as 1794. Yet, Beaumont’s empire was likely the first large-scale production of the cloth and made a fortune for the enterprising youth.

So, it is no surprise that when you look at Canton’s industrial history you will observe amazing progress in both manufacturing and invention of machines that support the cotton, wool, netting and silk industries.  Imagine Canton in the early 1800’s –Paul Revere is making copper, Leonard and Kinsley are manufacturing iron, the very parts of the machines needed to support textile mills. And, while Canton did not have quite the waterpower of other more famous manufactories, it certainly had enough to support the invention needed for amazing growth.

One of the oldest glass ambrotypes
taken in Canton is this circa.
1863 view of the first Silk Mill.

A map of 1831 lists the industries within the town’s boundaries, “2 furnaces for casting canons, bells, and etc., 2 rolling mills & 1 turning mill, 1 large wool factory, capable of manufacturing 600,000 yards per year, 3 cotton factories, 1 thread factory, one satinett factory, 1 wick yarn factory, 1 cutlery factory, 1 candlestick factory & one for farmer’s utensils; 2 steel furnaces, 4 forges, 3 grist mills, 1 saw mill, and 4 machine shops.” The size of the town, coupled with access to the railroad and proximity to Boston allowed Canton to become the hub of innovation in the early 19^th century.

When you consider all that is needed to support a successful venture, both today and two hundred years ago, it would seem that we were at the forefront of so many things. To our credit we boasted strong public schools, great thinkers and doers, and inspiration everywhere. It is against this backdrop that in April 1836 the Commonwealth of Massachusetts offered a bounty for the purpose of encouraging the manufacture of silk.

The period between 1825-1844 found so many individuals seeking discovery. In Congress, committee after committee was raised to support the silk industry in America. Locally, Governor Levi Lincoln’s focus was on economic development and was intimately aware of how to promote the textile industry as he himself was connected to the cotton enterprises in Worcester at the time. It was Governor Lincoln who helped fuel the silk industry by offering a bounty of “ten cents a pound for cocoons and a dollar a pound for raw silk.” The first year that the bounty was offered, merely $85 was paid out, signaling warning signs for the silk industry in Massachusetts.

Not heeding the fact that both the trees and the caterpillars could not thrive here, a great business emerged selling mulberry trees.  Subsequently, an enormous frenzy called “Morus Multicaulis Mania” swept New England. “Grave doctors of medicine and doctors of divinity, men learned in the law, agriculturalists, mechanics, and merchants, and women as well as men, seemed to be infected with a strange frenzy in regard to this mulberry tree.”

Jonathan Cobb was born in Sharon, and was raised in his father’s tavern on the town line between Canton. Attending Milton Academy and later Harvard, Cobb became associated with the law office of James Dunbar and came to know many Canton businessmen. By 1831, Cobb had moved to Dedham and became engaged in the manufacture of silk thread. An early pioneer and advocate for the fledgling silk industry, Governor Levi tapped Cobb to prepare the everyday manual on the subject.

Janice Fronko, a textile historian explains that “the people who had money to invest, lost a fortune, and Cobb lost over $50,000. These investors came to learn that the silk worms and trees had to come from other places.” The bombyx mori – the domesticated silkworm, was bred successfully in China and Japan. “As soon as the experiment in New England died out, the wealthy left standing turned to a new business plan to import the raw silk. Once here, the silk was turned into thread, dyed and turned out onto spools,” says Fronko.  

Things spiraled out of hand, when prices for the mulberry trees that once cost $3.00 per hundred rose to cost as much as $500.00 per hundred. Times were rife with speculation and a great panic ensued leading, of course to financial disaster by 1837. The raising and producing of silk in America soon fell to the true entrepreneurs, and in walked the Virgil J. Messinger of Canton.

A Collection of Embroidery Silks

Messinger opened his first silk factory in 1839. Shortly after opening the enterprise, he moved to Needham and made “sewings, gimps and fringes” with Lemuel Cobb (Jonathan’s brother.) By 1844 he returned and along with his brother, Vernon, erected a newer factory at what was called the Lower Silk Mill Pond. An exhibit in 1847 at Faneuil Hall extolled the amazing new sewing silk “nearly equal to the best imported.” The new modern factory was opened under the name “Messinger & Brother” and would become an empire known throughout the country.

In 1842 the quantity of silk manufactured in Massachusetts was 5,264 pounds, by 1845 Canton sent out 5,200 pounds – by far some of the largest output in the state. To solve the supply problems, the Messingers imported the silk skeins from China and pulled them into thread and dyed the resulting product.

Over the succeeding years the company grew and the mill grew from a modest wooden structure to a fine granite building designed on a grand scale. The business was sold in 1863 to Charles Foster and J.W.C. Seavey, who himself had been with the Messingers since 1853. By 1881, the firm became known as the Eureka Silk Manufacturing Company. Within a year the factory was aglow with the new invention of electricity. 

The evolution of Eureka was phenomenal, owing in large part to the patent of the Singer Vibrating Shuttle sewing machine. This lockstitcher was far better than any of the previous machines and millions of the machines, perhaps the world's first really practical sewing machine for domestic use, were produced well into the early 1900s.

As sales of the machine rose, so too did the fortunes of Eureka Silk. Yet, at the same time competition began to overtake the region and the rise of the business was offset with a precipitous decline.

In 1894, over 475 workers, mostly women were employed by Eureka in three large mills. On March 13, 1894 “practically the entire number of girls and young men left their work abruptly at about 7:30 Tuesday morning.” The spoolers and winders of the lower mill marched en masse to the upper mill and gathered more supporters. The two groups marched and eventually more than 375 workers went out on strike. Wages had been cut by ten cents a day and hours had been reduced as “hard times” led to insufficient paychecks.

The papers wrote that “the streets were crowded with a lively and brilliant throng” as a mass meeting was held at Oddfellow’s Hall. Newspaper reporters tried to report of the union meetings, but the “smiling and insistent reporter was as smiling and insistently excluded.” To all in town the front-page story was bolstered by the fact that things were quite “orderly and quiet except for the unusual number of bright dresses on the street and the silent spindles of two out of the three mills. The mill owners threatened to shutter the mills down, and the girls threatened to go to Brockton for better wages.  The state Board of Arbitration intervened and advised the workers to return. The wages had been as high as $6.08 for 58 hours of work, yet the economy of the silk business could no longer meet such generous terms.

In the end, the workers returned to their shuttles without any raise in wages and the mills resumed operation. Mill Number 1 ended production in 1903 and was destroyed by fire the following year. In 1906 Eureka Silk relocated to Connecticut and ceased all operations in Canton.

Hatfield's Colors

The impressionist artist, Joseph Hatfield
in his Canton studio on Beaumont Street in 1895.

The colors were beautiful, and the descriptions evoked romantic painting in sunlit galleries.  Carmine, Alizaran Crimson, Rose Madder, Aureolin Yellow, Ox-Gall, and Smalt. In a small factory off of Beaumont Street some of the world’s best modern paints were developed and perfected by Joseph Henry Hatfield.  

J.H. Hatfield was a prolific and extremely talented artist that travelled the world, yet called Canton his home. Born near Kingston, Ontario in 1863, Hatfield was one of America’s most prolific and well-known artists in the nineteenth century.  Like many young artists of the time, he would find his influences in France. Studying at the Academie Julian in Paris in 1889-1890, Hatfield would hone his skills by working under Benjamin Constant, Henri Doucet, and Jules Lefebvre.

Hatfield returned to America in 1892, joining a growing group of expatriates who introduced Impressionism to a receptive audience at the turn of the last century. Hatfield was in the company of such artists as Whistle, Hassam, Sargent and Cassatt. In his early work he explored landscapes, figures and plein-air style. And his work at the Paris Salon of 1891 was critical to his success as an artist.

The Paris Salons were annual exhibitions of contemporary art, which were in essence a setting for the serious exploration of modern themes and imagery focused upon artists, critics, patrons and dealers. Through the acceptance at the Salons, an American artist would gain renown and an impact upon the art-world.

As Hatfield himself described it, he was not very successful at first. “I was completely discouraged. I said to myself, you old fool, you can’t paint anymore than a cow, you ought to give it up.” Packing away his sketch material, Hatfield decided to become a farmer. A few days into his malaise, he saw a “wonderful great cloud in the sky.” Hatfield exclaimed, “I’ve got to paint that cloud,” and ran to his studio to gather brushes and paint. In a sunlit meadow in an idyllic part of Canton, Hatfield labored for two hours in a state of frenzy, and through the afternoon he completed his work. Arriving home, he covered the painting and only returned to look at it the next day. As he told the story, “I went in trembling and turned it around where I could see it.” Hatfield had once again convinced himself he could paint.

The story illustrates the passion and the questions that coursed through the artist. A sensitive soul who “was responsive to the beauty down to his fingertips.” A writer described Hatfield as someone that “loved nature, not in her grand and cosmic aspects, but in her quiet moments of joy. He loved little pools of water in the woods where light flickers down through the leaves and throws patterns upon the lily pads.”

If you want to see the full embodiment of Hatfield’s work, a trip to the Canton Public Library is in order. There are two paintings that demonstrate the yin and yang - the shadow and light of Hatfield’s artistry – and they hang in the Augustus Hemenway Reading Room here in Canton. First and foremost, Hatfield was known as a painter of figures. In the late nineteen hundreds at a single exhibition of the Art Club of Boston, Hatfield exhibited one hundred and forty canvases, primarily of children. The painting at the Canton Public Library hanging over the fireplace is not a child, but instead a very elderly man by the name of Captain Thomas Conroy, of Easton, Mass. Painted around 1892, the 35-by-45 inch portrait looks across the room at another Hatfield painting. Tucked in the right-hand corner is “Fowl Meadow” and it is a gloriously somber snow scene that captures the winter light in an extraordinary way. It was said in his obituary, “he painted landscapes because he had to, because of the inner urge to capture one of nature’s moods and express it.”

Hatfield moved to Canton prior to 1895 and was likely inspired by the beauty of this rural landscape. “Fowl Meadow” certainly gives us insight into his passion for the place he called home. And collectors were just as passionate for his work; in fact there were at one time dozens of Hatfield paintings hanging inside Canton homes. Eugene Williams who lived on Pleasant Street had more than twelve “Hatfields” in his house. The Williams family, connected by marriage to the Draper family was quite close to Hatfield. And the paintings the two families collected were pure Canton; Pecunit Brook, Cemetery Pond, and Blue Hill from “Wetherbee”. 

Helping Mama by Joseph Hatfield.
(Courtesy of the Canton Historical Society.)  

It was, however, his portraits of children that were his hallmark. “He loved little children as he loved nature for their unconscious beauty, for their changing enthusiasms, for their responsiveness emotionally to their environment, whether of people or place.”  There is a wonderful painting that was exhibited at the Art Institute of Chicago in 1894 that captures Hatfield’s love of children. The oil on canvas shows a little girl standing in an art studio painting her own stick figure drawing on top of a study of birches. It turns out, the little girl was Hatfield’s daughter Doris, and indeed the incident happened as drawn in the portrait. “Sprawled across the freshly painted canvas, in brown ochre, was one of those nondescript line drawings that children call men, and with a cheerful helping, expression on her face the child was ruining the work.”

Hatfield quietly picked up a sketchpad, “and drew the mischievous little girl, with her quaint little knot and bright smiling face.” Hatfield was well into his drawing “when the little culprit became aware that she was the subject,” turning toward her father “with child-like confidence of approval she smiled and said: Helping Papa!” And so a masterwork was created. Helping Papa would eventually be owned by the Ricker Family of Poland Springs, Maine – the founders of Poland Spring Water.

In 1892, Hatfield produced a series of drawings to illustrate Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Victorian American tale of a woman undergoing a “rest cure” for depression entitled “The Yellow Wallpaper.” Between 1891 and 1893, Hatfield was a prolific artist supplying illustrations to the New England Magazine, the first publisher of Gillman’s story of mental derangement. It turns out that illustrating for magazines was extremely lucrative, and Hatfield would join the ranks of artists like Winslow Homer and dabble in commercially illustrating magazine articles while building a career in art.

In 1903, Hatfield ceased painting as a result of becoming increasingly aware that his early work was turning dark with age. The problem was that the pigments in the paints were failing, and he feared that most of the contemporary art would be forever lost to imperfect paints. Hatfield turned his attention to chemistry and began to grind his own colors. The experiment began with twenty-five cents of the finest yellow dry pigment obtainable. The Hatfield formula called for the purest of oils and fine marble grinding stones. At the time, pure dry colors were only made in Europe, and Hatfield turned to England, France and Germany to procure pigments for his paints that would create a “palette of pure permanent colors.”

In the basement of his house in Canton, Hatfield began producing the finest artists colors in America. Within a few years he contracted to build a 45-foot building behind his house near the Canton Junction. At the height of his business he largely gave up his love of painting and devoted the last twenty years of his life to the manufacture of pure colors. It is said that chemists questioned his claims of purity, but analysis in laboratories here and in Europe proved that Hatfield’s paints were 100% pure and would stand the test of time.

Joseph Hatfield at Third Cliff,
Scituate, Mass. 1918 (Courtesy of the Canton Historical Society.)

Giving up his art, for science was reportedly quite difficult for this man. He “withdrew from the world, his name heard less and less in art circles,” only his closest friends realizing “the extent and value of his service to his contemporaries.” So, whether you have seen Hatfield’s paintings or not, it is likely that you have seen his paint. In museums all over the world hang paintings by famous artists that used Hatfield’s paint to insure the freshness of their original work.

Hatfield’s obituary ran in the Canton paper in January 1928, at the age of sixty-five, Joseph H. Hatfield died here at his home. “Those who knew Mr. Hatfield intimately, knew also the depth of his spiritual nature, his tremendous interest in metaphysical problems, his eager search for the ideal philosophy of life. In his fine art of loving came a fine art of living which is an art more difficult than the life of a painter.”