In the 19th century, mourning practices in the United States were deeply structured and ceremonial, governing social interactions, fashion, and grieving customs. Amid these strict norms, newspaper editors adhered to a unique mourning tradition.
During periods of public bereavement–such as the passing of a notable politician, military officer, or publisher–the editor engaged in a practice known as “turning the rules.” Although this tradition is no longer observed, it often grabs the attention of researchers studying old publications, and its historical significance remains intriguing.
The composition room of the Even Evening in September 1905
When a prominent individual passed, the newspaper sought to announce the death and convey collective sorry. The work to make this happen occurred in the composing room, where the pages of the paper took shape as the compositors turned the rules. These column rules typically created white space between columns of text on a page.
But once the paper was in mourning, they displayed their grief with dark printers’ ink between the columns by reversing the rules. As the pages came off the press, the normal rules—white spacing separating columns of text– framed with heavy black bands of ink, creating a visual tribute to the departed. These dark bands conveyed grief, signaling to readers that the publication mourned the loss of a significant figure.((Edmund C. Arnold, “Designing the Total Newspaper,” 1981, Harper & Row Publishers: New York.))
Reporting on the assassination of President Abraham Lincoln, the editor turned the rules on the April 22, 1865 issue of the West-Jersey Pioneer in Bridgeton, NJ, framing the paper in black mourning ink. (Source: Chronicling America at the Library of Congress)
Don Herring, a newspaper editor who began his career with the Indianapolis Star in Indiana after the Korean War, introduced me to this old practice. The turned rules, once an expression of mourning by journalists, now reside in the annals of newspaper history–a journalist’s tradition from a bygone era.
Small town lockups are typically simple and unremarkable structures designed to hold lawbreakers temporarily. However, the Town of North East, MD, at the top of the Chesapeake Bay, boasts a unique municipal lockup that stands out from the rest. This two-story brick structure, designed by architect Levi O. Cameron in 1885, features distinctive three-pronged turrets and barred windows, giving it a fortress-like appearance.
The Town Lockup in North East, MD.
As a scholar interested in social history and criminal justice, I have always been fascinated by this remarkable edifice. It is uncommon for cost-conscious municipalities to invest in attractive structures for detaining offenders, making the North East lockup a noteworthy exception.
Recently, I embarked on a research project focused on recommending the lockup for inclusion on the National Register of Historic Places. To accomplish this, I began delving into the architectural and social history of the lockup. My investigation led me to the North East Town Hall, where I meticulously examined the old pages of corporate minute books. These records allowed me to trace the evolution of the small jail over time and understand the considerations that went into its construction.
While there are readily available online sources for researching structures, such as newspapers from Chronicling America at the Library of Congress, a deeper investigation into the history of a building usually requires consulting records beyond local papers. Also, this line of inquiry often leads me to explore state, municipal, county, and corporate archives.
In the case of the North East lockup, I spent time at the town hall studying corporate minute books dating from the late 19th to the middle of the 20th century. The town made its archives readily available, and the public records custodians helped me access them.
Researching the history of a small town lockup for placement on the National Register of Historic Places involves thoroughly examining various sources, including local records, archives, and historical documents. By delving into these extended resources, we can uncover valuable insights into these structures’ architectural and social significance, ultimately contributing to their preservation and recognition.
In the 19th and early 20th centuries, the task of solving murders presented a formidable challenge to law enforcement. Cases frequently hit frustrating dead ends when clues or eyewitnesses were scant. Without the proverbial “smoking gun,” public officials turned to private detectives for assistance. Unlike the overburdened sheriffs with numerous responsibilities, agency men had the luxury of dedicating extensive time to the case–weeks or months.
These detectives brought a unique set of skills and resources to felonies. Most had gained significant experience while investigating violent crimes. This expertise in handling felonies translated into a broader understanding of investigative practices applicable to various types of murders.
Their ability to focus solely on the crime and their knack for operating discreetly also made them invaluable for solving complex homicides. They could deploy undercover operatives to gather information from the community without arousing suspicion, a tactic that proved particularly useful when people were reluctant to share crucial information.
Moreover, private detectives kept extensive records on itinerant criminals. The advent of photography greatly aided their crime-solving work, allowing them to create rogues galleries of mugshots, providing an essential tool for tracking and identifying suspects that public law enforcement lacked.
To encourage the involvement of private detectives, county commissioners usually offered monetary rewards to anyone who could bring the culprits to justice. This financial incentive spurred professional detective agencies to join the hunt for felons or intensify their efforts if the authorities increased rewards, as they rushed to grab a felon before the competition made the arrest. This periodic use of rewards saved local governments the cost of expanding police forces.
Murder of Jennie Richards
A private detective’s story published in the Smyrna Times, Dec. 7, 1892
The tragic murder of Jennie Richards in a secluded area west of Rising Sun, Maryland, in April 1891 serves as a prime example of 19th-century homicide investigations. Despite the collective effort of Cecil County’s law enforcement officials (the sheriff, deputy, coroner, state’s attorney, and constables) and the local community, the perpetrators had vanished into the night. The lawmen had grilled the “usual types” and apprehended several suspects on suspicion of something, but their solid alibis soon freed them.
In contrast to most killings, the Richards investigation immediately received support from railroad detectives. Jennie’s brother-in-law, the Assistant Chief Engineer of the Pennsylvania Railroad, Joseph T. Richards, arrived with a team of railroad officers on the morning of the murder.
Despite the tireless effort of a handful of public officials and agency detectives rounding up the “usual suspects,” it became clear that the case was getting cold. In response, the commissioners offered a significant reward of $1,000 to anyone who could locate the murderers, which the authorities increased to $3,000 (about $102,000 today) in April 1892.((Cecil County Board of Commissioners, Minutes, April 12, 1892, 204.))
Private Detectives Take up the Case
This enhanced reward piqued the interest of a Smyrna, Delaware, photographer and Detective, G. W. McLain. Seeing an opportunity for better earnings than his Smyrna gallery, which paid about as well “as a peanut stand in a graveyard,” he joined the investigation. However, the sleuth recognized the competitive nature of the crowded field with the enhanced cash offering.((G. W. McdLain, “The Richard Murder; or A Cecil County Mystery,” Smyrna Times, December 7, 1892))
From Smyrna, he penned a letter to the Cecil County Commissioners offering his help and was advised that they would welcome his efforts to bring the culprits to justice. The Richards reward was open to all.((Letter from C. H. Smith, Clerk to the county commissioners, published in the Smyrna Times))
McLain quickly assembled materials for a traveling photography gallery in a canvas tent, allowing him to work in Cecil County or any other location the case might lead him to without raising suspicions. His primary profession of “viewmaking” served as an excellent disguise as he canvassed the territory, offering picture-taking services as an incentive to gain access to homes.
McClain also dispatched a telegram to the city, summoning a lady detective to assist him in Rising Sun. He introduced her as his sister. Like him, she was a woman of many talents and a skilled artist. She seamlessly stepped in, completed the tintypes, and skillfully applied the paintbrush to her works.((G. W. McClain, “The Richards Murder: or A Cecil County Mystery,” Smyrna Times, January 18, 1893.))
He indeed found the field crowded with private detectives. By the time he pitched his tent in Rising Sun, the Pennsylvania Railroad’s C. G. Ottey and a force of assistant officers, Captain William B. Lyon of the firm of West, Lyon & Smith from Baltimore, Pinkerton Agency men, and many more had spent months tracking down clues.
Working Undercover
McClain began working quietly and diligently In Northern Cecil County, awaiting an opportunity to gather information. As everything remained silent regarding the murder, he equipped the lady detective with numerous samples and sent her towards Porter’s Bridge, the area of the slaying, to solicit orders.
Later, he dispatched her to Oxford, instructing his assistant to canvass the town and, if possible, lodge with Mrs. Langdon, Jennie’s sister-in-law. When she visited Mrs. Langdon, she was met with a cold reception—the lady refused to view the artworks and seemed suspicious, having been visited by two detectives a few days earlier. When the homeowner questioned the reason for the visit, the undercover agent assured her that she was an artist from McLain & Co, a firm based in Salisbury, MD, now operating in Rising Sun. She then canvassed the entire town, gathering information from Mrs. Langdon’s neighbors.
As his assistant traveled neighborhoods, McClain also explored the Porter’s Grove area under the guise of advertising the photography gallery. After talking to Mr. Whalen and Mr. Reynolds near the Richard’s home, they took him over to the house to take pictures of the outside while also providing an interior tour.
Photographing the Richards House
Ater the gumshoe took pictures, he visited Jennie’s mother, the elderly Mrs. Langdon, at Harrisville, telling her that he was “out making views of houses and had taken Mr. Richards’ house and would present her with one as soon as completed. That was enough to start her talking, McLain noted. “Yes, that is where my dear daughter was killed, poor child,” and her tears ran like rain while she related her sad story.” McClain “pitted the poor, bereaved mother in her advanced age, and kept asking myself if he should confide his secret mission” to her. But he decided against it.
McClain & Co. photographers, Smyrna, March 9, 1892, Smyrna Times
Back in the Rising Sun gallery, the photographer developed the negatives and framed pictures of the Richards house, putting them on exhibit. Of course, everyone knew it and had something to narrate about the tragedy, so he took it all in, getting the run of things pretty well.
After working Rising Sun for “all there was in it,” he left to attend the Woodlawn Camp Meeting on Aug. 9th. With the tent up, the artist hung his “eye-catcher and tongue starter outside, just over the door, so that nearly everyone that passed by” had some remarks, such as “Oh, that is the Richards’ House. There is where the murder was done. That was a pity . . . someone ought to hang for it.” Some would know considerably more about the affair. Others would shake their heads and walk off, as much as to say “there was a graveyard secret” connected with that killing. Whatever they said, he worked away quietly, listening to the conversation and occasionally asking a few questions.
That summer, the Cecil County Commissioners withdrew the reward:
Believing that the expenses in the investigation of the Richard Murder Case has assumed such proportions as to become oppressive to the taxpayers and that every reasonable effort has now been made to apprehend the perpetrators of said murder, it is ordered that all rewards be herby withdrawn and no further money be appropriated for the expenses of said investigation.((Cecil County Commissioners, Minutes, July 12, 1892))
As the Delaware gumshoe suspected, solving the seemingly impossible felony required immense effort and skill. He had to rely on his cover and intuition to navigate a territory already covered by many private eyes. Every shadow held a potential suspect, and every whisper a clue waiting to be deciphered or reexamined from his perspective. To work the job, the detective went to great lengths, sometimes even donning disguises beyond that of a viewmaking artist. He also made a two-week trip to Baltimore, acquiring the confidence of a gentleman from the Custom House.
Graveyard Secrets
McLain, however, decided to wrap up his work, choosing not to reveal certain “graveyard secrets” he possessed regarding the case. The intelligence gathered in Porter’s Grove and Oxford remained a secret, buried in the “graveyard of untold stories.”
To the Cecil County authorities, Detective McClain said this: “Fait justitia ruat caelum” (let justice be done though the heavens fall).((C. W. McLain, “The Richards Murder; or a Cecil County Mystery,” Smyrna Times, February 22, 1893.))
In the 19th and early 20th centuries, before forensic science and professional policing, private detectives were the last hope for solving difficult homicides. Despite their best efforts, many of these crimes remained unsolved, particularly when confessions were not obtained, or private detectives failed to develop information. This last line of defense for the criminal justice system often failed to identify perpetrators.
Rising Sun Centennnial Celebration book cover, 1960; from the Allen County Public Library via the Internet Archive
RESEARCH TIP — 1960 RISING SUN MD CENTENNIAL BOOKLET DIGITIZED — FREE ACCESS PROVIDED BY ALLEN COUNTY PUBLIC LIBRARY — For the centennial of the town of Rising Sun, a committee published an informative 96-page booklet in 1960. It is jammed with helpful information about the town, and I pull it from my bookshelf often to look up something.
But now, the Allen County Public Library has digitized this rare title, helping to preserve it and make it available to a vast audience. It’s been out of print for many years and is a hard title to acquire.
The Allen County Public Library in Fort Wayne, IN., has vast genealogical holdings, one of the world’s largest research collections, and a staff specializing in genealogy. It has been a go-to place for family history researchers for a long time. And the library has kept up with the times by digitizing its vast holdings. It now has nearly 115,000 titles online, the one from Rising Sun being added on Dec. 7, 2021.
Once the library digitizes a title in the stacks, it is uploaded to www.archive.org. The Internet Archive is a non-profit digital library providing free access to resources.
Digitization is important for many reasons, one of them being preservation. Paper was never designed to last centuries and deteriorates as the years pass. Plus, creating online, free-access digital copies helps a far-reaching audience.
I’m thankful whenever I find heritage groups and libraries working to preserve print media from the past and make it available to a far larger audience than ever could be done in earlier years.
Click here to go to the Rising Sun Centennial Celebration Booklet from 1960. It is also text-searchable for searching names on the pages.
I have added a link to the Allen County Genealogical Dept. in the remarks section of this post.
