Gentlemen Scientists
Victoria’s famous Dallas Road waterfront has always been a ‘high rent district’. It wasn’t necessarily the houses that made these properties so expensive as most of them, 50 years ago, were older, some of them pretty modest if you went by appearances. It was that mantra of real estate, location, location, location (if you focused on the sweeping views of Juan de Fuca Strait and the Olympic Mountains and ignored the Ogden Point lumber wharves). Since then cruise ships (pre-pandemic) have taken the place of lumber piles, freighters and a grain elevator, and succeeding years and upgrading have made Dallas Road more popular and ever more expensive.
So it was somewhat surprising that 138 Dallas Road, obviously of some grandeur in its youth, had become virtually derelict by 1970. Even more surprising when one knew its provenance, although in that lay the answer to its state of neglect.
Children had smashed windows, its ornate exterior woodwork was warped and peeling, but it didn’t take much imagination to know that this old house had known respectability, even grandeur, in its day. At that time I knew just enough of its past to be impressed, and I wrote in the Colonist: “Few passersby must realize the mansion at 138 Dallas Road is a last link with an intriguing chapter of provincial lore.
“If its weathered brick could speak, one could hear breathtaking tales of the fierce Haida of the wild B.C. coast when sail yet challenged steam and shipwreck was common; of bloodchilling rites which hinted of human sacrifice and worse. They could whisper of an amazing woman whose paintings, many of which she had consigned to the garbage can, are today coveted throughout North America.
“And they could tell of a remarkable father and son team which contributed more to Northwest history in their chosen fields than any other: Dr. Charles Frederick Newcombe and son, William Arnold Newcombe...”
Born at Newcastle on Tyne, Sept. 14, 1851, Charles Newcombe studied medicine at Aberdeen University. After post graduate studies in Germany, he joined the staff of a Yorkshire hospital and later practised at Rain Hill Mental Hospital, Liverpool, earning recognition for his service.
Marrying Marion Arnold in 1879, the 28-year-old physician and psychiatrist moved to Windermere. There, on England’s largest lake, he learned to sail; a skill he would put to use 1000s of miles distant along British Columbia’s stormy coasts.
After a period in Twickenham, near London, Newcombe went to the U.S. to study American advances in medicine. Impressed with the New World, he returned for his family, now consisting of two daughters and a son, and moved to Hood River, Ore., via steamship, railroad and stagecoach. Hanging his shingle, he soon had an extensive—and scattered—practice. On horseback and by buggy, he made his rounds, crossing the Columbia River when necessary in a 14-foot boat he’d built himself.
Despite the exhaustive demands of a frontier practice, Dr. Newcombe found time to indulge a growing interest in natural history. Between calls or, perhaps, while travelling to and from patients, he began to study the flora and fauna of the region, completing several expeditions to Mount Hood in quest of wild flowers, and carefully preserving fragile blue and white lupins, blue bells and yellow erythroniums in airtight bottles.
Putting his knowledge to practice, his home became a small fruit farm, complete with clover field for his bees, and known for its strawberries and bright, attractive flower gardens.
It was in Oregon that Dr. Newcombe began the collection of Indian artifacts that was to become world renowned by collecting arrowheads. A second noteworthy incident which occurred at Hood River was the birth, April 28, 1884, of a second son, William.
In 1885 Dr. Newcombe moved the family, collections and milk cow to Victoria’s Swan Lake.
Here, “B.C.’s first psychiatrist” continued his studies, soon meeting John Fannin, legendary curator of the young provincial museum. The two became fast friends, Newcombe joining the Victoria Natural history Society on its regular tugboat expeditions into Juan de Fuca Strait after specimens for the museum.
In his own boat, with a trawl of his own design, he made further expeditions, steadily increasing is vast collections of animal and plant life, particularly in the field of marine zoology. Some years ago a daughter, Mrs. Harold Peck, recalled being sent with her brothers and sisters to Beacon Hill Park almost daily for fresh sea water to replenish their father’s aquarium.
Dr. Newcombe then became even more enthusiastic about Indian folklore and artifacts, sailing his open, 18-foot boat along the exposed shores of Vancouver and Queen Charlotte (Haida Gwaii) islands. Between 1895 and 1897, accompanied by sons Charles and William, he explored almost every inch of coastline around Skidegate, visiting, living with, questioning and studying the Haida, their customs and their handicrafts.
Earlier, he had advanced to a 24-foot double-ended fishing craft with cabin, and now explored as far north as Alaska by shipping his vessel part of the way by steamship.
In 1904, then recognized as a foremost authority on Northwest First Nations, Dr. Newcombe took seven Vancouver Island natives to the St. Louis World Fair. Most prominent of the party was the fierce looking medicine man and magician Chief Atliu.
“In addition to their ceremonial robes, head-dress, face-masks, animal-skin clothing and grass rugs,” George Nicholson wrote in Vancouver Island’s West Coast, “they took with them a 40-foot canoe named Heitl-hel-yachisht, which means Sea Serpent, totem poles and house figures. Also a knocked-down Indian dwelling house and trunks filled with baskets, headware, matting and other articles of Indian art.”
Before an awed American audience, the party erected its “prefabricated” house and totem poles, creating “a village typical of the B.C. coast Indians”. Here they lived and conducted their displays, the men carving totems, house figures and dugout canoes as the women wove baskets and matting, and stitched bead ware and clothing.
Star of the unique show was Chief Atliu, his “heap strong medicine” baffling laymen and professional magicians alike. In one act, to again quote Maj. Nicholson, the mystifying chieftain “ran a red-hot poker through the belly of an Indian (an accomplice no doubt) and had it come—still steaming hot—out the middle of he man’s back, without his suffering any apparent discomfort”!
Another time, Atliu “sacrificed” a young boy. As no children had accompanied the party, a Black stand-in had to be pressed into service in disguise. Before the evil rite, volunteers from the audience were invited to satisfy themselves that he was indeed alive. This confirmed, the tropupe began to dance.
Suddenly, to the spectators’ screams of horror and disbelief, they seized the “child” and threw him into a roaring oven!
As men gasped and women fainted, demoniac Atliu withdrew the corpse from the fire, cut off its head then, blood gushing from the wound, calmly proceeded to eat the flesh.
The audience didn’t notice that the lad had been switched, that the “body” was made of mutton and vegetables, that the blood was that of a bullock.
“Some called ‘Police!’ However, the chief managed to becalm them by declaring that he’d bring the ‘boy’ back to life.
“More dancing, and the beating of drums, another mysterious switch and there stood the boy, bewildered, but very much alive. Handed some peanuts and bananas, and a five-dollar gold piece for his mother, the little negro [sic] boy went home quite happy. And he required no coaxing for future performances.”
In following years, Dr. Newcombe continued his studies and collections. During this period he contributed several totem poles to European museums and supervised the B.C. Indian exhibit in Chicago’s Field Museum.
In 1924, during another up-coast sailing expedition, he caught a severe chill. By the time he reached Victoria, it was too late. Ordered to bed, he died two weeks later, on October 19, in the family mansion on Dallas at the age of 73. Mrs. Newcombe had predeceased him in 1891, after giving birth to their sixth child, who died six months later.
Many mourned the gentlemanly scientist “known in every centre of learning on the continent for his extensive work in various branches of natural science in B.C”.
“Although his age prevented him from pursuing his work in late years as actively as in his younger days,” said the Colonist, “Dr. Newcombe retained to the last his keen interest in all things scientific and historical. When the [Capt.] Cook monument was unveiled at Nootka, on the west coast [just two months previously], he was one of the party which made the trip to Nootka to witness the ceremony.
“On his return shortly afterwards, he plunged into the round of courtesies extended here to the British scientists, 400 in number, who came out to Victoria after attending the Toronto convention for the Advancement of Science. Among these men he had many friends, acquaintances he had made during the course of his own work in similar fields.
“The provincial museum and other departments of the public service of the province owe much to Dr. C.F. Newcombe.”
An albumen print by Newcombe taken in 1901. --Wikipedia
Obituaries recalled his trips in a small boat to the remote Haida Gwaii with Francis Kermode, provincial museum curator, in search of fossil formations when two missionaries and two storekeepers were the only other whites for 100s of miles.
“About this time Dr. Newcombe began an extensive study of he aboriginal races of the northwest coast, and also to collect material for the anthropological collection now in the provincial museum. Shortly after he was commissioned by the late hon. Sir Richard McBride, who was then premier, to gather as much material as possible for the provincial government, to be kept in the provincial museum, as the country was being denuded of the early aboriginal relics by the leading museums of the world, particularly the united States and Germany.”
In addition to being a noted botanist Dr. Newcombe had taken up pen to write two natural history volumes and two journals concerning Capt. George Vancouver’s circumnavigation of Vancouver Island.
Not to mention his enormous contributions to the provincial fisheries department, including “excellent work investigating the life histories of the sea lions along the Pacific Coast. This was undertaken many times at a great personal risk, visiting in a small boat, among the treacherous rocks of Vancouver and the Queen Charlotte Islands, the outlying places which the sea lions inhabited.”
He had also served as chairman of a commission researching the sea lions’ effect upon the salmon industry.
At all times Dr. Newcombe had worked in close contact with the leading institutions and scientists throughout the continent, having been “willing to give his time and services when possible”.
This photo, taken at Alert Bay, captures one aspect of the artform that the Newcombes fought to save for posterity. --Wikipedia
The Victoria Daily Times noted, “In his passing the province has lost an illustrious friend whose life work will be the more remarkable when the result of his labours can be collected together in review.”
Naturalist Robert Connell wrote of his old friend’s “wonderful buoyant and boy-like mind, always alert and keen, and full of fresh interests”. He recalled their walks along Victoria beaches and expeditions to Sooke after potential specimens, his “kindly and ever ready help... Personally, I shall never forget the great debt I owe him for many kindnesses and a delightful example of enthusiastic interest in various branches of natural history.”
Mr. Connell’s tribute could well have been voiced by scientists of two continents.
An editorial in the usually staid British journal Nature concluded: “To those who enjoyed Newcombe’s friendship, it cannot but be regretted that such a many-sided, humorous and charming personality has been lost to us without leaving an adequate memorial [referring to his ‘not having published any accounts of his experiences and adventures among the coast Indians’], and to those who are interested scientifically, in the Pacific coast of Canada, the closing of so rich a storehouse of knowledge of a dying race is an unparalleled disaster.”
* * * * *
Undoubtedly many will remember (as I wrote in 1970) the lonely figure with bushy hair and prominent nose who daily haunted the Dallas Road beaches in bygone years, salvaging driftwood. Few knew him as more than a somewhat pathetic recluse who did odd jobs in the neighbourhood for those in need and asking for little more than a thank-you in return.
It wasn’t until after his death that the public learned of ‘Billy’ Newcombe’s secret.
He it was who, with brother Charles, had accompanied Dr. Newcombe on many of his up-coast expeditions in search of artifacts and specimens. From the day he surrendered a scholarship as an expert in anthropology and natural science to assist the St. Louis Fair exhibit, with the exception of wartime service overseas, he’d remained at his father’s side, learning all from his remarkable mentor.
Before long, young Billy was accepted by the scientific community as an expert in anthropology and natural science, perhaps the equal of his famous father. With Dr. Newcombe’s death in 1924, he continued their ambitious program of attempting to save what remained of our First Nation cultures.
“Untutored, but self-taught, and with the consuming passion that was kindled by his father,” wrote Bert Hudson in the Colonist, ‘Willie’ Newcombe “knew more about native Indian lore probably than any man in B.C. in the first half of the century. He was the man who realized the importance of the Indian culture which was fading as the white man’s blight swept over the Indian villages. With dedication Willie spent his life preserving what he could.”
Some say it was his abrupt dismissal from the provincial museum, after four years as assistant biologist, that drove the sensitive lifelong bachelor into solitude. “Ironically, the several items that were ‘missing” were found some years later, hidden in an out-of-the-way place in the museum.”
Another rumour suggested he’d been the victim of ‘economy.’
Whatever the cause of his dismissal, Billy lived alone in the crumbling mansion on Dallas Road, acting as a handyman and accepting the teasing of neighbourhood children with a shy smile. One of the very few who knew the real William Arnold Newcombe was another James Bay character, Emily Carr.
Perhaps it was due to the fact that that both had known public rejection that this odd couple became such close friends. Billy helped her about the house, packaged her paintings for shipment in driftwood cases, and told her of Indian folklore while guiding her to distant villages and showing her the ‘Indian’ ways and artistry that her canvases might be ‘correct.’
Emily remembered her faithful friend, naming him an executor of her estate. From 1945 until his own death 15 years later, Billy served as a trustee of the Emily Carr Memorial Scholarship Fund.
On a cold November day in 1960, flag at half-mast, the Victoria tug Island Comet ghosted by Ogden Point breakwater. Then, within sight and sound of the ships, bells and buoys Billy had known and loved for 70 years, his ashes were scattered on the waves by two nephews.
When executors of Billy’s estate had visited the old family home on Dallas, they’d found one of the most complete inventories in existence of B.C. Indigenous arts and crafts, including priceless books, private papers, rare photographs and documents—and almost 100 Emily Carr paintings.
The Royal British Columbia Provincial Museum’s 500-seat Newcombe auditorium has since been downsized but the name—and the priceless Newcombe collection remain.
As early as 1897 there was vocal opposition to the scooping up of Indigenous cultural artifacts for sale, mainly to American and German museums and private collectors.
This was the very reason that Premier Richard McBride commissioned Newcombe in 1911 to (I’m quoting myself from earlier) gather as much material as possible for the provincial government, to be kept in the provincial museum, as the country was being denuded of the early aboriginal relics by the leading museums of the world, particularly the United States and Germany.”
It was this wholesale plundering of ethnological artifacts for foreign repositories—even those taken in the name of science—that had so dismayed Dr. Newcombe. It was that concern, according to the Dictionary of Canadian Biography, that prompted his four-year mission on behalf of B.C. to secure and to save these cultural treasures for posterity. If his sharing some of the totem poles with leading museums of other countries seems to be a contradiction, it’s likely that, first, not all could be stored or displayed by the provincial museum, and, secondly, that he believed, as a professional scientist, that such sharing of northwest coast Indigenous culture served the purpose of informing and educating museum-goers of other nations.
His personal explorations by small boat in waters notorious for storms and shipwrecks, his good personal relationships with the native people he interviewed and negotiated with for the acquisition of artifacts, and the notes and photographs he made of these contacts, are said to be “the best or only visual records” of many rapidly changing or disappearing traditional communities. Those human remains that caught his attention interested him not as an anthropologist but as a medical scientist.
It has become almost fashionable to not just re-examine our history of the past 200 years, not just to find fault even where it’s due, but to convict and damn outright those who are viewed as “responsible’ through the lens of the 21st century.
Think of the Newcombes as you will, the fact remains that they saved more of our west coast First Nations cultural and natural history (not to mention Emily’s paintings) than any other individuals, teams or institutions.
A sweeping view of the Dallas Road waterfront, looking towards Clover Point. --Photo courtesy of Janis Ringuette, author of a history of Beacon Hill Park.
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