The Evil Necessity

Common-place sat down with Denver Brunsman to ask him about his 2013 book The Evil Necessity: British Naval Impressment in the Eighteenth-Century Atlantic World and the impact that pressing sailors into service had on Britain’s age of naval supremacy.

My primary goal was to understand how impressment worked, not to settle once and for all the question of "how bad was it?"

The book’s title, The Evil Necessity, captures the ambivalence felt by most British imperialists about naval impressment. Why was the institution and practice so fraught?

One argument of my book is that British statesmen in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries made a conscious decision to pursue a particular form of maritime empire. The idea had appeal for a host of reasons, not least ideological, for it allowed Britons to square their pursuit of empire with their self-identification with liberty (a system of thought neatly traced by David Armitage in his Ideological Origins of the British Empire). The problem with a maritime empire—and any form of empire, really—is that it required (and requires) enormous amounts of labor. In other words, there is no such thing as empire “on the cheap”: it’s just a matter of who pays. Slavery was the primary form of forced labor that made economic production within the early British Empire possible. But impressment was also necessary for providing the maritime labor needed to defend and extend the imperial realm in times of war.

Into the early nineteenth century, pressing (predominantly) white sailors into naval service was far more controversial than enslaving Africans. A wide variety of pamphlets, cartoons, ballads, and other cultural mediums in the British Atlantic world attacked impressment for violating the principles of British liberty. I was surprised by how much this discourse reached and influenced the upper levels of the British state. Although there were certainly callous admirals and other government officials who simply dismissed the critiques of impressment, the majority could see the hypocrisy of building a self-proclaimed empire of liberty on the backs of impressed seamen. As an early example, in 1669 the famed diarist and naval administrator Samuel Pepys prepared notes for a meeting with James, Duke of York, the future King James II, who was then England’s Lord High Admiral: “Impressing of men and its management considerable, first as it is a charge to the King, secondly, as it reflects on the reputation of the service abroad.” To solve the problem, Pepys proposed ending impressment. James agreed, and the navy stopped taking men, but only briefly. By Pepys’s retirement in 1689, the English navy had started to expand impressment across space (to the Western Hemisphere) and time (for the full duration of wars, rather than the original term of a fighting season).

Unfortunately, the trend continued. Rather than reform the Royal Navy’s manning system, later British statesmen and legal authorities justified it to themselves and, they hoped, the broader public by partaking in the same discourse of liberty as its critics. The basic reasoning went that impressment might temporarily violate the individual liberty of the British seaman, but it was necessary in times of emergency (or “necessity”) for safeguarding the greater liberty of Britain and its colonial territories. British statesmen further defended impressment in the name of liberty against more bureaucratic conscription schemes, especially the French inscription maritime.

I came up with the title of “Evil Necessity” having sworn that the phrase was used repeatedly by British officials. In fact, when I went back through the sources, I discovered that they used “evil” and “necessity” frequently, often in the same works, but never (as far as I can tell) together as “evil necessity.” Still, I decided that the phrase best captured how early British imperialists came to reconcile the practice of impressment with liberty in the eighteenth century.

Do you see yourself correcting or repairing the reputation, whether among historians or general readers, of impressment?

When I began the study, the topic of impressment had an extremely polarized historiography. One side featured British naval historians, most prominently N.A.M Rodger, who saw little wrong with impressment; it was a way of life for early modern British seafarers. The other side consisted largely of American social historians, led first by Jesse Lemisch and then by Marcus Rediker, who emphasized the misery and devastating toll of impressment and the seafaring life more generally. I found much to admire in the work of historians on both sides of the debate, and Lemisch and Rediker have been very generous to me. But my primary goal was to understand how impressment worked, not to settle once and for all the question of “how bad was it?” Instead, the question guiding my work has been “if impressment was so bad, why was the British navy so good?” My answer, not to give away the exciting conclusion of the book, is that impressment was that bad and the British navy was that good. Atlantic mariners despised the British press gang and did everything humanly possible to avoid capture. Hence, impressment was hardly an accepted way of life. Yet, once captured, sailors performed admirably aboard British naval vessels. Facing both the system of British naval discipline and the dangerous natural conditions of the high seas, they had little choice. But I argue there is more to it—that for reasons of professional pride and manhood, brotherhood with their crewmates, and self-interest broadly defined, impressed sailors contributed immensely to the success of the eighteenth-century Royal Navy.

This success was not by accident. I contend that mariners differed from every other large group of forced laborers in the British Atlantic in a key respect: they were not selected for their class, beliefs, ethnicity, or skin color but rather for their particular skill set—the ability to “hand, reef, and steer” sailing vessels. No doubt class contributed heavily to impressment; it is hard to imagine the same outcome befalling a more affluent or politically connected group. But class was not determinative in naval impressment as it was in, say, army impressment. The British navy sought skilled seafarers, and for this reason the majority of impressments always took place at sea.

I fear that some readers, particularly in the academy, will misinterpret my effort to understand impressment as an apology for the practice. I purposely try to conceal my personal feelings to avoid interfering with my analysis. But there should be no doubt that I consider the entire enterprise, however successful, a travesty that with some creative policymaking could and should have been avoided.

What are some of the most compelling comparisons, contrasts and/or intersections between impressment and the other, most extreme form of forced labor in the British Atlantic World, slavery?

Slavery is absolutely fundamental to understanding impressment in the eighteenth-century British Atlantic. This conclusion, as much as any other, opened exciting lines of inquiry and analysis in my research. First, in terms of numbers, impressment was the second most common form of forced labor in the eighteenth-century British Empire. As I stress in the book, it was a distant second and never approached the horrors of slavery. Impressed seamen received wages (although not always on time), adequate food and clothing, and freedoms unknown to slaves. Most important, a term of naval impressment ended at the close of any given war—it was not permanent and hereditary. Yet, “slave” was the rhetorical term of choice used by impressed mariners and critics of impressment to describe the condition of being impressed. I think, as with American revolutionaries opposing British policies in the 1760s and 1770s, slavery provided the most powerful rhetorical comparison because it was the most horrible condition imaginable by whites. In my research, I discovered cases of enslaved men fleeing to the British navy to escape their masters—in essence, seeking freedom in impressment. There is no more profound evidence that impressment was a “step up” from slavery along the spectrum of freedom and unfreedom in the Atlantic world.

You confront the issue of sailors’ agency and resistance—two important concepts in historical scholarship. How is your approach novel?

I had to confront the concept of agency in trying to understand how impressment functioned and why impressed sailors seemed to work to the fullest of their abilities on British warships. In so much historical writing—good historical writing —various oppressed and subaltern peoples only have agency when committing acts of resistance. There is no consideration if and when subjects of oppressive conditions might make a conscious choice to not resist—that is, to behave in a manner that might be beneficial to their oppressors. Obviously, these are complex issues that require great sensitivity, especially for scholars living by comparison in extreme comfort. I found a way forward by reading deeply in the literature on slavery. I was especially influenced by the extraordinary work of Walter Johnson, who has argued persuasively that we deny historical actors their full humanity if we do not consider the entire range of their actions, including decisions that might surprise or even disappoint us.

For a variety of reasons, relating to gender, economics, professionalism, and self-preservation, a majority of impressed seamen made the Royal Navy the supreme fighting force—on land or sea—of its time. I did not want to deny the agency of individual sailors in that achievement; the available evidence suggests that they took considerable pride in British naval supremacy. At the same time, to a man, nearly all the same seamen would not pass up particular opportunities to desert. Both things—resistance and compliance—could be true at the same time. The novelty of my contribution lies in applying this broader concept of agency to impressed sailors, but my approach is akin to that of other scholars who attempt to recover the full humanity of historical actors facing incredibly difficult circumstances. Whether in studies of slavery, impressment, or colonization of the Americas, scholars are increasingly realizing that the categories of resistance and accommodation present a false dichotomy of human behavior.

The Evil Necessity is a history with nearly global reach within the framework of the British Empire, and you conducted research in an impressive range of collections. What was your favorite archive, archival experience or discovery?

There are so many. Historians’ lives today are generally so tame compared to the events that we study. I was able to live out some of my own wanderlust through studying early modern sailors and visiting archives throughout the U.S., U.K., and Canada. I cherish those experiences and meeting with so many of my friends and family in different locations, which I recount in one of the longer Acknowledgment sections that you will ever see. As for research finds, it is hard to beat discovering notes by George III in his own hand from 1770 at the British Library (originally, his library) on the 1743 legal decision Rex v. Broadfoot. The case was the most significant legal defense of impressment ever issued in Britain, and George III expressed his agreement by copying entire passages of the decision word-for-word. Around the same time, Benjamin Franklin was also in London reading the same decision. Not surprisingly, he came to the opposite conclusion of George III, determining that impressment unfairly violated seamen’s liberties. Franklin recorded his thoughts on the margin of a pamphlet version of the legal case; the marginalia are reprinted in vol. 35 of the Franklin Papers. One of the only ways to make the practice fairer, according to Franklin, was to impress various British elites, including judges, navy officers, and the king! I love that story and use it in the Epilogue to frame the different responses to impressment by Americans and Britons in the revolutionary Atlantic.

The book’s final paragraph references several paradoxes at the heart of impressment, ones that have trans-historical resonance, and claims that “the centrality of impressment to Britain’s self-fashioned empire of liberty raised difficult questions that are still relevant.” Does your book help illuminate any contemporary (and perhaps paradoxical) issues in particular?

As any good history class teaches, historians cannot entirely escape the times and places in which they research and write. And I confess: The Evil Necessity is undoubtedly a product of the post-9/11 world (although it was first conceived as a dissertation topic prior to 9/11). It is hard not to see analogies between the eighteenth-century British Empire and the current global imperial reach of the United States. In both cases, the state/empire in question professed values (sincerely, I believe) that it violated in order to protect those very values. As the ongoing debate over the U.S. national security apparatus suggests, it is a potentially slippery slope once states begin to trade on their values for a perceived greater good.

The other obvious analogy is to the human cost of empire, both domestically and for conquered populations. One reason that impressment continued at high rates for more than a century is that it was out of sight and therefore out of mind for most of the British population. Likewise, approximately 0.45 percent of the U.S. population has carried the burden of the country’s foreign policy as military personnel since 9/11. I have great admiration for these men and women—so great that I joined the U.S. Army Reserves as an infantryman during the researching and writing of my book (I have since completed my enlistment, without being sent overseas).

It is hard to know the exact solution to these different issues. The American ideal of an all-volunteer force, for instance, was born in the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries as a reaction against European conscription systems, particularly impressment. Trading volunteers for conscripts today would violate one set of historical national values, freedom and volunteerism, for another, fairness and democracy. As historians, perhaps we cannot provide many specific answers. Yet, ideally we can raise the relevant issues and questions that contribute to more informed, historically aware policy decisions.

A Life’s Work at Monticello: Thomas Jefferson, Enslaved Families, and a Historian

Common-place asks author Lucia Stanton about her career at Monticello and book Those Who Labor for My Happiness: Slavery at Thomas Jefferson’s Monticello.

How did your years at Monticello—work that included yet extended beyond documentary research—shape your written work/scholarship, particularly the essays in Those Who Labor for My Happiness? Do you feel it provided you with a unique perspective on Jefferson? On slavery and the lives of enslaved men and women there?

Monticello was my daily destination for virtually my whole working life. Over four decades I was engaged in both documentary research and public programming related to Jefferson and his house and plantation. The very long process of co-editing Jefferson’s memorandum books, with Monticello curator and director James A. Bear Jr., drew me into Jefferson’s wide world and served as a kind of graduate school; hundreds of footnotes are the closest thing to a dissertation I will ever produce. For sixty years, Jefferson kept an unbroken record of the Spanish bits, French sous, and American dimes he doled out as he crisscrossed Europe and the United States. I followed him as he was ferried over the ice-bound Susquehanna, or caught speckled trout in Lake George, or browsed the bookstalls along the Seine. While tracking down where he went and what he bought—from waffles and fiddle strings to books and human beings, I learned about life in eighteenth- and early nineteenth-century America, as well as about Jefferson’s calamitous belief that a meticulous record of daily expenditures would preserve order in his finances. 13. 3.5. Stanton. 1

I could have happily continued as a historical dilettante and master of annotation except for the fact that 1993 was the 250th anniversary of Jefferson’s birth. Daniel P. Jordan, then Monticello’s director, rallied the staff to develop a broad array of new programs for the commemorative year. Many staff members recognized that we needed to do much more to show visitors that Jefferson did not live alone on his mountain and that Monticello was more than an imaginary plantation. Out of our discussions came four major programs for 1993: the creation of an advisory committee on African-American interpretation; an outdoor “Plantation Community” tour focusing on the African Americans who had lived and worked at Monticello; a series of weekends when the mountaintop was enlivened by costumed interpreters demonstrating the trades practiced by enslaved workers; and an oral history project involving descendants of Monticello’s African-American families.

So in 1992, when my responsibilities for running Monticello’s Research Department allowed, I abandoned favorite research topics to turn exclusively to mining the bottomless Jefferson archive for information about the enslaved community and Jefferson’s treatment of it. I also participated in a variety of program planning meetings, including what came to be called the Line Release committee. As part of this effort to spare Monticello visitors exposure to heat and rain, I spent hours queuing for shuttle buses and for admission to the house, and listening to what visitors said to each other.

In the midst of all these preliminaries came a call for an essay on Jefferson as a slaveholder from Peter Onuf, Thomas Jefferson Memorial Foundation Professor of history at the University of Virginia. He was engineering a conference, called “Jeffersonian Legacies,” and editing a collection of its papers. Thus challenged to make my first appearance in print, I sought a bolt-hole far from Jefferson’s mountaintop. Generous friends offered a cabin on their sheep farm in the mountains of western Virginia. No phone, no people, and no plumbing, a border collie my only companion. I have absolutely no memory of that summer week, except for a recurrent vision of a banker’s box of file folders at my feet as I tapped away at an ancient Smith-Corona all day and much of the night. Wrestling with the contents of that file box resulted in the first of eleven essays brought together in this collection.

In the first section of the book, Jefferson is the central focus and presiding presence. How did he control behavior, work routines, and marriage choices? How did he respond to British critics of the institution of slavery? How did he incorporate humanitarian principles of the post-Revolutionary era into his management methods while still failing to recognize the full humanity of his slaves? In the central section, anchored by a long biographical essay on six Monticello families, the focus shifts to the enslaved people. The final section focuses on their descendants in the nearly two centuries since their ancestors left Monticello. Although the ordering of the essays suggests a perspective that evolved over time, the transfer of emphasis from Jefferson to his slaves began in 1993. As we developed the content of the new outdoor tour, we tried to prevent his voice from drowning out the voices of the almost four hundred men, women, and children who lived in slavery on the 5,000-acre Monticello plantation during his lifetime. His nearly 20,000 surviving letters swamp their baker’s dozen. Furthermore, in his writings Jefferson inflated his own agency, sometimes with the breezy use of the personal pronoun (“I work myself upwards of 100 spindles,” he said in connection with his textile shop). And the accounts of Monticello visitors obscured the enslaved with the passive voice (“toddy was brought” and “fires were lighted”). Jefferson’s Farm Book and letters provide names, ages, locations, and occupations but are virtually silent on emotions, values, and even talents, since most of the references to enslaved people deal with negative events like unsatisfactory work, punishment, illness, or death. The slaves’ labor, not their lives, is invariably the issue. The human dimension is almost entirely missing from the Jefferson archive.

The attempt to restore this dimension took two main paths. One led to a project to recover African-American voices through interviews with descendants (see below). The other continued the same kind of fact-gathering that Monticello researchers had done for decades. Working at a historic site rather than a college or university, we were less concerned with advancing striking new theories or engaging in historiographical debates than with developing interpretive programs and restoration projects. Whether our field was Monticello’s architecture, horticulture, decorative arts, or daily life, we went about our Baconian tasks, assembling relevant primary evidence (most of it unpublished) and giving it a forensic going-over. Jim Bear was an important model to me of careful scholarship, lively curiosity, and a humane interest in every man, woman, and child at Monticello in Jefferson’s day.

What I gained from my associates fit with my love of data and a natural inclination to show, rather than tell, which the available records conspired to encourage. Aside from his letters, which were often carefully crafted with an eye toward history, Jefferson’s records are almost all of the daily detail variety. One set is, alas, the nearest thing to a diary he kept. For fifty years he recorded twice-daily thermometer readings along with occasional flashes of phenology to pin down the march of the seasons—”willow leafing,” “martins appear,” “frogs sing.” The dry entries of this weather journal and his Farm, Garden, and Memorandum Books consist of payments, lists, calculations, and measurements, occasionally embellished with a sketch (the horse Assaragoa’s brand, for instance) or an epigram or a grumbling remark about an exorbitant bill. When these minutiae are brought together, however, they begin to add color and form to an indistinct landscape.

Jefferson is the organizing spirit of a web of connections that endlessly entice the researcher and lead to continual illumination as well as further uncertainty. Although he never wrote any kind of tribute to George Granger, phrases such as “George says” or “George knows” or “concluded with George to” help to reveal the remarkable knowledge and character of the only enslaved man to serve him as overseer. Fragmentary references assembled in chronological order bring a towering figure out of the mist, as well as the contours of a story of life at Monticello that George Granger himself might have told. The casual remark of Jefferson’s son-in-law that tobacco was Granger’s “favorite crop” evokes a man anxiously scanning the western sky for portents of the rain needed for transplanting or stretching a tobacco leaf over his knuckles to determine if the crop was ready for stripping. In Jefferson’s request for seed of the Canada lily that “George found for me in the woods” we can see a man walking the slopes of Monticello with an observant eye and an appreciation of the natural world. Late in life, Granger was given the challenging twin commissions of making a productive crop for his master and disciplining his own community and family members. Entries in several different records show that on the first day of November 1799, Jefferson consulted his overseer about the expected cider yield of a bushel of apples, and on the second day Granger was dead at the age of sixty-nine. Also, mysteriously, a fifteen-year-old nailmaker, Ben Hix, died on the very same day.

The topic and theme of “family” runs through this book. Why is it (and, along with it, gender, generation, and genealogy) so essential to understanding slavery at Monticello?

The family focus of my work was a natural outcome of developing tours that would, as historian James O. Horton says,”put a human face on slavery.” But it was certainly magnified by the Getting Word oral history project, a life-changing experience for me. Over the last twenty years my colleague Dianne Swann-Wright and I, often with our Ohio consultant Beverly Gray, have interviewed over 180 people, most of them descendants of more than a dozen enslaved Monticello families. In post-interview discussions around Bev Gray’s kitchen table or in dingy motels with a view of the freeway, we marveled at the number of families divided by the color line and argued about what really happened between Thomas Jefferson and Sally Hemings. I was drawn out of a cultural cul-de-sac and pressed to think much harder about the central issue of race.

Documentary research pursued along with the interviews revealed extraordinary families, as well as individuals. Jefferson’s records show only that Peter Fossett was born in 1815, the son of Joseph and Edith Fossett, head blacksmith and head cook at Monticello. Fossett told his own story in an interview for the largest newspaper in the country in 1898, an account that lay neglected for a century. Then a renowned Baptist minister in Ohio, he related how, at the age of eleven, he was sold on the auction block after Jefferson’s death. His parents and some of his siblings moved to Cincinnati while he was still enslaved in Virginia: “I wanted to be with them and be free, so I resolved to get free or die in the attempt.” He twice tried to run away and finally, in 1850, gained his freedom with the aid of family members. The recent explosion of online historical resources produced an extraordinary bounty of data that routed many of our assumptions but validated some of our hunches. In the case of the Fossetts, online censuses, newspapers, historic maps, and city directories made it possible to know that Joseph and Edith Fossett, who left Virginia in the late 1830s, succeeded in purchasing or otherwise freeing at least eight of their children, all of whom lived close to their parents in Cincinnati, either in the same household, or next door, or around the corner.

In generation after generation of Monticello’s African-American families we found consistent ideals and values, often expressed in ways that made headlines. The Fossetts, for example, worked in the Underground Railroad, served in the Union Army in the Civil War, confronted American presidents about segregation in the Jim Crow period (the prominent activist William Monroe Trotter was a Fossett descendant), and went to jail in the civil rights era. Learning about families over generations shed light back into the shadows of slavery at Monticello and helped to fill in the wide spaces left by Jefferson’s one-sided records.

Always at the back of my mind was what one African-American visitor said to me as we stood on Mulberry Row, lined with grass verges instead of the cabins and shops where enslaved families had lived, worked, played, and prayed: “We were just erased.” In the absence of reconstructed buildings, our hopes centered on the new tour along the empty plantation street, which quickly exposed the many challenges of telling the story of slavery at Monticello. Guides had to lead groups of up to a hundred people on broiling summer days. The African-American college students who gave some of the tours confronted inappropriate remarks like, “Are you our slave for the day?” All the visitors came armed with preconceptions. Many white people wanted to hear that Jefferson was a “good master” who would have freed his slaves if he could have. Some black visitors viewed slavery through a lens dominated by whips and rape. Many of both races said they would have run away or rebelled if they had been a slave. And the same story could elicit totally different interpretations. When a guide spoke of the garden plots where Monticello’s enslaved families raised an assortment of produce, some saw them as a sign of a kind and indulgent Jefferson allowing his slaves the time and place to supplement their diet. To others they reflected his severity in depriving them of enough food to sustain health. Both missed the point by seeing the situation in terms of Jefferson rather than of the enslaved people themselves. Over centuries, slaves throughout the South struggled to maintain one of their few customary rights, the right to cultivate their “own” garden plots in their “own” time. These provided not just a better diet but access to money, for Monticello’s families sold their surplus produce to the Jefferson household and elsewhere. Without minimizing the harshness of the institution of slavery, we wanted to tell a story not just of oppression, but of creative responses to oppression. Inside the restrictive circle of slavery, Monticello’s African Americans did more than just survive. They protected and nurtured their children, improved conditions for their families, and developed and transmitted skills and a rich culture. They resisted the institution in many more ways than just running away from it.

It’s difficult to ask about the relationship between Jefferson’s antislavery thinking and his beliefs about innate difference and inequality based on race without referencing the recent filmLincoln, which completely sidesteps the issue. You tend to see the two strains as contradictory or at least in tension, but others view them as entirely of a piece/consistent. How would you respond to that assessment?

Some readers of my work have confessed that they need to take frequent breaks from all the bad news—the slave auctions, the cruel overseers, the toiling children. I do, too. So I developed a sideline about Jefferson, American epitome of the Enlightenment. This is an optimistic, generous, and sometimes wonderfully eccentric Jefferson, “interrogating the sun, moon and stars,” watching a Hessian fly lay her eggs, or measuring the thickness of his bedding each night to assess the heat-conducting properties of fabrics and feathers. His lifetime of systematic observation was dedicated to unlocking the secrets of Nature in order to contribute to the improvement of the human condition.

These are consoling topics, but underneath them lurks the dark side of the Enlightenment. Jefferson’s belief in “the scale of beings” and his faith in the perfectibility of man placed men like himself at the top while down below were people of African descent—far behind on the route from barbarism to civilization. At the same time, he was every inch a Virginian, who chose to live by the rule of Virginia law and custom and was deeply tinged by anti-black views. The intensity of his commitment to end an institution he always considered inhumane and unjust was diluted by his Enlightenment trust in progress and his indelible racism. A single session with Jefferson’s writings can cause a present-day reader to cringe or cheer by turns. There is his casual reference to feeding “every animal on my farm except my negroes,” but on another page he tries to find a way to bring an enslaved woman nearer to her “abroad” husband. He recoiled at the sight of European women performing heavy labor and was unbothered by black women grubbing and plowing his own fields. Yet he also experimented with various (though not entirely successful) methods of introducing a measure of humanity into the slave management regime at Monticello in pursuit of a dual and perhaps dubious ideal—a plantation that was both humane and productive.

Jefferson’s actions as a slaveholder were always inflected by the double identity of a slave as human being and property. His effort to unite the couple with the “abroad” marriage was made in connection with the sale of the wife and her children. All his references to uniting couples or treating his slaves well or minimizing use of the whip were qualified by considerations of profit and productivity. Because of his remarkable skills of denial and rationalization and his faith in the “law of nature” that equated self-interest and moral duty (“providence has made our interests & our duties coincide perfectly”), he has projected an image of himself that can look like a hypocrite or a man of contradictions or a tortured soul. I’m not sure I agree. The English author Harriet Martineau captured the “hardening of mind and manner” among southern slaveholders in 1835: “A magic ring seems drawn round those who live amidst slavery [which] gives a circular character to all they think and say and do.” Jefferson’s “magic ring” was a mental Newtonian universe he created for himself, inside which he could tinker with its moving parts and strive for efficiency and “equilibrio” in the belief that all would come right in the end. He is both the man who had “scruples” about selling slaves and who sold over a hundred men, women, and children in his lifetime. He wrote with feeling about bonds of family, and separated children under twelve from their parents (by gift, not by sale). He was an eloquent advocate for equality who closed his imagination to half the people in his state.

There are obvious pitfalls in the kind of microhistory I’ve been talking about. We thank the man who hung on to every piece of paper from the draft of the Declaration to a bill for oats for his Paris stable. But the huge Jeffersonian archive can tempt us to ignore the broad social and economic context beyond the island of Monticello. We work in a rich microclimate that saps the urge to stray beyond it. And there are daily lessons in humility, as new facts keep overturning old conclusions. Even at one of the best-documented sites in the country, we can see only dimly into the distance; clairvoyance is impossible when we have access to only a fraction of the circumstances that affect actions and choices. How can I possibly claim to know why Jefferson did not educate his own enslaved children or why George Granger failed to pack his tobacco crop in 1798 or whether Edith Fossett helped her brother Thruston Hern to run away to Washington in 1817? Even a deep familiarity with a single historic site doesn’t end in any kind of absolute understanding. It leads instead to perpetual inquiry.

The final essay in Those Who Labor for My Happinessconsiders one result of carrying the quest for information far beyond the time and place of Jefferson’s Monticello. For the Getting Word project, Dianne and I interviewed eighty descendants of three daughters of Elizabeth (Betty) Hemings and explored the lives of their ancestors between 1826 and the present. Each branch produced men and women who made monumental efforts to fulfill the promise of Jefferson’s Declaration. William Monroe Trotter and the cousins he probably never knew, Frederick Madison Roberts, and Coralie Franklin Cook were all prominent figures in the battle for racial justice at the very same moment in the early twentieth century. They and their Hemings kin convey the image of a family that is exceptional. There are undoubtedly others like it whose lives and achievements are still waiting to be brought to light.

Reconstructing the Absent Center: Looking for Betsy Ross

Common-place asks Marla R. Miller, author of Betsy Ross and the Making of America (2010) to reflect on the challenges and rewards of writing the biography of someone who left almost no trace in the historical record:

Like most of early America’s working women, Betsy Ross (that is, Elizabeth Griscom Ross Ashburn Claypoole, 1752-1836), a Philadelphia upholsterer and flagmaker from the 1760s to the 1820s, left little in the way of papers. Her iconic status aside, almost no letters, ledgers or journal entries remain from her hand; almost no possessions or places have survived for our contemporary scrutiny. A handful of legal documents and records associated with Philadelphia’s Free Quaker meeting bear her signature, as do a smattering of receipts. A house on Arch Street stands to document the built environment she once knew, and a handful of family possessions are preserved in public and private hands, but these are only small fragments of her world. The career of the Ross legend had attracted some academic interest (in part because, as a product of the late nineteenth century, it left a more robust paper trail), but few scholarly attempts have been made to recover or understand the life behind it, mainly because we have comparatively few of the usual avenues of insight into the mind of the biographer’s subject. Put differently, the subject one would expect to find at the center of a biography was absent.

If the paucity of traditional sources goes a long way toward explaining why, at the turn of the twenty-first century, no one had yet ventured anything like a biography of the legendary flagmaker, the trajectory of women’s history as a field of academic inquiry also has something to do with it. Women’s history, as most readers of this journal know, came out of the women’s movement of the 1960s and 1970s. The rising generation of historians who were drawn to the field in the 1970s and 1980s were anxious to take on hard-hitting, substantive topics like labor unrest, political influence, and the formal and informal regulation of reproduction. No one trying to launch a career in the budding field of women’s history would have taken on a project like Betsy Ross, who by the era of the bicentennial had largely been reduced to a cartoon character, a pin cushion, the salt to George Washington’s pepper. Thirty years later, as I started researching the “life behind the legend,” women’s history was solidly entrenched in our discipline and those issues were no longer in play—though even then I sometimes preferred to describe my research topic as “upholsterers in eighteenth-century Philadelphia” to avoid the whiff of condescension (sometimes verging surprisingly toward contempt) that the name “Betsy Ross” can still conjure. But by and large, studies like Alfred F. Young’s brilliant treatments of Deborah Sampson Gannett and George Robert Twelves Hughes, and Nell Painter’s pathbreaking study of Sojourner Truth, had prepared readers for a scholarly biography of Betsy Ross, despite the comparatively thin documentary record.

But the lack of traditional archival sources remained a significant challenge. Reconstructing the absent center, then, involved three main strategies: seeing familiar sources in new ways, allowing my subject to step to the side while other figures from her world occupy the reader’s attention, and engaging the material record associated with her and her family writ large.

The story of Betsy Ross and the making of the first flag was launched into the public mind in 1870, when her grandson William Canby (1825-1890, the child of Betsy’s daughter Jane Claypoole Canby) recounted to the Historical Society of Pennsylvania a narrative conveyed to him in the 1850s by his aunt, Clarissa Claypoole Wilson (1785-1864). Canby began researching the family story, and, unable to find proof in the archival record that the tale was true, he did the next best thing, and asked his relatives—including Rachel Claypoole Fletcher (1789-d.) and Margaret Boggs (1776-1876)—to record what they remembered hearing about these events in a series of affidavits and other testimonies. These narratives form the basis of the Betsy Ross legend as we know it today, and the family stories (like all family stories) all proved to involve both fact and fiction in varying ratios; but the testimonies also offered opportunities to explore a surprisingly wide range of topics in the social and cultural history of early Philadelphia.

Young’s treatments of Sampson and Hughes have illuminated the ways that stories about the Revolution as they unfolded over the course of the nineteenth century can tell us as much or more about the decades of the telling as they do about the American past. And scholars have used the Ross legend productively to probe their implications for the post-Civil War, Centennial era in which they emerged. Readers have long looked at the family oral histories largely as documents of Victorian sentimentality and centennial wistfulness, as expressions of nationalism and artifacts of gendered cultural tensions—but they remain, too, productive points of entry into the world of the Griscom family itself as well as the historical age their lives and experiences reflected. To be sure, these affidavits concerning the alleged making of the first flag are steeped in patriotic nostalgia, but they also reflect the actual lived experience of women from a large, multi-generational artisanal family. Margaret Boggs, born in 1776, became a celebrated centenarian at an opportune moment, but she also lived and worked in the upholstery trades alongside the flagmaker for many years, joining Betsy’s household after she herself was widowed very young; she was the first of several nieces and daughters to return to the bustling Claypoole house in adulthood, and contributed to the various family enterprises housed there. Rachel lived to recount a version of events that transpired long before her birth, but she also spent a lifetime living and working alongside sisters, cousins, and aunts in upholstery, flagmaking, and other trades. The question is not whether these documents should be accepted or rejected as written: if we read carefully enough, we can have both baby and bathwater, too.

Consider, for instance, Rachel’s testimony. When she made her contribution to the family mythology, she described how young Betsy Griscom walked from her family’s Arch Street home to the workshop of Philadelphia upholsterer John Webster “to visit her sister.” “While there,” the story continues, “a piece of difficult work was given to one of the girls who failed in it and Betsy said she could do it, and surprised Mr. Webster by the neatness and beauty of her work. He at once went to her mother’s and asked her to let him have Betsy [who] was unwilling at first to let her go. Mr. Webster offered to pay grandmother (Griscom) the wages of a woman in the kitchen & give Betsy a thorough knowledge of the business. So her mother yielded.” This anecdote is obviously meant to preserve the image of an intelligent, quick-witted young Betsy, the needlework prodigy, to foreshadow the heroic contribution her stitchery would later make to the fledgling war effort. But it also offers an intriguing glimpse of artisanal work in early Philadelphia, as well as an earlier moment in her family history, worlds Rachel knew. In this telling, one of Betsy’s older sisters—Susanna, Sarah, Rebecca or Mary (the eldest, Deborah, being already married and out of the house)—was already working in Webster’s shop when Betsy visited her there, and, since “one of the girls” was struggling with an assignment, then at least three girls, and perhaps more, were employed by the London-trained upholsterer and laboring under the supervision of Ann King, who “had the care of women’s work” in Webster’s enterprise. The upholsterer is remembered to have approached Rebecca Griscom rather than Samuel to inquire about the girl’s availability, and he was willing to pay a kitchen servant’s wages in exchange for the novice’s labor. Though it wasn’t her objective, Rachel’s account can’t help but shed light on the upholstery workshops that figured so largely in her family history and in her own life experience.

Second, reconstructing the life of my subject also demanded that I skirt, if not altogether violate, the conventions of traditional biography. Betsy Ross is rarely able to hold her place at the center of these chapters—the archival record is simply too slight. Making a virtue of necessity, instead we see her parents, aunts, and uncles, we meet her sisters and brothers, we consider her co-workers, children, and nieces. And in truth, we all know, from our own lives, that the things that happen to our sisters, our brothers, our parents or our children are things that happen to us as well. The eighteenth century is so very different from today in so many ways, but not, I think, in this one. Embracing that reality transformed the project from a conventional biography to a more encompassing look at the world of this large artisanal family over, in the end, some six generations.

Elizabeth Griscom a.k.a Betsy Ross grew up in a large household as one of seventeen children, and it became clear fairly early on that there were stories to tell about her several sisters—Deborah’s marriage to cloth dyer and scourer Everard Bolton, her sisters’ encounters with discipline and disownment after their marriages outside the unity of the Quaker community, Mary’s child born out of wedlock, Rachel’s own work in the upholstery trades, the death of Hannah’s husband and subsequent effort to salvage some of the family’s goods in the face of insolvency, and Rebecca’s sorrowful death in the almshouse. If the project began, in some ways, as an effort to rescue the “real” Betsy Ross from obscurity (or, worse, from misunderstanding cloaked in familiarity), it became an opportunity to tell stories about this ordinary artisanal family in early Philadelphia, and through them to understand better the world of the iconic flagmaker. From start to finish, Betsy Ross remained elusive to me as an individual. What I could see far more clearly was the several generations of a Pennsylvania family whose fortunes fluctuated over time and space, for whom the Revolution was arguably more bane than boon, their patriotic family storytelling notwithstanding.

With my subject so elusive in the archive, material culture offered a compellingly direct link to her world, though this proved another genre of sources that illuminated Betsy’s world obliquely at best. The Betsy Ross House in Philadelphia does own Betsy’s spectacles as well as a silver snuff box engraved “EC,” Betsy’s initials after her marriage to her third husband, John Claypoole, and a petticoat, remade in the early 1800s from an older silk dress. But here again, objects associated with others proved enlightening, in more ways than one. In the course of researching the book (as well as co-curating a museum exhibition based on the project mounted in 2010 by the Winterthur Museum), I had the great good fortune to become acquainted with several descendants, who (I report with no small amount of gratitude) greeted our hesitant inquiries with generosity rather than suspicion. One led us—literally led us, that is—through a basement piled high with the detritus we all accumulate through life to a far corner, where, beneath stacks of sewing and quilting supplies, sat the sea chest John Claypoole packed for his 1792 voyage to Demerara; another drove to a Baltimore bakery with a spectacular pieced silk signature quilt made in the 1841 for Betsy’s grand-daughter Catherine (and so documenting the family’s social circle), while another shared a stunning appliqué cotton quilt made by Betsy’s daughter Clarissa Claypoole. The latter bore a striking resemblance to another quilt, owned by a collector, made by Clarissa’s cousin and Betsy’s niece (and co-worker) Margaret Boggs, and the two quilts together—both moving examples of beautiful needlework produced by women who otherwise sewed for a living—offered insight, if indirect, into their own skill (one flag attributed to Clarissa survives in the collections of the Betsy Ross house, but otherwise, none of the sewing that they did in the course of their trade is at present known to survive). But more importantly, they served as a reminder that these women embraced outlets of aesthetic expression broader than that offered by flags and chair covers. More interestingly, the stylistic tradition with which both quilts are associated—the polychrome floral motifs cut from polished cotton chintz, their arrangement on a neutral cotton background, the inclusion of inscriptions—underscored the significance that new religious communities came to assume later in the family’s history.

Certainly the most emotionally compelling artifact I encountered in the course of the work is the cane carried by Betsy’s third husband, John Claypoole. I had known, from archival research, that Claypoole suffered from some disability late in life that impaired his mobility; in the early nineteenth century, with John unable to work, the Claypoole household depended on the charity of the Free Quaker community. The cause of John’s disability is unknown, but some sources gestured toward injuries he received during the Revolution, while others hinted that he had had some sort of stroke. Some documents said he was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to make of it all. And then on one extraordinary day in Maryland a descendant reached into the back of her kitchen closet and pulled out John Claypoole’s cane. The artifact—a gift from his son-in-law, the ship captain Isaac Silliman (who had married Betsy’s daughter Eliza Ashburn, the only surviving child from her marriage to mariner Joseph Ashburn), probably crafted at sea—confirmed that he was not in fact paralyzed, at least not at this date. The head of the cane was carved in the shape of a dog’s head, and it carried a Masonic symbol. The shaft was marked “I.S. to J.C, 1811.” The most obvious conclusion is that Claypoole was still ambulatory even in 1811. But it was another inscription—”John E. Claypoole, 74 So Front Street”—that made me sit up straight; it was an “if lost, please return to” note for the finder, should the elderly Claypoole leave it behind on some ramble through the neighborhood. The whole package—long days at sea bodied forth in a gift thoughtfully carved by a son-in-law for the adoptive father of his own beloved wife, and the image of old John Claypoole making his way down the street to the beehive that was the house on Front Street—made this family real to me in ways that the documentary record perhaps never could.

Perhaps that Maryland kitchen could even be called an artifact in my search for the absent center. I was writing about an American icon, but Betsy Ross was not only a mother, a sister, an aunt, and a grandmother—she is also an ancestor to living people who welcomed me into their homes and into their families. Getting to know so many of Betsy’s descendants as I was writing kept me honest in a way that I came very much to appreciate. If ever the temptation came to make a flip or glib remark or easy joke at the expense of my subject, I quickly recalled that she was not, for one set of readers, an abstract figure. While I never pulled any analytical punch for the sake of her descendants (who are, I should say, well-read, sophisticated students of history who did not need me to point out places where family stories broke down), the past was made much more immediate to me by these connections. I have often joked with students about how much easier it is to write about the eighteenth century than the twentieth, as my long-dead subjects are far less likely to contradict me. But my acquaintance with the grandchildren of Betsy’s grandchildren helped me remember that we are not, in truth, always so very distant from our subjects.

Perhaps this brings us full circle—the present-day family of Betsy Ross reminds us that behind the legend there are and have always been very real people. The community of family members who told these stories in the last quarter of the nineteenth century embraced the story of the “first flag” for reasons ranging from tension over women’s suffrage to patriotic longing, and the story of Betsy Ross, to be sure, sheds light on that moment in time. But those narratives also help us understand the lives of laboring women of the Revolutionary era, an enterprise fragile enough. The storytelling of Clarissa Wilson and William Canby, of Rachel Fletcher and Margaret Boggs, and of the present-day descendents of Betsy Ross each offer opportunities to push past the romance, to peer through the haze of nostalgia, and find vibrant communities of artisanal women in the American past.

Engaging the stories of the dozens of men and women whose lives crossed Betsy’s horizon at various points in her life necessarily dislodges the subject from the center of her own story. But perhaps she would have found this position a familiar one, enmeshed as she was in thick ties that were simultaneously familial and commercial, political and spiritual. Here I only partially mean to cue the sorts of narratives Barbara Taylor contemplates in her thoughtful contribution to the June 2009 American Historical Review roundtable on “Historians and Biography,” in which some sort of pre-modern “self” “rooted in communal life, lacking any sense of unique individuality,” gives way to “the modern Western self, a ‘bounded, unique’ individual possessing innate character and psychological interiority.” But in the end, I do suspect that de-centering my subject produced a more truthful telling of her life—a closer approximation of the lived experience of working women in eighteenth-century America, whose lives were inextricably connected to their families (past, present, and future), and embedded in neighborhoods, women whose experience was shaped by both the fellowship of faith and communities of artisanal practice. Departing from convention allowed me to show readers something about the lived experience of the eighteenth century that is certainly truer than I would have been able to achieve had the documentary record been more cooperative.

Though many readers come to the book primarily to learn whether the “first flag” story they learned in childhood is true, that question was the least interesting to me while writing, and the book leaves the “did she or didn’t she” question wide open (in the end, I suggest that there are probably some grains of truth at the bottom of the family legend, but just which those grains might be—and their relative weight—is very much left up to the reader). I have remained, on the whole, far less interested in Betsy Ross than I am in “Aunt Claypoole,” the woman whose crowded Front Street home sheltered a substantial flagmaking enterprise at least in the early nineteenth century, whatever went before. I perhaps possess some romantic attachment to Ross, but it’s not the young widow of the Revolution who captures my historical affection: it’s the aging artisan whose spectacles today document her failing vision, the mature sister, aunt, mother, and grandmother on whom so many others came to depend—the woman at the center of one lively artisanal world.

National Violence: A fresh look at the founding era

In This Violent Empire (2010) Carroll Smith-Rosenberg fuses cultural and political history to analyze the violence at the core of U.S. national identity.Common-place asked her: how can we better understand the United States’ long history of racist, sexist and xenophobic violence, and what tools can cultural history offer us as we explore this part of our past?

“Violence,” James Baldwin tells us, (and who would know better than he?) “has been the American daily bread since we have heard of America. This violence is not merely literal and actual,” Baldwin continues, “but appears to be admired and lusted after and is key to the American imagination.” History supports Baldwin’s vision. From the passage of the Alien and Sedition Acts in the 1790s, through the Civil War Draft Riots, frontier and Klan violence, the Red Scare, the internment of Japanese Americans during the Second World War, Joseph McCarthy’s war on domestic radicals to our current war on terrorism, fear of all who differ from an idealized vision of the “True American” has driven our public policies and colored our popular culture.

But why? Why did a nation of immigrants, a people who see themselves as a model for democracies around the world, embrace a culture of violence? InThis Violent Empire I traced the history of this violence to the origins of the United States, to the very processes by which the founding generation struggled to create a coherent national identity in the face of deep-seated ethnic, racial, religious, and regional divisions. Their efforts, I argue, have left us with a national identity riven with uncertainty, contradiction and conflicts. America’s paranoia, racism and violence lie in the instability of our national sense of self.

That our sense of national cohesion was hard come by and unstable should not surprise us. The new United States was born of a violent and sudden revolution. For decades after that revolution, the states, far from united, were an uncertain amalgam of diverse peoples, religions, and languages. No common history, no government infrastructures bound them together. Nor did any single, unquestioned system of values and beliefs help unify the founding generation. Rather a host of conflicting political discourses, religious beliefs, and social values destabilized the new nation’s self-image.

As did three deeply incompatible ideological positions that form the core of our national self image. First and foremost is our commitment to the Declaration of Independence’s celebration of the freedom and equality of all men, the universality of unalienable rights. This commitment constitutes the bedrock of our claims to national legitimacy and moral standing. It makes us “the land of the free,” a model for democracies around the world. But two other deeply held beliefs dramatically contradict this self image. Having committed themselves to a universal vision of equality, the founding generation simultaneously envisioned their infant republic as “the greatest empire the hand of time had ever raised up to view,” in the words of patriot and Congregationalist minister Timothy Dwight. Such a vision justified European Americans’ determined march across the American continent, a vision their new Constitution upheld by declaring Native Americans “wards” of a white American state and depriving them of political agency, equality and unalienable rights. But of course the Constitution does far more. Through its Three-fifths and Fugitive Slave clauses, it made the United States the land, not of the free, but of slaves and slave owners. What ideological disconnects and contradictions! What an unstable bedrock upon which to construct a new national identity!

Seeking to efface these discordant discourses as well as constitute a sense of national collectivity for the motley array of European settlers who had gathered on the nether side of the North Atlantic, the new nation’s founding generation had to imagine a New American whom citizens as diverse as Georgia planters (who owned slaves and wanted Cherokee lands), Vermont hard-scrabble farmers (who were committed to the abolition of slavery), and Quaker merchants (who were ardent defenders of Native American rights) could identify with, wish to become, boast that they were.

On the pages of the new republic’s rapidly expanding popular print culture—the newspapers, political magazines and tracts, novels, plays, poetry, sermons, press that proliferated in the 1780s and ’90s—the image of a New American gradually took form. How was he initially envisioned? First and foremost, he was a virile and manly republican citizen, endowed with unalienable rights and devoted to liberty and the independence of his country. Secondly, descended from European stock, he was white; no trace of racial mixture darkened his skin. Lastly, he was educated, propertied, industrious and respectable—in short, bourgeois, or at the very least, of the middling classes. Of course, the majority of those residing in the new republic failed to meet these criteria.

How then did the new republic’s print culture go about convincing its readers—and eventually a broad swath of the American people—to embrace their projected New America and the national identity they sought to construct around him?

In support of their newly imagined American, the popular press presented a series of constituting Others, abject and threatening figures, whose differences from the settlers overshadowed the divisions that distinguished the settlers from one another. Their abject qualities, it was hoped, would convince readers to embrace the figure of the New American, to desire to be him or, perhaps even more critically, to be governed by him. Together, the imagined New American and his constituting negative Others were designed to give European Americans a sense of national homogeneity and thus coherence that the reality of their lives did not support. As a result, the new nation’s real ethnic and ideological heterogeneity was denied. Rather than as source of hybrid vitality, it was presented as a source of danger. Difference, diversity became suspect, disdained as polluting, as un-American.

Eventually four principal Others emerged on the pages of the popular press, figures who, only slightly refigured, remain with us today: the disorderly and destructive poor (initially embodied as Shay and Whiskey rebels—later as genetically deformed Jukes and Kallikaks and today as inner city gangs, “welfare mothers,” and illegal immigrants); foolish and dependent women; savage Native Americans; and initially enslaved and always inferior African Americans.

12.1.Smith-Rosenberg.1 — Carroll Smith-Rosenberg

But these Others would not stay other. Time and again on the pages of political magazines and tracts, plays and novels, the New American’s Others fused with him, problematizing his manliness, his claims to republican virtue. Distinctions between European and Native Americans, free and slave labor, collapsed. Masculinity appeared more performed than real. With each collapse of difference, the stability of the new national identity grew more uncertain. The republican press turned upon the Others with rage born of frustration and fear. On its pages the New American and his Others merged in a violent, at times deadly dance of sameness and difference—a dance that enmeshes us to this day. In This Violent Empire, I carefully trace the collapse of difference and the rhetorical rage that collapse engendered.

In my efforts to trace the processes by which our national identity took form, I found traditional historical narrative structures and forms of evidence insufficient to the task. Increasingly I turned to literary critical practices (rhetorical analyses; close readings not only of political texts, but of novels, plays, poems, boldly intermixing genres) and to poststructural and postcolonial theory, seeking ways to penetrate the maze of contradictions and instabilities that enveloped the founding generation’s efforts to create a national sense of self. In the process I came to think of national identities not as the products of literal experiences (the exigencies of the revolutionary struggle; the decades of resistance to British commercial and political regulations) but as rhetorical constructions, composites of conflicting discourses, multiple, layered, fluid, often contradictory. National identities are designed, British cultural theorist Stuart Hall tells us, to “stabilize, fix … guarantee an unchanging oneness or cultural belongingness.” They provide citizens with a sense of “history and ancestry held in common … [a sense of] some common origin or shared characteristics,” no matter how artificial, how fictional that sense of commonality. At the same time, they depend on patterns of systematic exclusion. Again Stuart Hall: “Identities can function as points of identification and attachment onlybecause of their capacity to exclude … The unity, the internal homogeneity, which the term identity treats as fundamental is not a natural but a constructed form of closure … constantly destabilized by what it leaves out.” Those left out constitute the boundaries of our natural belonging.

But boundaries are porous and deceptive. Within their confines, we bond with other national subjects, confirming our similarities, no matter how imaginary those similarities may be. Outside these boundaries, our Others hover, threatening to penetrate and pollute our sense of national unity. Seen thus, boundaries and Others are oppositional forces. But boundaries not only divide but connect us to our Others. They are those points where self and Other are in closest contact. If we think of actual national boundaries, those excluded stand just on the other side of what is often a thin, imaginary line, at times literally a line in the sand. On either side of these boundaries, borderlands stretch, liminal spaces of fluidity, hybridity—and transgression. Within these borderlands, our Others beckon to us. Emblems of the proscribed, they point to forbidden possibilities, tempt us down prohibited paths. Consciously or unconsciously, we seek to incorporate our Others, at times in response to deep-rooted fears of isolation and loss, at other times, for qualities we imagine they have and long to make our own. At still other times we turn from them in disgust, for, as often as not, they are imaginative projections of our own worst qualities, our dark mirror images. To paraphrase Pogo, we have met our Other, and he is us. National identities, dependent on distinctions between our selves and our Others, are illusory and unstable.

All this may seem terribly abstract and theoretical. Let me attempt to make the abstract concrete by examining an incident that occurred at the beginning of George Washington’s presidency. A puzzling but telling example of the complex relation that tied European and Native Americans to one another, it will, I hope, illustrate the layered and uncertain nature of national identities, the contradictory relation between the national subject and his Others. This example will also, I trust, demonstrate the ways cultural historians can contribute to our understanding of political processes of nation building.

On July 21, 1790, a flotilla of ships dotted New York harbor (then the nation’s capital), eminent citizens gathered and a delegation of Creek warriors stepped ashore to sign a treaty of peace and friendship with the new republic. Prominent among those greeting the Creek delegates were officers and members of New York City’s Tammany Society. Proudly proclaiming themselves “sachems” and “braves,” carrying bows, arrows and tomahawks and bedecked in “Indian” costumes, they had marched from their “Great Wigwam” (as they called their clubhouse in the old Exchange Building on Broad Street) to Coffee House Slip to welcome the Creek delegation. From there, they escorted the Creek warriors first to the home of the Secretary of War and then to President Washington’s residence, where they were joined by the governor of New York, senators and representatives from Georgia, army and militia officers. The day ended with a state dinner, attended by the Secretary of War, the Governor of New York, the Creek delegation, and the Tammany “braves.” The historian of the event reported that the Creek delegates were “very much pleased” to see the Tammany members in full “Indian” costume.

Why would hardworking European American shopkeepers and artisans (the Society drew its members primarily from the city’s middling and laboring classes, and included a number of newly arrived and politically radical Irish immigrants) parade down crowded streets in feathers and war paint? (Nor were Tammany “braves” and “sachems” the only European Americans to publicly play at being Indians. From the 1720s on, elite Philadelphia merchants and southern planters had celebrated May 1 as St. Tammany’s Day, dancing around May poles festooned with native American flowers, drinking and feasting long into nights that ended with the burning of St. Tammany in effigy.) Repeatedly during the eighteenth century and at no time more intensely than during the century’s last three decades as the new republic took form, European Americans had engaged in savage, often genocidal, warfare with Native Americans. Captivity narratives and tales of Indian warfare (the new nation’s first best sellers) repeatedly represented Native Americans as savage murderers, sadistic torturers, heathens who lacked any sense of God or, almost as telling, of private property. If any figure stood in the popular press as the European American’s dark and dangerous Other, it was the Native American warrior. How can we begin to understand what led European Americans to playfully don the garb of their savage enemies, to play the surrogate, the counterfeit Indian?

I sought the answer to this question in the nature of surrogacy itself. Surrogates are officially appointed successors, deputies with authority to represent an absent one, to act in his place. Since their first settlements, European Americans had represented themselves as God’s appointed successors to America’s indigenous peoples with jurisdiction over their estates, that is, the North American continent. Because European Americans would use native lands far more productively, native lands were rightly theirs—along with the name “American.” But European Americans did not need to stick feathers in their hair or coat their faces with war paint. They acquired the rights to land, name and authority through war and diplomacy, not charades and masquerades.

And Tammany performances were just that, charades, masquerades, performances. Performances assume audiences and convey social and political messages. Tammany’s most obvious audience was of course the Creek delegation. One can only imagine what the Creek warriors thought of New York artisans in ersatz “Indian” garb. Tammany’s message, however, was far from obscure. In parodying native practices, Tammany members declared that Manhattan was no longer an Indian island, that European Americans had indeed replaced Native Americans as rulers of America. Even more, Tammany braves’ mimicry proclaimed European Americans’ power to misrepresent and recast those they claimed they were replacing in ways that served their own social and political needs.

The Creek warriors, however, were not the Tammany’s only audience; their fellow Americans constituted a second, perhaps even more important audience. Mimicking Native Americans, Tammany’s middling and immigrant members mimicked earlier elite European Americans (merchants/planters) mimicking Native Americans with their May Day festivities. Tammany artisans thus enacted a form of social democracy. Not only did they insist on their equivalence with earlier colonial elites, they declared their active citizenship by publicly participating in affairs of state, standing shoulder to shoulder with President Washington and his cabinet. For middling artisans and radical Irish refugees, that was a very important political assertion.

But we have to consider still more complex aspects of surrogacy. Performance theorist Joseph Roach argues that societies use surrogacy to imaginatively mediate their experiences of radical social change and loss. Certainly, the new Americans needed cultural instruments through which to articulate and ameliorate the radical social, demographic, and political transformations that had marked their lives: their loss of their centuries-old British identity, their sense of being a solitary republic in a sea of monarchies, their fears of being isolated white settlements on the lip of a red continent. Few relations were more traumatic than those between European Americans and Native Americans. The figures of both the savage, terrifying Native American and the savage, terrifying European American who had relentlessly battled him had to be domesticated, incorporated into the ongoing civil and orderly world European Americans worked to create. Chanting make-believe Indian songs, stitching beads and feathers onto their costumes, middling New Yorkers stitched carefully re-formed and tamed memories of their nation’s conflicts into the ongoing psychic and cultural fabric of their new Republic.

But the July event on Coffee House slip points to even more complex forms of Othering and its destabilizing potential. Tammany’s mimicking was not simply a determined assertion of white power. It was also an anxious admission of need. As Philip Deloria has pointed out, European Americans needed to feel connected to the American continent, to become one with the land—and with its indigenous peoples. While condemning them as sadistic savages, European Americans believed Native Americans garnered true nobility from their association with the land: the love of freedom that only the land’s vast expanses could give; a sense of honor, uncorrupted by the niceties of refined culture; and, above all, a fierce, wild courage in defense of liberty and honor. It was these qualities European Americans felt they desperately needed if they were to prove themselves different from, more virtuous, more liberty-loving, than Europeans. To maintain their uniqueness from Europe, they had to embrace their Other, the Native American, reimagined as the Noble Savage. Put another way, as European Americans romantically imagined Native Americans merging with the land, so they romantically imagined themselves merging with Native Americans. The Native Other was no other after all.

However, their difference from Europeans rested on no more stable ground than their difference from Native Americans. Incorporating the image of the Noble Savage, European Americans incorporated a European literary trope, an image born of European reformers’ desires to use an idealized, imaginary Other to critique the corrupt practices of Enlightenment Europe. How ironic: the figure of the Native American as scripted by elite European philosophes and performed by European Americans, initially for elite audiences during the colonial period but ultimately by Irish political refugees in Jeffersonian America—this was how the whitening of America’s national identity was staged.

But still confusions mount. In many ways, European Americans desired just that: to position themselves as Europeans were positioned—heirs of the Enlightenment, bearers of civilization, polished gentlemen. Although needing to perform the virile American, they felt an equally strong need to perform the enlightened and cultured (European) gentleman. For them, both roles were deeply entwined. It was as if the new Republic’s national identity were played out on a revolving stage. At one time the erudite gentleman claimed the spotlight, at other times, the noble warrior did. Ultimately they fused, for European Americans could not disentangle their two roles. The urban gentleman without the noble warrior would have appeared too effete, too European, to build an American national identity around. The noble savage without the urban gentleman would have seemed too brutal. Combined, they strengthened European Americans’ self-presentation. But they also confused that presentation, revealing the European American to be a deeply divided and contradictory figure, unable to escape fusion with his constituting Others. Needing to consolidate a national identity, the new republican press turned upon its recalcitrant Others with rage. They were indeed dangerous, seductive, deceptive enemies. They must be expelled from the nation body politic—with violence if necessary.

In This Violent Empire I sought to trace the United States’ long history of racism, sexism, xenophobia, and paranoia to the very origins of the new nation and the struggles of the founding generation to create a sense of national coherence and unity. But rather than celebrating the true diversity that is the United States, the founders (and we to this day) celebrate a fictionalized vision of ourselves as a homogenous people, a people who, again in Timothy Dwight’s words, “shared the same religion, the same manners, the same interests, the same languages … and principles.” All who differed must be excluded. We see this operating from the nation’s opening decade with the passage in the 1790s of the Alien and Sedition Acts, the Naturalization Act, the Enemy Friends Act, legislation that aimed at the arrest and deportation of feared aliens, “terrorists” in the words of President John Adams, whose support of the French Revolution his administration read as undermining national security and cohesion. Many of us still think of ourselves as a people made cohesive by our sameness, not our hybridity, united behind our picket fences, “as American as apple pie.” We thus render our diversity suspect, see difference as the parent “of endless contests, slaughter and desolation.” Even more significantly, rather than facing the deep-seated ideological and moral quandaries embedded in “the United States’ dilemma,” we turn our fury on those who disturb our imaginary homogeneity, see our polyglot and multicultural cities not as emblems of an empowered hybrid culture (a culture admired around the world) but as sites of pollution and national danger. The most powerful nation on earth, we seek security in increasingly fortified borders—in higher walls, klieg lights, border guards, body scanning and constitutionally questionable domestic surveillance. Displacing our feared diversity on to imagined Others, we turn upon them with violence.

Carroll Smith-Rosenberg is the Mary Frances Berry Collegiate Professor of History, Women’s Studies and American Culture, University of Michigan, Emerita. The author of several books and more than 40 essays on American history and culture and women’s history, she has twice received the Binkley-Stephenson Award for best article in the Journal of American History. Her most recent book is This Violent Empire: The Birth of an American National Identity (2010).

An Age of Print?: The History of the Book and the New American Nation

With the publication of An Extensive Republic: Print, Culture, and Society in the New Nation, 1790-1840(Chapel Hill, 2010), Mary Kelley and Robert Gross have brought to completion the American Antiquarian Society’s five-volume A History of the Book in America. In a project that has involved historians, bibliographers, literary critics, and sociologists on the editorial board, this is the only volume to have been edited exclusively by historians. Common-place asked Kelley and Gross to reflect on the larger historiographical implications of their work. How does the history of the book in the early republic illuminate and alter our understanding of the formative decades of the new American nation?

Was the early republic “an Age of Print” made glorious by a “reading generation”? So proclaimed a rising chorus of voices during the 1820s and 1830s in celebration of the progress of letters in a new republic upholding the ideal of an informed citizenry and applauding the advance of civilization across the continent book by book. And so, too, in a more sober vein have subsequent historians taken the extension of communications and the proliferation of printed media to be central and positive developments in the making of the American nation in its first half-century of existence. What could be more indispensable to representative government than a vital free press? What better spur to economic development than the rapid circulation of information through growing markets? What more essential service to national unity than the forging of a common American identity through the creation of a unique native literature?

Those claims are not merely rhetorical. They do identify important features of the vibrant print culture of the new republic. Yet the familiar narrative also oversimplifies, for it charts a linear and uniform course for a society still bound by colonial precedents and pulled in different directions at once. As co-editors of volume 2 of A History of the Book in America, we were faced with a challenge not unlike what the founders of the new nation confronted: establishing an effective organizing framework for a decentralized people rapidly gaining in numbers, diversifying in character, multiple in loyalties, and spreading across space. And how to do so with thirty-two contributors, experts in every aspect of a multifarious print culture, who were commissioned to write about publishing and printing at a time of economic and technological change, about politics and journalism, schools, colleges, libraries, religion, benevolent associations, learned societies, reform groups, ethnic and racial communities, and authors and booksellers in an ever-growing list of genres? One out of many: to that ideal the new nation was dedicated. But can a survey of the period 1790 to 1840 find sufficient commonality among its heterogeneous parts to carve out an identity distinct from “the colonial book in the Atlantic world,” which precedes it in the series, and from “the industrial book” that succeeds it?

Our answer is crystallized in the notion of An Extensive Republic—not just a title for the volume but a clue to the nature of “print, culture, and society in the new nation.” “An extensive republic” evokes both the immense geographical terrain over which Americans sprawled in this era and the fundamental economic, political, and intellectual challenges of organizing new communities, markets, and governments across this far-flung space. It had once been a commonplace of political philosophy that republics could survive only in small city-states, where the rulers were close to the people. The framers of the Constitution broke with this premise and brought forth a federal government distant from its citizens and dependent on its constituent parts. Would such an extensive regime last? Decentralization represented a necessary adaptation to the “tyranny of distance” holding a scattered people in its grasp. But it also suited popular preferences and guided the crafting of public policy. The extensive republic was a deliberate creation in the realm of print: an expansive world of communications driven by the choices of a heterogeneous people enjoying unprecedented freedom from state control but still subject to constraints by religious and cultural traditions, economic privations, and egregious inequalities and disparities of power in everyday existence. Seen through the lens of print culture, the early republic marked a distinct epoch in American life.

Consider the singular path taken by the new nation in the world of print. Law and public policy promoted open communications. In contrast to Britain and France, the new republic forswore the state powers customarily employed to police opinion. State and federal constitutions guaranteed liberty of the press, and after the Federalists fell from power, prosecution for seditious libel waned as a threat. No stamp taxes restricted the availability of newspapers to an economic elite. No public authorities inspected the mail to hunt out dissent. No customs officers barred dangerous books from crossing American borders. Congress opened the way to the unrestricted reprinting of foreign titles, since only books produced by U.S. citizens (and resident aliens) qualified for protection under the 1790 Copyright Act. Such policies set the terms by which Americans gained access to information and entertainment from the wider world, unlike Canadians, who remained a cultural colony of Great Britain down to the twentieth century, and unlike the subjects of the United Kingdom themselves, most of whom were closed out of the market for new books by a publishing industry catering to the social and economic elite. The American reading public enjoyed a wider selection of current books, both foreign and domestic, at lower prices than anywhere else in the Atlantic world.

The federal government did not simply keep its hands off the press. It also fostered communications by building a postal system to knit the country together. Under the Post Office Acts of 1792 and 1794, newspapers and magazines circulated through the mail at subsidized rates, while newspaper editors exchanged issues and reprinted from one another at no cost. Other public favors were bestowed by politicians at all levels, who dispensed contracts to print the laws, official advertisements to newspapers, and appointments to patronage posts. Politics—the rise of organized parties and the furious fight for power among them—drove the expansion of the press, with numerous printers and editors earning their pay as editorial voices for partisan causes. Did this print culture sustain the critical public sphere of the eighteenth century? Not in the terms set by Jürgen Habermas, whose concept of “the bourgeois public sphere,” attuned as it is to the ancien regime of European monarchies, no longer suits a republican polity, where the great majority of officials were chosen at the polls by an ever-wider electorate of white males. The ideal of an impartial press, acting for the common good, faltered; politics took on the competitive spirit of the marketplace. Yet, “the public sphere of civil society” remained crucial to those groups—notably, women and African Americans—excluded from formal participation in the affairs of state. Obliged to see themselves represented—and often caricatured—in the press through a white male gaze, they created independent forums in voluntary associations and in print to engage with the events and debates of the day, fashion their own identities, and contribute to the making of public opinion.

Distinct from British models of hierarchy and power, the extensive republic of print nonetheless owed substantial debts to the former mother country. Nothing surprised us more in assembling this volume than the continuing dependence of the new nation on the texts, practices, and institutions of British print culture. Before the Revolution, the colonial bookshelf was stocked with publications shipped from London; after Independence, British titles continued to dominate but now in editions “made in America,” as booksellers from Boston to Charleston reprinted with abandon. American publishing was built on piracy, following a strategy pioneered in Edinburgh and Dublin and transplanted to our leading port cities. The entrepreneurs of the book trade often spoke with Scottish and Irish accents; so did the workmen at the press and the case. The business model of book-selling derived from British experience. Small-scale firms constantly struggled to stay afloat, publishing houses banded together to cut costs, limit risks, and reduce competition. Far from welcoming the brave new world of laissez-faire capitalism, they clung to conservative ways. No “market revolution” propelled their pursuit of profit. Congregating in Northeastern cities, book publishers could not keep up with the westward growth of the country. Well into the 1830s they relied on a technology of printing that would have been familiar to Gutenberg. It was nonprofit voluntary societies—the American Bible Society and the American Tract Society—and not commercial enterprises that took the lead in adopting steam-powered presses and stereotype plates. Even then the leading inventions originated across the Atlantic. Slow to innovate, cautious about risk, the book trade could not sell directly to a nationwide market until the coming of the railroad. In an extensive republic the implacable realities of geography favored reliance on the tried-and-true.

Whether they got their print from commercial publishers or voluntary societies, readers were well supplied. We were struck by the initiative shown by those evangelical Protestants who sought a national conversion and a global millennium. Determined to disseminate tracts and Bibles “with cheapness, security, and expedition to the most distant places,” as the American Bible Society put it, they flooded the market. Between 1825 and 1835, its first decade of existence, the interdenominational American Tract Society issued more than thirty million tracts. In the three years between 1829 and 1831 alone, its pamphlets reached five million Americans annually. Religious works, sold for a pittance or given away for free, competed for readers’ attention with newspapers and magazines of all sorts, including the new urban penny papers, and a proliferation of genres from almanacs, dictionaries, and schoolbooks to geographies, histories, and novels. The works that readers acquired, that they read in local libraries, in post offices, in literary societies, and in taverns, and that they got from itinerant evangelicals, served widely varying purposes. Readers “poached,” as Michel de Certeau has described the agency readers exercise as they engage texts and write them anew.

Nowhere is the appropriation of literacy and print more apparent than in two of the new reading and writing publics on which we focus. Between 1790 and 1840, African Americans and Native Americans, faced with relentless discrimination, looked to reading and writing as political and cultural resources in their push for liberty and sovereignty, respectively.

African Americans deployed literacy and print in the sustained and sustaining challenges they mounted against slavery and discrimination. The meanings attached to these technologies depended upon specific and highly localized contexts. We found Ellen Butler’s exposure to literacy particularly instructive. In recalling life on a plantation in Louisiana, she described an opportunity that had a double edge: “When the white folks go off they writes on the meal and flour with they fingers. Then they know if us steals meal… That the way us larn how to write.” Free-born abolitionist Sarah Mapps Douglass became conscious of the power of literacy and print in strikingly different circumstances. Initially, she had identified herself as an African American in the context of membership in Philadelphia’s black elite. As Douglass told members of the Female Literary Association, she had “formed a little world of my own, and cared not to move beyond its precincts.” Threats from whites who were seizing northern free blacks and sending them South and increased contact with southern blacks who sought refuge from slavery in the North widened her horizons, generating racial solidarity with all African Americans. “The cause of the slave [is now] my own,” Douglass declared at one of the literary society’s meetings. “Has not this been your experience, my sisters?” Many responded in the affirmative. Not only did the members engage in practices of reading and writing, but they also followed Douglass’s advice and chose texts that were “altogether directed to the subject of slavery.” Those readings were taken directly from William Lloyd Garrison’s Liberator, and they inspired conversations that led, in turn, to published essays in that abolitionist organ.

For Native Americans, the specificity of context governing African Americans’ experiences was equally important. Consider the Cherokee, who continued to struggle for basic rights newly independent white Americans called their own. For them, too, literacy and print carried multiple meanings and possibilities. In the wake of the Revolution, which brought military and political defeat and the loss of millions of acres of ancestral lands, the Cherokee found themselves on the defensive as they engaged in yet another battle for survival as an autonomous and sovereign nation. In this struggle the Cherokee embarked on an ambitious cultural renovation. The effort followed two trajectories: the spread of English-language literacy among an influential but relatively small number of Cherokees and the invention by the Cherokee Sequoyah of a written system of language, which was rapidly adopted by many of his countrymen. English-language literacy enabled the creation of a national political structure with a written constitution and a written body of laws, both of which were designed to validate assertions of sovereignty. Equally important, English-language fluency empowered Cherokee leaders in the negotiation of treaties with state and federal officials, who remained relentless in demands for land.

These innovations entailed cultural costs. Representations of Cherokees as a separate and self-sustaining people were elided, and properly “civilized” and “Christianized” exemplars took their place. Perhaps the most famous of these icons, the native Christian convert Catharine Brown, appeared in a series of portrayals compiled by Congregationalists affiliated with the American Board of Commissioners for Foreign Missions, one of the most expansive of the voluntary societies bent on putting the “heathen” on the path to salvation. The Memoir of Catharine Brown: A Christian Indian of the Cherokee Nation was widely distributed as a separate imprint and excerpted as well in the Congregational Panoplist and Missionary Magazine United. Sequoyah chose an alternative path in the battle for political sovereignty and cultural autonomy. He eschewed white religion and literacy and invented a Cherokee writing system (in the form of a syllabary) entirely separate from English. The syllabary’s appeal was immediate. It was also lasting. By 1835, 16,500 people remained on Cherokee land in Georgia. In one of every two households, one member read Cherokee. By contrast, only one of six families claimed a member literate in English. “Language,” observed one Presbyterian missionary only four years after Indian Removal and the Trail of Tears, “stands closely identified with habits and prejudices, cherishes them and keeps them alive.” What appeared to an evangelical minister bent on converting Indians as “habits and prejudices” represented in the eyes of the Cherokee the cultural identity they were so fiercely determined to preserve.

Advancing technology, expanding genres, proliferating publications, new communities of readers and writers: in such signs of the times contemporaries discerned an ascendant “Age of Print.” Many hailed the progress of civilization; some feared the degradation of learning in the literary marketplace. Whether enthusiasts or critics, these self-appointed custodians of the word exaggerated the significance of print in everyday life. An Extensive Republic documents the perpetuation of older modes of expression and communication in the small-scale, face-to-face settings of everyday life and their alteration in tandem with print by the gathering forces of social and economic change. Americans of the early republic lived in a world of mixed media, with printed words and images commingling with word of mouth, oral performances of all kinds, the composition and circulation of manuscripts, and the display of signs and symbols in public spaces. Far from challenging or supplanting these older forms, print amplified their influence. Merchants’ letters became “public intelligence” in the press; the pages of newspapers were inscribed with private, handwritten messages, even proposals of marriage, and dispatched through the mail. Farmers marked up almanacs with laconic notes on weather and crops; readers in town and country recorded passionate responses to novels on margins and endpapers.

Print was, then, multiform in its possibilities, and it did not move in a single direction of change. “Extensiveness,” in the end, connotes more than a rapidly increasing geography and population; it captures the rich variety of a novel print culture, whose effects we came to see in the distinctive republic it helped to forge. Print heightened both national attachments and sectional resentments. It undercut local economies and facilitated inter-regional exchange. It pursued inclusive audiences across social divides and carved them up into segments according to class, region, religion, occupation, ethnicity, gender, and race. It defined lines between the sexes, then challenged and transgressed them. It fostered rationality and faith, instruction and entertainment, virtue and vice. It contained the multitudes and contradictions of the sprawling nation it served.

Robert A. Gross is the James L. and Shirley A. Draper Professor of Early American History at the University of Connecticut. After starting out as a social historian of the Revolutionary era, he now looks broadly at culture, politics, and society in America during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, with particular focus on Transcendentalism and reform in New England during the antebellum era.
Mary Kelley is Ruth Bordin Collegiate Professor of History, American Culture, and Women’s Studies at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. She has written widely on women’s and gender history, and especially on the impact of women’s access to learning, formal and informal, on their self-definitions and their entry into public life. Her current project focuses on reading and writing practices in early America.

Slow Art: The Pleasures of Trompe l’Oeil

I have a confession to make.

In the course of writing my book on art and illusion in the early republic, I was taken in by a trompe l’oeil object.

It was October 2002. I had completed my doctoral dissertation the previous year and was just beginning the work of revising it for publication. In the meantime, I had contributed a number of entries to an exhibition catalogue for a large show about trompe l’oeil that was being organized by the National Gallery of Art,Deceptions and Illusions: Five Centuries of Trompe l’Oeil Painting. At the exhibition’s opening, I was thrilled to see many of the pictures I had studied, pondered, and written about. Cleverly positioned near a museum staircase was Charles Willson Peale’s trompe l’oeilStaircase Group (1795), a double portrait of Peale’s sons Raphaelle and Titian Ramsay that reportedly fooled no less a figure than George Washington back in the day. In another room I encountered the marine artist Thomas Birch, leaning out from the space of his portrait to rest his arm on the picture frame. Elsewhere was Raphaelle Peale’s masterful Venus Rising from the Sea—A Deception (c. 1822), which appeared to conceal a picture of a female nude behind a cloth. According to family lore, Raphaelle’s wife—presumably peeved by her husband’s naughty imagination—took a swipe at the painting in an attempt to remove the cloth.

I knew all the tricks of trompe l’oeil walking into this exhibition. I knew the stories of spectators deceived by wily pictures, of birds that pecked at painted grapes and dogs that climbed the step of theStaircase Group. I knew better than to get taken in by an illusion. And then my vanity got the better of me.

I rounded the corner of a gallery and spied the exhibition catalogue resting on a bench. Another reader had carelessly left it upside down and open, so that its cover was clearly visible and its spine within easy reach. I hadn’t yet laid my hands on a copy of the catalogue, and I was eager to see own my own entries in print. I made a beeline for the bench. I grasped the book.

It didn’t budge.

It was a fake. An expertly crafted simulacrum of the real catalogue, affixed to the bench and perfectly positioned to ensnare the gullible. I had been deceived.

In the space of an instant, I realized my mistake. Gasping with surprise, I beat a quick path out of the gallery, hoping that no one had witnessed my gaffe. I think I may have actually hidden behind my husband when I finally located him in another room. In a gushing whisper, I relayed the embarrassment of what had occurred. He took a long, steady look at me and burst into laughter. And then I began to laugh, too. Once we’d collected ourselves, we crept back into the gallery to inspect the trompe l’oeil catalogue, to marvel at its predatory conceit and its capacity to trump and surprise. For several long minutes, we enjoyed a good chuckle at ourselves. Well, at me.

I’ve thought often of this incident over the past few years as I researched the ways in which spectators reacted to trompe l’oeil objects during the post-revolutionary decades. Between the 1790s and 1820s, in cities large and small, early national Americans created, displayed, experienced, and wrote about a tantalizing array of pictorial and optical deceptions, including trompe l’oeil portraits and still life paintings, like those made by the Peales and their Philadelphia cohort; “philosophical” instruments, such as solar microscopes, zograscopes, and phantasmagorias, that magnified tiny things to magnificent proportions, threw flat pictures into three dimensions, or generated illusions of ghosts; even mechanical devices—such as the “Invisible Lady,” a popular visual and aural illusion—that vexed and delighted Americans up and down the East Coast for years. Spectators encountered these deceptions in an equally varied range of places, from Charles Willson Peale’s Philadelphia Museum to taverns, houses, and assembly halls temporarily transformed into public exhibition rooms.

Into these spaces, spectators carried a host of assumptions about their abilities to detect a deception—and the cultural stakes of being able to do so. Common Sense philosophy taught early Americans to trust the evidence of their senses, to believe that perspicacious vision would see through illusion and discern the truth of a situation. Political writers turned this sensory faith to partisan advantage: Republicans advised the people to sharpen their eyes against Federalist deceit, while Federalists cautioned against Republican myopia. How, I wanted to know, was this politicization of the senses relevant to the concurrent culture of visual illusions? How did art and politics inform one another during the early republic?

I found some answers to these questions in the accounts of deceptions that early national Americans confided to letters and journals or published in newspapers, pamphlets, and books. Not unlike my own experience at the National Gallery, spectators exhibited a mixture of embarrassment and wonder in response to trompe l’oeil illusions. Such emotions may seem trivial (they did to Sir Joshua Reynolds, the period’s leading British aesthetician, who never failed to remind his audiences that trompe l’oeil was cheap and vulgar in comparison to the civic-minded, edifying genre of history painting). But, like trompe l’oeil itself, there is more to these responses than initially meets the eye. Trompe l’oeil exacts several things of its spectators, and in the reactions it yields, we can understand something of its broader cultural and political significance.

First, trompe l’oeil is fun. There is good reason why so many early modern optical illusions were commonly known as “pleasing deceptions.” Trompe l’oeil produces surprise, giggles, chatter, appreciation. It can make dupes of unwitting observers, serving them up for mockery to the bemusement of onlookers already in the know. Yet it also invites us to laugh at ourselves. It’s safe to say that there are few genres of art capable of generating an adrenaline rush. But my own encounter with the trompe l’oeil catalogue proves that this can occur, and my research suggests that early national spectators experienced something similar.

Consider the case of the Invisible Lady. This enticing mechanical illusion took the form of a glass ball suspended by wires from a ceiling. A square railing surrounded the center, with trumpets positioned atop vertical posts at each corner. Entering the rooms in which this unusual contraption was installed, visitors encountered the sounds of the invisible woman who purportedly inhabited the space. Voices, breathing, and even singing seemed to emerge from the trumpets. And while it was clear that an unseen speaker could see the audience, she herself was nowhere to be seen. Spectators professed confusion—how did the deception work?—but mostly they expressed enjoyment. The illusion elicited admiration (its mechanics were so “ingeniously veiled as hitherto to elude all discovery,” effused one witness) and gave rise to flights of fancy (one wit claimed the lady “kissed some single gentlemen” but “blows upon married men and old bachelors”).

Accounts of the Invisible Lady reveal another crucial aspect about trompe l’oeil: it takes awhile to experience its ruses and pleasures. Critics like Reynolds often dismissed trompe l’oeil out of hand, presuming that its artistic purpose was ephemeral and its significance therefore negligible. But reports of the Invisible Lady suggest otherwise. Writers from Poulson’s American Daily Advertiser took their time at a Philadelphia exhibition of the illusion in 1804. Their narrative presents a careful inspection of the device and its environment, retracing the cautious movements they made around the gallery (“there are closets, but they are well closed, and in whatever part of the room you stand, the voice is heard from the trumpets only”). Such comments reveal trompe l’oeil to be an art of duration. It catches the eye (or ear or hand) in a second with its exacting simulations and imitations, but it also invites us to linger, marveling at its execution. To put it in twenty-first century terms, trompe l’oeil is slow art.

What’s more, these unhurried pleasures amount to a phenomenon that is less about being deceived than it is about undeceiving. Trompe l’oeil beckons the viewer close to inspect its surfaces and manufacture; it challenges us to look, touch, and listen, as the Invisible Lady’s admirers did, in order to understand the artistry by which it effects its illusions. In invites us to undeceive ourselves of the fiction before us, and in so doing, it posits that the senses can detect and explain deception.

It’s in this space of possibility that trompe l’oeil engaged early national concerns about dissimulation —about demagogues, counterfeiting, forgers, and charlatans—and tested the visual acuity of American citizens. Throughout the Revolutionary and early national periods, the capacity to discern differences between truth and falsehood, or to see through artifice and design, was prized as a sign of able citizenship. What did it mean, then, to encounter illusionistic objects at public exhibitions that staged this very challenge? The frequent display of trompe l’oeil pictures and optical devices invites us to understand early American exhibition rooms as spaces of citizen formation, as places where sensory perception was tested, honed, and performed. At Peale’s Museum, in art galleries, and in the vernacular sites where the Invisible Lady was shown, the cultures of trompe l’oeil and politics coalesced around the prospect of undeceiving.

What of the early national spectators, then, who encountered trompe l’oeil catalogues at these exhibitions, as I did at the National Gallery? Well, that’s a subject I explore in my book. A real book. You can even pick it up.

Wendy Bellion is associate professor of art history at the University of Delaware. Her book, Citizen Spectator: Art, Illusion, and Visual Perception in Early National America (2011), explores the changing forms and functions of trompe l’oeil illusion during the early republic.

Sarah Johnson’s Mount Vernon

The forgotten history of an American shrine

Common-place asks Scott Casper, whose Sarah Johnson’s Mount Vernon: The Forgotten History of an American Shrine was recently published by Hill & Wang, “how did you come to see that the story of Mount Vernon was an untold chapter of African American history central to the ways we imagine America itself?”

In the fall of 1998, I was doing research for a different sort of project about the ways Americans imagined their presidents’ families and domestic lives prior to the advent of radio or television. Among many sorts of sources, I was collecting evidence of people’s visits to presidents’ homes. Mount Vernon was far and away the most popular, during and especially after George Washington’s lifetime. Thousands of people went there every year; I read more than a hundred accounts spanning the nineteenth century. One of those visitors introduced me to Sarah Johnson, although I didn’t realize it at the time.

On September 4, 1865, the northern writer and abolitionist John Townsend Trowbridge stopped at Mount Vernon as part of a southern tour. Five months after Appomattox, Trowbridge had a contract with a northern publisher for a travel book about the defeated South. It came as no surprise to me, given the work of historian David Blight and others on Civil War memory, that Trowbridge depicted slaveowners as morally indefensible, freedpeople as industrious and heroic, and the abjection of the former Confederacy as just punishment for slavery and rebellion and as a starting ground for a new South. It also came as no surprise that Trowbridge saw African Americans working at Mount Vernon, because dozens of other travelers also recounted seeing black people there.

The surprise was that Trowbridge recounted his conversation with one of these black workers, complete with dialogue. She was a young woman, twenty years old, with a husband and four-year-old son. Trowbridge encountered her “industriously scrubbing over a tub” and described her as “intelligent and cheerful.” According to this young woman, she had formerly belonged to John A. Washington, who “kept me hired out” because he could make more money off her that way. She said that the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association (MVLA) had brought her back as an employee after the war and that she now earned seven dollars a month, “a heap better ‘n no wages at all!” In her words, “The sweat I drap into this yer tub is my own; but befo’e, it belonged to John A. Washington.” Trowbridge didn’t get her meaning at first, so she elaborated, “You know, the Bible says every one must live by the sweat of his own eyebrow. But John A. Washington, he lived by the sweat of my eyebrow. I alluz had a will’n mind to work, and I have now; but I don’t work as I used to; for then it was work to-day and work to-morrow, and no stop.” Mount Vernon, formerly a slave plantation, had become an icon of emancipation.

At first, I thought that this episode fit right into the book I thought I was writing: it showed how white Americans like Trowbridge read their own ideas (in this case, about race) onto presidential homes (in this case, Mount Vernon). A magazine article twenty-two years later, in which a southern traveler recounted her own meeting with a woman selling milk at Mount Vernon, seemed the perfect bookend. In that piece, Sophie Bledsoe Herrick described the MVLA employee as a totem of Old South hospitality. The milk usually cost “Fi’ cents a glass,” said the woman, “onless, ladies, you will kindly accept it from the ‘sociation.” Servants like this one made visitors feel like Washington’s guests, not participants in a commercial transaction. They melted away the distance between slavery days and the present. Here, I thought, was marvelous evidence of what Blight describes in Race and Reunion: white Americans’ shift from “emancipationist” to “reconciliationist” notions of the Civil War, as white people put the Civil War behind them, romanticized the Old South, and cast African Americans anew as faithful servants (and slavery as picturesque paternalism).

In the late 1850s, Augustine Washington hired out surplus slaves; in this 1857 advertisement, the thirteen-year-old girl is Sarah. Advertisement from the Alexandria Gazette, December 18, 1857. Courtesy of the American Antiquarian Society, Worcester, Massachusetts.

In other words, visitors’ accounts seemed to support a historiographical interpretation that I already knew well. They dovetailed too with a lot of the revisionist work then coming out about historic preservation—scholarship that emphasized the political roots of preservation and the ways the managers of historic sites perpetuated now-antiquated views of slavery. For more than a century, the history of American historic preservation has been written about (and often by) the elite women and men at the center of the story, the people who saved places like Mount Vernon from dilapidation and speculation. But in the past decade or so, historians have told another sort of story, about the often conservative political agendas of those preservationist pioneers.

At the same time, sociologists and anthropologists have done another kind of work: analyzing the performances and presentations of history at such current-day sites as Plimouth Plantation, Colonial Williamsburg, and former southern plantations. These scholars interview interpreters and other front-line employees to consider their perspective on the history they presented. As I read this work, I started asking different questions about the women John Trowbridge and Sophie Herrick spoke with. What was it like to be on their side of the exchange? What did Mount Vernon’s employees make of the visitors and of their own presence at this American shrine? And how did Mount Vernon look through their eyes—not just as African Americans, but also as the people whose home it became long after George Washington died?

The first question was more practical: how could I tell that story for people who lived and died more than a century ago? Looking at two sorts of records began to persuade me that it might be possible. First, the United States census: according to the 1870 census, a twenty-five-year-old employee named Sarah Johnson lived with her nine-year-old son, Smith, at Mount Vernon. The ages matched; she could have been the person Trowbridge interviewed five years before. Second, the MVLA’s own annual reports and council minutes, which listed the employees annually from the 1870s on: there was Sarah Johnson, throughout the 1870s and 1880s and until 1892. Based on descriptions of her work, I soon realized that Trowbridge and Herrick had been speaking to the same person, twenty-two years apart.

"Edmund Parker" (1827-1898), Sarah Johnson's uncle, first came to Mount Vernon as a 14-year-old field worker in 1841. After the Civil War, he served for more than twenty-five years as the guard at George Washington's tomb. Courtesy of Mount Vernon Ladies' Association, Mount Vernon, Virginia. — “Edmund Parker” (1827-1898), Sarah Johnson’s uncle, first came to Mount Vernon as a 14-year-old field worker in 1841. After the Civil War, he served for more than twenty-five years as the guard at George Washington’s tomb. Courtesy of Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association, Mount Vernon, Virginia.

Title page of The South: A Tour of Its Battle-fields and Ruined Cities, J. T. Trowbridge (Hartford, Conn., 1866). Courtesy of the American Antiquarian Society, Worcester, Massachusetts.

This discovery led to more questions: how much could I learn about this woman? At first it became a detective story, a puzzle to piece together. Thanks to Mount Vernon’s remarkable archive, which includes the diaries and journals of John Augustine Washington (the last Washington family member to own the place) as well as the voluminous records of the MVLA itself, I figured out that Sarah had been born there in 1844 as a slave; that Washington had indeed hired her out in the late 1850s; and that she returned after the Civil War and worked there for twenty-seven years, steadily rising in authority, esteem, and pay until she retired in 1892. Thanks to the Fairfax County Courthouse Archives and other records in public sources, I learned that she had bought land in the late 1880s—four acres that had once belonged to her former owner and before him, to George Washington. It was potentially a great story.

And it was more than just one woman’s story. Immersed in the archives, I came to see Sarah as part of a community of African American families who lived and worked at Mount Vernon through the nineteenth century. Reconstructing those kin connections through national censuses, slave lists, wills, and other documents was critical. About two hundred slaves inhabited Mount Vernon from 1815 to 1861; the MVLA’s post-Civil War employees came mostly from this group. (To keep all the names straight, I created my own “census” of Mount Vernon’s enslaved population after 1815.) Equally important was placing these people within Mount Vernon’s geography and infrastructure across the nineteenth century, for example as this once-isolated plantation became increasingly connected to nearby Alexandria by roads, steamboats, and eventually electric streetcars. (To keep all the places straight, I filled an office wall with maps and plats of Mount Vernon and Fairfax County across the nineteenth century and today.) Visitors approached Mount Vernon from those routes and conveyances—and black people shaped their experience at Washington’s home, a critical part of my story. But those same African Americans employed the same roads (as well as byways known only to locals) and vehicles (as well as their own feet) to maintain links to nearby family and friends, conduct Mount Vernon’s daily business, or get into town for holiday shopping or church.

An 1858 bird's-eye view of Mount Vernon shows the new family tomb (at left), the old tomb (built into the hillside, center), and the summerhouse constructed in Bushrod Washington's day (right). Courtesy of the Mount Vernon Ladies' Association, Mount Vernon, Virginia. — An 1858 bird’s-eye view of Mount Vernon shows the new family tomb (at left), the old tomb (built into the hillside, center), and the summerhouse constructed in Bushrod Washington’s day (right). Courtesy of the Mount Vernon Ladies’ Association, Mount Vernon, Virginia.

In short, what had begun as a project in cultural history took a clear turn toward social history.

That turn, I now think, was the key to telling a different kind of story. It’s an alternative history of American historic preservation, in which the leading characters aren’t elite white women, although they are still essential. It’s the local story of a national place: Mount Vernon in the neighborhood, not just in the national imagination. It’s the African American laboring history of a seemingly very white, elite site: Mount Vernon from the bottom up. And perhaps above all, it’s the nineteenth-century story of a supposedly eighteenth-century place—a story about life going on there long after the apparent lead character, the Father of his Country, was laid to rest—told from the perspective of a twenty-first-century historian intent on conveying that story from multiple points of view.

This article originally appeared in issue 9.2 (January, 2009).

Scott Casper, professor of history at the University of Nevada, Reno, and (for 2008-2009) visiting editor of the William and Mary Quarterly, studies and teaches nineteenth-century U.S. history, American cultural history, and the history of the book. With Jeffrey D. Groves, Stephen W. Nissenbaum, and Michael Winship, he edited A History of the Book in America: Volume 3: The Industrial Book, 1840-1880 (2007). His first book, Constructing American Lives (1999), looked at biography and culture in nineteenth-century America. He has taught in K-12 teacher institutes across the United States, including Mount Vernon’s residential summer institutes since 2000, and edits the Journal of American History’s annual “Textbooks and Teaching” section.

In Praise of Hearsay

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We will probably never know whether Thomas Cornell committed matricide. He was accused of stabbing his mother and burning her body in their Rhode Island home on a February night in 1673, although only circumstantial evidence pointed to his guilt. His trial left an assortment of unanswered questions, and eventually an unsatisfied community tried two other people for the same crime. To modern Americans this probably borders on perversion, since Cornell had long since swung from a rope by the time an Indian servant and Cornell’s widow were separately prosecuted in 1674 and 1675. Those left with a lingering uneasiness in the aftermath of Cornell’s execution, however, were not convinced that the person responsible for Rebecca Cornell’s death had been punished. If the actual murderer had successfully evaded the law’s reach, justice had not been served. So they sought out another potential killer. And then another.

Today’s standards suggest that such zealous attempts to redress a wrong were excessive. At the same time, the premise on which they acted is no less compelling today than it was three hundred years ago: justice demands punishment for wrongdoing. The quandary that survives the centuries—and defies resolution—is how to establish legal procedures that will rout the guilty without jeopardizing the innocent. In Thomas Cornell’s case, the victim’s ghost tried to help but provided only ambiguous testimony. The body bled in the presence of the defendant, but such evidence was hardly failsafe. The Anglo-American legal system was steeped in ancient traditions that had evolved over time, but jurists on both continents were aware that no rules, no guidelines, no laws could guarantee an equitable result each time. Sometimes a guilty person was acquitted; sometimes an innocent person was convicted. The real questions, then and now, are how to minimize those risks, safeguard defendants’ rights, and make certain that the result is “just.” And if those early Anglo-Americans resolved these issues differently than we have in the twenty-first century, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the modern American judicial system is any better equipped to ensure that justice prevails.

It was probably a good idea to dispense with spectral evidence, since ghosts routinely resist cross-examination. And a bleeding corpse lends itself to several possible interpretations, only one of which might divulge a murderer. In the interest of a fair trial, therefore, we no longer rely on such indicators of guilt or innocence.

But there are other rules of evidence that have been abandoned since the seventeenth century—rules that, despite their archaic foundations, might lead to a more accurate assessment of a case and reduce the possibility of an erroneous verdict. Thomas Cornell’s jury may have had it right the first time. And they had a better chance of getting to the truth of the matter because of a seventeenth-century convention that we’ve since discarded: the notion that hearsay mattered.

If the men who composed Cornell’s jury were not his peers—he was, after all, an elite member of the community—they were still folk who had rubbed elbows with him on any number of occasions. They had served alongside Cornell on committees, they owned nearby property, they traded cattle, they drank together, and they sued each other in court. By the standards of early Rhode Island they were acceptable jurors precisely because they knew Thomas Cornell, or, at the very least, they knew about Thomas Cornell. Before his trial began they had heard the gruesome details of the case, and may have already leaned toward one verdict or another. Local jurors frequently knew more about a high publicity case than either the attorney general or the superior court judges, but how much of that private information was aired in open court or shared during deliberation is beyond retrieval. We do know, however, that hearsay—the gossip and rumors that our legal system reviles but theirs prized—received considerable attention as the jury weighed testimony that eventually led to Cornell’s conviction. Indeed, Cornell’s background and character were matters of public knowledge, and he was judged on that record as much as on any other evidence introduced during his trial. Before her death, Rebecca Cornell told anyone who would listen that she was “neglected” and “disregarded.” She confided to friends that her son had reneged on his promise to provide her with a maid and to pay her rent. He owed her money and denied her food. Thomas’s unkindness extended to language: he was always “very cross,” Rebecca complained to her neighbors. He “nasht” his teeth at her. She was convinced that her life was in danger and she shared that fear with others. Such were the rumors that circulated in the community and were introduced at trial as evidence of his bad character.

If it is true that twenty-first century jurists would reject such testimony as hearsay—not to mention a deprivation of Sixth Amendment rights—it is because our modern sensibility interprets those rights from the perspective of current realities and concerns that favor the individual over society. In modern America’s densely populated communities, the likelihood that a juror will know a defendant is minimal. Moreover, information about a defendant’s background and character is rarely communicated to a jury (and only in special circumstances) on the assumption that such revelations might negatively influence the verdict. Criminal behavior in the past, so the theory goes, is not indicative of future guilt. Although it is true that information about a previous conviction might be prejudicial, it is no less true that criminal behavior is often repetitive. In other words, arsonists continually set fires, robbers repeatedly steal, and rapists are not usually satisfied with a single victim. Thus, if justice—holding the guilty accountable—is actually a social priority, is it not possible that knowledge of a defendant’s past might further that end? Since recidivism is widespread, information about a defendant’s criminal behavior might bring about a more equitable ratio of guilty verdicts to guilty defendants, while simultaneously reducing the crime rate by taking such culprits out of circulation. Conversely, affirmative evidence about a suspect’s character could be beneficial: positive testimony about a defendant’s life might persuade a jury to acquit, rather than to convict.

In a country that sanctions the death penalty and occasionally executes innocent people it is, perhaps, gratuitous to suggest a legal device that could boost the conviction rate. Nevertheless, since the American judicial system stands on an English foundation, we should not ignore the way in which our British cousins are attempting to renovate their constitutional framework in an effort to trim a rising crime rate. In July 2002 they proposed far-reaching changes that will all but transform the English judicial process. They are very open about their motives: to rebalance the system in favor of victims and society at large. At the same time, Home Secretary David Blunkett denies that such changes will erode a defendant’s right to a fair trial. Whether this is true or not will depend on how they redefine a fair trial. That definition has always been a function of time and place, an ephemeral concept that reflects the collective mood at any given moment, just as the notion of cruel and unusual punishment cannot be extricated from its social context. An impartial jury is just as vague an ideal since impartiality is more a fictional aspiration than a fait accompli.

The many procedural changes that are being considered in England (one can’t really say “introduced” since they are merely lapsed components of the legal tradition) include the use of testimony relating to a suspect’s criminal past. Hearsay evidence will be permissible once again. This seems to imply that the sorts of gossip and rumors that led to Thomas Cornell’s conviction will merit consideration in the modern courtroom.

Cornell was convicted against the weight of material evidence. No weapon was found, and there were no witnesses. Other possibilities to account for his mother’s death, such as suicide or an intruder, were dismissed. Cornell was a respected member of the community, a sometime legislator, and possibly the highest ranking colonist to have been hanged for a capital crime. But his reputation as a bad head of household dishonored him, and his undutiful behavior toward his mother followed him into the courtroom. Friends and neighbors testified that his mother spoke of threats: hearsay in contemporary language.

Was Cornell denied a fair trial? Not in his time and place, surely. Maybe not in ours, either, if we are willing to reexamine seventeenth-century jurisprudence with a little more respect and a lot less hubris about our own modern superiority. Those of us who confess to a Whig disposition subconsciously cling to the belief that change and progress are transposable concepts. We have unhesitatingly accepted the idea that the constitutionally mandated impartial jury is one that knows less, rather than more, about a defendant. But in the ongoing tug of war between individual interests and the common good, maybe the British have it right. Again.

This article originally appeared in issue 3.2 (January, 2003).

Common-Place asks Elaine Forman Crane, professor of history at Fordham University and the author of Killed Strangely: The Death of Rebecca Cornell (Ithaca, N.Y., 2002), whether seventeenth-century Anglo-Americans had a keener sense of justice than modern Americans.

Money Matters

In a three-day period in August 1835, Baltimoreans engaged in a tumultuous riot that killed five people, injured twenty others, and caused extensive property damage. As Americans slowly climb out of the Great Recession, the Baltimore Bank Riots remind us of the deep historical roots of Americans’ animosity toward banks. Historian Robert Shalhope, who has written numerous books and articles on Jeffersonian republicanism, the Second Amendment, and Jacksonian party development, provides a persuasive account of one of the most influential political events of the antebellum era. Shalhope’s monograph joins other recent books by Richard Kilbourne Jr., Stephen Mihm, and Richard Ellis, all of which portray the seamier elements of antebellum banking. Overspeculation, excessive leveraging, and fraudulent pyramid schemes—all of which have been blamed for our current financial crisis—were alive and well in the 1830s. As Shalhope explains, The Baltimore Bank Riot is a morality tale where “good people suffer at the hands of scoundrels whom they believe to be good people” (12).

Robert E. Shalhope, The Baltimore Bank Riot: Political Upheaval in Antebellum Maryland. Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2009. 208 pp., $50.00.

With thousands of investors bankrupt, including many who lost their entire life’s savings, public outrage boiled over.

With a close reading of Baltimore’s leading newspapers, combined with political cartoons, broadsides, legislative committee reports, obscure pamphlets, and intimate knowledge of the existing historical literature, Shalhope argues that the riot stemmed from three principal causes: general anti-bank sentiment, a belief in popular sovereignty, and growing outrage over the frauds associated with the closing of the Bank of Maryland (2-3). The questions raised by the riot and its legal aftermath helped transform political parties in Maryland from loose factions centered around personalities to a diametrically polarized two-party system.

As the two parties developed coherent ideologies, they responded to local conditions in Maryland and adopted contrasting interpretations of popular sovereignty and the legacy of the American Revolution. Jacksonian Democrats, hailing the Lockean social contract and the political philosophy of Thomas Jefferson, embraced the people’s right to revolt. They “envisioned an egalitarian, democratic society” and believed that government should be continually responsive to the people (4). Whigs, on the other hand, emphasized social stability and favored a market-oriented society. One needed law and order to protect republican institutions from tyranny (116). Only a powerful state with strong institutions could protect private property, which, in turn, secured investment, commerce, and prosperity. These ideological differences shaped Maryland politics for the next thirty years, particularly during a state constitutional crisis in 1836 and Maryland’s flirtation with secession in 1860.

Shalhope begins by discussing the origins of Maryland’s anti-bank sentiment with particular attention to how the Bank of Maryland’s directors engaged in shady financial schemes. The bank’s main directors—Evan Poultney, Hugh McElderry, David Perine, John Glenn, and Reverdy Johnson—organized a “club” where they could embezzle customers’ deposits to pay for Bank of Maryland stock at inflated rates (33). The club then used this stock as collateral to invest in the newly created General Insurance Company. In addition, club members opened up numerous branches of the Bank of Maryland in several states and speculated in $500,000 worth of Tennessee state bonds. As homeowners today ruefully realize, this type of risky leveraging works so long as the underlying capital continues to appreciate. But when the Second Bank of the United States restricted credit in late 1833, forcing smaller banks to call in loans, the Bank of Maryland quickly became insolvent. The financial house of cards collapsed.

With thousands of investors bankrupt, including many who lost their entire life’s savings, public outrage boiled over. During the three days of rioting, angry mobs ransacked houses, lit bonfires in streets to destroy expensive furniture, and fueled further frenzy by consuming copious amounts of fine wine. On the third day of rioting, a counteroffensive led by General Samuel Smith quieted the flames. While prosecutors achieved convictions for a few of the mob’s leaders, the trials for the bank’s directors had more far-reaching consequences. These trials ignited fierce political debates between popular sovereignty on the one hand, and social stability on the other.

The Baltimore Bank Riot should appeal to both academics and laypeople alike. By qualifying his theoretical assumptions up front, Shalhope strengthens his intellectual credibility. He emphasizes language and ideology in party development, but stresses that his model applies only to Maryland. Moreover, Shalhope recognizes that republicanism and the market revolution—historically, two popular, though dichotomous, analytical paradigms that describe the antebellum era—do not suffice to explain local political complexities. For instance, both parties held a variety of views on national economic issues such as tariffs, internal improvements, banks, and land sales (9). The book’s prose is also highly readable, and Shalhope does not burden the reader with esoteric jargon.

Readers should pay close attention to Shalhope’s methodology, particularly his nuanced portrayal of social relations. No substantial differences in wealth existed between Democratic and Whig Party leaders, leading Shalhope to conclude that the “search for meaning in the language and ideas … takes on even greater significance,” and that public literature “is essential to any attempt to analyze the emergence of political and social persuasions” (3-4). Careful not to dismiss socio-economic conditions or take language at face value, the author, nonetheless, finds that the rioters’ behavior is best explained by the language, ideas, and discourse available to them through public literature.

Baltimoreans in the 1830s, he says, may have been aware of class distinctions, but they were not class conscious. Rioters did not target wealthy individuals across the board, but only those who were involved in the bank scandal (61). Yet it is clear that one’s social standing mattered a great deal in Shalhope’s narrative. Jacksonian editorials constantly derided Whigs as “monied aristocrats.” In some trials, the testimony of a “gentleman” was enough to jail some suspects without substantive evidence (76-77). The trials, moreover, reflected a concerted effort on the part of Baltimore’s gentry to reassert their power, prestige, and respectability. While there are subtle differences between privilege and class, authors from a different methodological persuasion might look at the same evidence and reach different conclusions. Shalhope correctly points out that Maryland’s Democrats were not anti-capitalist; they only “wanted the market open to all so that they, too, could prosper” (7). Touting the banner of equal rights, Jacksonians rejected corporate monopolies that afforded economic opportunity to a privileged few. But at other times, Shalhope says that Jacksonians held “traditional,” “communal” values and were, perhaps, even pre-modern (3). The evidence Shalhope presents for this characterization is sparse and he could have more clearly defined the terms traditional and modern.

Shalhope, perhaps, overstates his characterization of public opinion by relying heavily on anonymous pseudonyms from newspaper editorials. He argues that anti-bank language from Niles’ Register and the Baltimore Republican fueled visceral anger among many Baltimoreans (26) and that editorials in the aftermath of the trials had a strong influence on public opinion (94-96). While newspaper readership was high, proving this direct causal link is difficult. To his credit, Shalhope also analyzes bank-related public meetings, citizens’ memorials, and other literary devices of political culture. But he does not explore precisely why antebellum newspapers used anonymous pseudonyms and engaged in such vituperative rhetoric. This was, after all, the era of the party press, and newspapers were the key mechanism that connected party leaders with average voters. Editors also had a monetary incentive to publish violent language. Their success was not only dependent on increasing voter turnout, higher subscription rates, and building a party structure, but newspaper editors, through financial necessity, had to seek out political patronage and printing contracts. Publishing extreme commentary could help achieve this objective. Furthermore, pseudonyms such as “A Creditor” and “Junius” were often, in fact, masking editors or elite politicians, not subscribers. In doing so, editors created the illusion of public support for their views and purported to speak for public opinion. In the absence of reliable polling, public sentiment in the antebellum era is difficult to gauge.

The book’s concluding chapter may raise issues for historians of the Civil War. Between 1838 and 1860, slavery, immigration, class animosities, and debates over popular sovereignty in the western territories reconfigured the two-party system, with large slaveholders gravitating toward the Democratic Party (158-159). Yet Shalhope also claims that the “dramatically restructured Democratic Party espoused the same principles presented so forcefully by Samuel Harker and his fellow Democrats during the fall elections of 1836” and that the debate over secession in Maryland “rested upon precisely the same ideological beliefs that sustained the Whig and Democratic persuasions of 1836” (160-161). Drawing a parallel between calls for secession and earlier Jacksonian appeals to popular sovereignty is problematic. The author also indicates his sympathies when he says that with secession repulsed, “popular sovereignty had truly become a political fiction” (163). Throughout the book, Shalhope seems to lament the failure of Democratic appeals to the social contract, as well as the increasing power of state authority promoted by Whigs.

All things considered, however, the book is a must-read. Not beholden exclusively to the back-room wheeling-and-dealing of elite politics, nor the quotidian qualities of daily life, Shalhope successfully integrates political, intellectual, and social history. His chapter on the riot is especially exciting, giving readers a sense of the grass-roots political activism that pervaded antebellum America.

This article originally appeared in issue 11.2.5 (March, 2011).

Stephen Campbell is a Ph.D. candidate in the department of history at the University of California, Santa Barbara, and author of “Hickory Wind: The Role of Personality and the Press in Andrew Jackson’s Bank War in Missouri, 1831-1837,” Missouri Historical Review (2007). His dissertation project analyzes Andrew Jackson’s Bank War with special attention to newspaper editors, political patronage, and bank loans.

Whitman and Disability: An Introduction

1. The sketch above is taken from Herbert Harlakenden Gilchrist’s Notebook, kept from 1876-1877, when he lived in Philadelphia and became close with Whitman. Gilchrist spent time with Whitman as the poet pursued forms of rehabilitation outdoors at Timber Creek in Camden, New Jersey. Whitman had experienced a major paralytic stroke in 1873, which left him partially paralyzed on his left side. Gilchrist recorded their conversations in his notebook, now held at the Kislak Center for Special Collections at the University of Pennsylvania. On one of the pages he has drawn Whitman in a seated position, apparently in mid-sentence with his right arm raised. The lettering for this graphic has related significance. Whitman was right-handed. In 1875 another stroke had affected his ability to write. Correspondence reveals that Whitman expressed his frustration to Gilchrist about the way an intensifying “rheumatism” was changing his handwriting. The lettering above is adapted from the title page created for Specimen Days, and Collect (1882), the book Stephen Kuusisto has called Whitman’s “disability memoir.” We speculate that the lettering created for Specimen Days was designed to represent the influence of Whitman’s rheumatic episodes on his penmanship. Thus, we have aimed for continuity in the shape and style of the letters in this rendition of the present issue’s title.

In May 1889, Walt Whitman’s friends bought the poet a wheelchair for his birthday. The elaborate celebration planned that year was scheduled to take place on the day of his birth, May 31, when Whitman would turn seventy. But the task of purchasing Whitman a wheeled “out-door push chair” (as it is called in his correspondence) commenced earlier that month.^[1] Finding it increasingly difficult to go outside, Whitman confessed to Horace Traubel on May 6 that he was beginning to feel cooped up at his home at 328 Mickle Street, Camden, New Jersey. “How good it would be,” he said, “to get out into the air—freely to breathe it out of doors once more.”^[2] Traubel mentioned that members of his celebration committee Henry L. Bonsall and Geoffrey Buckwalter had suggested they find Whitman a wheelchair, saying they “would fix the rest of it,” meaning they would cover the expense.^[3] Whitman perked up. “I think we might try it, boy,” he said.^[4] The search was quickly underway.

Whitman already had in mind the kind of chair he wanted. He had become familiar with wheelchairs available for rent at the Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia in 1876 (fig. 2). “I know very well the chairs they used at the Centennial, but I want one a little different from them in shape: they were short-backed—I want a back up this high,” he told Traubel, “motioning above his head.”^[5] He continued: “I do not object to plainness—in fact, I want a plain chair, but want comfort—a big back. And the seat must be liberal in size—and it must be strong.”^[6] Later that evening, additional preferences occurred to him. “I want a plain chair—no cushions—not a cushioned chair,” he clarified, “wicker-bottom, something like that—and solid.”^[7] Traubel interjected, “And liberal in size.” Whitman agreed, “Yes—that undoubtedly. But that will come about easily. Most of the users of these chairs are old plugs like me—broad at the beam—who won’t be squeezed down at their time of life.”^[8] By the next day he had prepared a card for Traubel with explicit instructions:

Wanted:

A strong first-rate out-door chair for an old 200 lb. invalid—to be pushed or pulled along the sidewalks and on the ferry boats—roomy chair, back high—ratan or reed seating and back (no cushions or stuffing)

Go to Wanamaker’s [Grand Depot, at Market Street and 13^thStreet in Philadelphia] first and interview the charge of the chair &c. Department and show hi[m] this card—[9]

2. “The Centennial–Interior of the Main Building near the Music Stand, Looking East,” Harper’s Weekly (July 8, 1876): 553. This illustration, taken from a double-page centerfold, features one of the wheelchairs visitors could rent at the exhibition. As Elizabeth Guffey notes in Designing Disability: Symbols, Space, and Society (London: 2017), this “precedent of access” was an important feature of the 1876 Philadelphia Centennial. Courtesy of the American Antiquarian Society.

The next day Traubel took the ferry to Philadelphia, accompanied by Whitman’s nurse Ed Wilkins, to see if they could find something aligned with Whitman’s wishes. “At Wanamaker’s we hit upon a chair which Ed fell in love with,” Traubel tells us.^[10] By May 9, it was all Whitman could talk about. “I hate to miss all these fine days,” he told Traubel. “Oh! well—there are plenty more to come!” Traubel adds in his record, “He speaks to everyone of the possibility of getting out at last.”^[11] By May 10, it had arrived at the house on Mickle Street and awaited Whitman’s exploration in the parlor.

Before proceeding with this story—before moving from the chair’s arrival to Whitman’s encounter with it—we use this introduction to frame the themed issue that follows. Coinciding with the bicentennial anniversary of Whitman’s birth, this special issue of Common-place Journal proposes a reexamination of the poet’s life and work, beginning with the birthday of 1889. Two hundred years ago, Walt Whitman was born in Huntington, Long Island, New York. Remembered as the poet of many things—of democracy, of the working class, of Lincoln’s mourning, of comradeship—Whitman is again the subject of collective memory. Feeling back toward his presence, local, national, and international commemorations feature celebrations, reunions, festivals, public readings, and public art as well as scholarly reconsiderations, instructive critique, and contested rememberings. This issue participates in these diverse forms of recollection. And yet, rather than starting in the year 1819, we ask what it would mean to start seventy birthdays afterward, the year his friends brought him a new wheelchair from Wanamaker’s. This moment brings together a celebration of life amidst old age and increasing debility. Prompted by this juxtaposition, we take the occasion of the bicentennial to ask: what else is there to say about the Whitmanian body, in particular? What dimensions have scholars missed? Which parts have we left out?

3. Lock of hair from Walt Whitman, Walt Whitman Papers in the Charles E. Feinberg Collection: Miscellany, 1834-1918.

Considering the extent and importance of the scholarship that has been written on representations of the body in Whitman, these questions may seem like an inadvisable starting point. Can there be anything left to disinter, really? Daunting as the task is, we take it as instructive that the poet’s body was never really buried to begin with. Not entirely, that is. Most of his remains reside in an elaborate, granite, self-designed tomb on a hillside in Camden’s Harleigh Cemetery. But not everything made it in. After his death, Mary Oakes Davis, the steadfast housekeeper on Mickle Street since 1885, gave locks of his hair to his friends. The gray strands reached the likes of John Burroughs and Herbert Gilchrist and can now be accessed at the University of Pennsylvania, the New York Public Library, the Library of Congress, and elsewhere (fig. 3). More gruesome is the story of Whitman’s brain. Following the poet’s autopsy on March 27, 1892, Philadelphia physician Dr. Henry Ware Cattell removed Whitman’s brain with the intent of preservation. Under a year later, the preservation effort had gone south. “I am a fool,” Cattell confessed in his diary, “a damnable fool, with no conscious memory, or fitness for any learned position. I let Walt Whitman’s brain spoil by not having the jar properly covered. Discovered it in the morning.”^[12] These details are morbid. But this recollection of Whitman’s dispersed material body—disseminated in the form of relics and as decomposing matter^[13]—is, perhaps, the best place to begin for a revisiting of the Whitmanian body we think we know well. Reliably, as he said would be the case, Whitman’s body exceeds and eludes our best efforts to contain it.

Building on previous scholarship, we propose that there is more to be said about the ways bodies enter and move across his life and writing. Specifically, this issue aims to draw attention to intersections between Whitman and four growing fields of scholarship that intersect in important ways: the medical humanities; memory studies and its relationship to theories of mind; age discourse; and, most centrally, as an area of inquiry connecting all of the pieces that follow, the field of disability studies.

Contextualizing Whitman in Nineteenth-Century Disability History

A brief history of disability studies will help frame the scholarship that follows. Disability studies (DS) has grown rapidly over the last three-and-a-half decades. Beginning in the 1980s, DS importantly distinguished between two models of disability: the medical model and the social model. While medical discourse has traditionally located disability in individual bodies, the social model of disability considers how built environments and social attitudes constitute disabling forces by creating barriers to access. That is, DS focuses less on fixing individual bodies than interrogating the social structures that disable some while enabling others. To politicize disability as a social phenomenon allows us to shift away from seeing bodies as disabled and to consider instead the interactions between those bodies and steep staircases, curbs without cuts, and inaccessible forms of transportation. At the same time, with the expansion of the category of disability beyond the iconic wheelchair user to include people with mental and chronic disabilities, the tension between social and medical models of disability has become the subject of ongoing debate. More recently, scholars such as Beth Linker and Catherine Kudlick have suggested the importance of placing disability theory and medical care in dialogue.^[14] Other scholars such as Tobin Siebers and Alison Kafer have proposed alternative models that consider the material realities of the body alongside their social experiences.^[15]One goal of the scholarship in this special issue is to combine these approaches, recognizing the social construction of disability, alongside potentially intersecting categories such as age and neurodiversity, while also examining and reimagining the intersection between disability, medical care, and questions of access.

The matter of historical change introduces another dimension. Because disability studies emerged out of the disability civil rights movement of the late twentieth-century U.S., a majority of work in literary disability criticism has focused on post-1945 literature. While Rosemarie Garland-Thomson, in her important book Extraordinary Bodies: Figuring Disability in American Culture and Literature, addressed the proliferation of impairments in the nineteenth-century U.S., Sari Altschuler makes a call for disability studies to more “carefully historicize discussions of disability in American literary and cultural studies.”^[16] We cannot rely on contemporary definitions of disability to frame our understanding of it in the past. Drawing our attention to early novelistic representations, Altschuler notes that in the early nineteenth-century U.S., disability was understood as “impairment” rather than “identity.” Thus, writers tend to cast disability not as a claimed identity but rather as a bodily limitation. In a related argument, Ellen Samuels has shown how mid-nineteenth century shifts in American politics and medicine set the terms for a reconfiguration of political subjectivity through “fantasies of identification,” meaning an impulse to “definitively identify bodies, to place them in categories delineated by race, gender, or ability status, and then to validate that placement through a verifiable, biological mark of identity.”^[17] Tensions between earlier conceptions of disability as impairment and burgeoning cultures of identification grow increasingly prevalent in the postbellum period.

It is significant to note that these historical frameworks do not always fit comfortably with disability activism, given the way historicist scholarship is often used to interrogate and denaturalize modern identity politics. Nevertheless, to understand how people in nineteenth-century and early American contexts understood the social experience of disablement, it is necessary to attend to its diverse forms and terminologies depending on context. Disability studies’ more recent emphasis on impairment and its social effects offers a reminder that pre-twentieth-century historicism and critical theory are not incompatible. Rather, as Altschuler, Samuels, Benjamin Reiss, and other scholars have demonstrated, attention to the historical dimensions of disability provides an opportunity to combine historicist and theoretical models in ways both generative and genuine to the experiences they are used to document and understand.^[18]

This issue of Common-place posits as one of its central premises that disability studies has the potential to transform approaches to Whitman’s oeuvre. Contributors show that Whitman played an important role in shaping conceptions of ability and debility among nineteenth-century readerships. In the poem titled “Broad-Axe Poem” in the 1856 edition of Leaves of Grass, for instance, Whitman imagines superior health as the engine of human progress. “Where the city of the healthiest fathers stands, / Where the city of the best-bodied mothers stands, / There the greatest city stands,” he proclaims. Later in the same poem, he proceeds: “All waits, or goes by default, till a strong being appears; / A strong being is the proof of the race, and of the ability of the universe.” Here Whitman appeals not just to illustrations of wellness but also to superlatives indexing health at its utmost limit—the “healthiest fathers” and “best-bodied mothers” (what the poem elsewhere calls “the brawniest breed”)—as the most important metrics of civilizational worth. He continues by routing these metrics through one of his favorite rhetorical modes: a rhetoric of exemplarity (familiar in the self-descriptive sequence from 1855, “Walt Whitman, an American, one of the roughs, a kosmos”), contending that a “strong being” bears the weight not just of its species, but, moreover, of providing “proof” for the “ability of the universe.”^[19] Here and elsewhere, Whitman frames Leaves of Grass as a tribute to superior bodily forms.

Acknowledging the repetition of this emphasis in Whitman’s writing allows us to better understand how his poetry contributed to establishing within nineteenth-century American (and transatlantic) letters what disability theorist Tobin Siebers terms an “ideology of ability.”^[20] With this concept, Siebers designates a social preoccupation with “natural gifts, talents, intelligence, creativity, prowess, imagination, education, [and] the eagerness to strive”—a list closely resembling Whitman’s own penchant for cataloging desired attributes and achievements, particularly of the male physique. Think, for instance, of Whitman’s invocation of the enslaved man at auction in the 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass. A section that advocates for recognizing the humanity of the enslaved, it does so by routing that advocacy through an enumeration of the enslaved body’s signs of exceptional physical capacity:

Examine these limbs, red black or white . . . . they are very cunning in tendon and
nerve;
They shall be stript that you may see them.

Exquisite senses, lifelit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breastmuscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, goodsized
arms and legs,

And wonders within there yet.

Reliably in Leaves of Grass, in the 1855, 1856, and 1860 editions especially, Whitman grounded his iconic honesty about the natural functions of the human body within a celebration of normative bodily capacity, which he used to unite people divided by other social and economic categories. It would be a mistake to understand this element of the early editions as consistent or ideologically stable. As early as the 1855 edition of the poem that would later be called “Song of Myself,” Whitman troubles his own imperatives, clarifying, I “know that they who have eyes are divine, and the blind and lame are equally divine, / And that my steps drag behind yours yet go before them, / And are aware how I am with you no more than I am with everybody.” Even in the 1856 version of “Broad-Axe Poem” quoted above, Whitman conjures the material body of the axe that introduces the poem as a personification of physiological alterity: “BROAD-AXE, shapely, naked, wan! / Head from the mother’s bowels drawn! / Wooded flesh and metal bone! limb only one and lip only one!” Here and elsewhere, we find a fluid, ever-shifting relationship to age and embodiment to be one of the most prominent characteristics of Whitman’s writing. Nevertheless, it is important to acknowledge that Whitman’s celebration of the capable body, of supreme health without defect, became one of the most familiar qualities associated with his aphoristic style.

Keeping this aspect of Whitman’s work in mind, this issue proposes, simultaneously, that to regard Whitman’s work as operating from an exclusively “able” vantage point is to discount the ways Whitman ventures to inhabit a radically diverse array of embodiments, both in his poetry and in the way he crafted his authorial persona around his work. Reliably, Whitman’s writing undermines imperatives to aspire to a fully normative physicality. The journalism and memoranda composed during the Civil War, deeply informed by his experience as a visitor to Washington’s makeshift military hospitals, embrace and linger with the experience of both physical and affective pain. Increasingly, as Leaves of Grass evolves over time, we find its author dismantling binary conceptions of bodily wholeness and partiality. Following his first stroke, which left Whitman paralyzed on his left side, concise notes jotted down outdoors in New Jersey revel in and unfold alternative mobilities. Broadly speaking, across the last three decades of his life—in his correspondence, autobiographical meditations, and the late annexes added posthumously to Leaves of Grass—we find Whitman articulating with unmitigated candor his familiarity with illness, injury, disablement, and aging. For readers familiar with Whitman’s biography, these turns will not seem surprising. Whitman offers a far-reaching account of disability and its nineteenth-century coordinates because his relationship to it became both proximate and deeply personal. While Leaves of Grass remained complex, retaining the poet’s attachment to virility and youth, from the war onward especially we find Whitman wrestling with difficult questions, from a recurring disenchantment with dominant medical protocol to his strategic manipulation of the fungibility of age discourse in crafting his public persona.

Why Whitman’s Body Now, Again?

Whitman’s bicentennial provides an opportunity to put cultural scripts oriented around celebrations of birth and life in dialogue with the transformative understanding of the body we encounter in scholarship at the intersection of disability, aging, theories of mind, and the history of medicine. In our most familiar narratives, birth conjures innocence, defenselessness, and a life yet unimagined. But the commemoration of aging, which birthdays denote, invites a plethora of social maneuverings. Birthdays may occasion merrymaking and quiet meditation. Rarely are birthdays accompanied by a seamless alignment between age and how old one feels. On the contrary, birthdays often disorient the bodies for which they account. As Sari Edelstein observes in her essay in this issue, Whitman was well-acquainted with the paradoxical, socially produced rhetorics of age operative during his lifetime, to the extent that he regularly relied “on age as a performative site of his imagined embodiments and as a strategy for enacting his universalizing project.” Thus, we ask, what better opportunity than Whitman’s 200th birthday to investigate his play with, refusals of, and shifting orientation toward corporeal expectations?

Previous Whitman scholarship has rarely grappled with the poet’s exploration of disability, even as these themes pervade his poetry, prose, notebooks, and correspondence. It is important to acknowledge that work has been done on his relationship to histories of medicine. Critics have discussed the many doctors the poet interacted with over the course of his life.^[21] Much has been said about the medical care Whitman himself provided during the Civil War in Washington’s hospitals. And much has been written on Whitman’s intersection with nineteenth-century medical science, including phrenology,^[22]mesmerism,^[23] hydropathy,^[24] evolutionary biology,^[25] and the chemistry of decomposition.^[26]This previous scholarship informs this special issue, but just as disability studies as a field has urged scholars to explore the history of medicine with a critical lens, in order to illuminate and redefine disability as a social state comprising forms of embodiment that may intersect with but also far exceed medical discourse, so too does it become necessary to place a more precise focus on representations of disability and aging in Whitman’s writings.

A few scholarly contributions stand out for the roles they have played in opening up a conversation about Whitman and disability thus far. In his essay “How Dare a Sick Man or an Obedient Man Write Poems?” Robert J. Scholnick (one of the contributors to the present issue), provides a formative intervention into the complexity and contradictory nature of Whitman’s writing on disability.^[27] Scholnick demonstrates that, on the one hand, Whitman’s antebellum writing “deployed a rhetoric of health, disease, and disability to address the national crisis” over slavery, exploiting figures of disability to posit a “metonymic” relationship between national crisis and bodily impairment (“The Eighteenth Presidency!” being a prime example). By contrast, Scholnick shows how Whitman’s postbellum work, especially the prose and poetry he began to compose as a hospital visitor during the Civil War, begins to articulate a reconsideration of the significance of debility and a shift toward a national culture built on empathy. Building on Scholnick’s essay, though in the context of writing Whitman did after his stroke in 1873, poet and critic Stephen Kuusisto has proposed that we should understand the poet’s experimental 1882 autobiography Specimen Days, and Collect as a major “progenitor” of the “disability memoir,” characterized by “a wholly conscious rendering of altered physicality in prose.”^[28] In addition to Scholnick and Kuusisto’s work, we find Max Cavitch’s work on Whitman’s poetics of bereavement in American Elegy to be critical for its call to reconsider the relationship between pain and eroticism in Drum-Taps and elsewhere.^[29] In an analysis of the elegy for Lincoln “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d,” Cavitch shows how Whitman develops a poetics of mourning where the debilitating effects of bereavement prove to be unexpectedly compatible with “the staggering pathos of erotic liberation.”

In addition to these influences, this special issue of Common-place takes particular inspiration from two recent contributions to Whitman scholarship. One is Zachary Turpin’s 2015 discovery of a previously unknown newspaper column from 1858 devoted to health and fitness advice, published by Whitman under the pseudonym “Mose Velsor,” titled “Manly Health and Training: With Off-Hand Hints toward Their Conditions.”^[30] A surname he took from his mother, the Velsor persona gave Whitman a platform to adapt a poetics increasingly invested in fraternity to a readership expected to train their bodies toward its author’s imagined ideals. Why dip into a lesser genre even after the poet had won and publicized the approval of Ralph Waldo Emerson and others? With the 1855 and 1856 editions of Leaves of Grass achieving limited circulation and recognition, Velsor got Whitman paid. However, as contributors to this issue show, a notable ideological cohesion also links Leaves of Grass to Whitman’s exercise advice. Most importantly for the present issue, “Manly Health and Training” provides insight into the evolution of Whitman’s perspective on health, medicine, and antebellum standards of physical capacity. On the one hand, as multiple contributors to this issue discuss, Whitman’s early dread of disease and debility is on full display. “[W]hat can be more debilitating than to be continually surrounded by sickly people, and to have to do with them only?” Velsor writes. On the other hand, as Manuel Herrero-Puertas notes in his review of Turpin’s 2017 edition of the series, published in this issue, contradictions abound, and the series features compelling instabilities wrought by Whitman’s willful appropriation of popular science.

This issue also takes inspiration from one of its contributors, scholar and poet Lindsay Tuggle, whose poetry is featured here and whose 2017 book The Afterlives of Specimens: Science, Mourning, and Whitman’s Civil War makes a major contribution to our understanding of Whitman’s intersection with the history of medicine.^[31] Exquisitely written, The Afterlives of Specimens introduces many important insights and revelations, among them a compelling interpretation of Whitman’s approach to the medical concept named in Tuggle’s title, the specimen, and a reading of the rise of embalming practices as they influenced Drum-Taps. As noted in the review of The Afterlives of Specimens published in this issue, although Tuggle does not engage with disability studies in a concentrated way, her book evinces a clear investment in many of the questions scholars of disability pursue. Without a doubt, any scholar engaged in historicizing the intersection between Whitman and nineteenth-century conceptions of disability will find The Afterlives of Specimens to be an invaluable resource, and multiple pieces here engage with Tuggle as they embark upon this work. Four of Tuggle’s own poems appear in this issue, accompanied by a statement on her research methods and the way they influence her poetic craft, an influence that, in turn, offers insight into the practices that inform her scholarship.

Before concluding this introduction, we want to introduce what we take to be the five major contributions to Whitman and disability studies provided in our featured essays. In keeping with our stated intent of putting disability history and critical theory in dialogue, each of the essays articulates an original vantage point for undertaking this work.

Jess Libow’s article “Song of My Self-Help: Whitman’s Rehabilitative Reading” inaugurates this issue by historicizing Whitman’s conceptions of ability through the rise of antebellum self-help literature as a familiar genre. Libow goes further by demonstrating that the 1858 series of articles “Manly Health and Training” can only be adequately understood when it is put in dialogue with the self-help genre Whitman was attempting to imitate. Published between the second and third editions of Leaves of Grass, “Manly Health and Training” took inspiration from contemporary character and exercise advice manuals that emphasized everything from dietary reform and weight training to the practice of emotional expression. In a groundbreaking turn, Libow shows that “Manly Health and Training” likewise incorporates advice on the health benefits of reading, as well as methodological instruction for getting the most out of a literature-inclusive exercise regimen. Through sensitive readings of Velsor’s health advice next to the editorial emendations being made to Leaves of Grass between 1856 and 1860, Libow shows how the series illuminates the material connection Whitman imagined between a praxis of reading poetry and the potential he intended to instill in the lines of his poetry to remake his reader’s body in a healthier form. Libow further demonstrates how “Manly Health and Training” is replete with representations of disability even as it advocates for their removal and effacement.

In “Whitman’s Wandering Mind,” Christopher Hanlon takes us on an exploration of Whitman’s corporeal forms of recollecting lost experience in Leaves of Grass, focusing especially on the third edition of 1860. Hanlon shows how Whitman processes memory in his poetry in the form of a “repetitive, invasive mental experience” of a “touch now absent.” Across the poet’s work, reckonings with loss thus provide an aperture onto forms of memory irreducible to mere cognition. In place of this limited understanding of memory, we find Whitman articulating an intimate, indivisible synthesis of body and mind. As Hanlon has noted elsewhere in scholarship on Ralph Waldo Emerson’s memory loss, during the mid-nineteenth century “mental processes were increasingly understood in terms of a greater integrating of psychic with somatic systems, biological matrixes composed of brain cells, the nervous system, and the electrical, chemical, magnetic, and reflexive processes through which such systems interacted and in which were composed a series of psychological effects.”^[32] Analyzing the poem that begins “Once I pass’d through a populous city,” Hanlon illuminates how Whitman deploys a similar integration of psychic and somatic phenomena. Invoking Margaret Price’s call to acknowledge the contemporary proliferation of discourse on neurodiversity not as an effect of constructed binaries but, rather, as a sign of genuine psychological variation,^[33] Hanlon shows how Whitman advanced a poetics of loss resonant with nineteenth-century explorations of psychopathology, which he embraced as a carefully studied, lifelong praxis.

Robert Scholnick’s article “Dispatches to Henry Raymond’s New York Times” draws our attention to journalistic coverage of the state of Washington’s military hospitals during the Civil War that Whitman published in the New York Times, writings that have tended to receive less attention than better-known works such as Drum-Taps (1865) and Memoranda during the War (1875). In these articles, Whitman endeavored to advocate on behalf of the unmet social and psychological needs of the thousands of injured and dying soldiers transported to Washington’s hospitals. More precisely, Scholnick argues that Whitman recognized the problem of wartime trauma, what psychiatrists now term post-traumatic stress disorder, and that he made it his duty to visit soldiers, many of them processing injury, disablement, and the trauma of the war simultaneously, and to encourage others to do the same. Along the way, Scholnick explores the way Whitman’s journalism for the New York Times illustrated concrete practices Whitman advocated to intervene in standard medical protocol he found neglectful and physically harmful. In this way, Scholnick shows also how Whitman anticipates debates in disability studies concerning how medical and social models of representing injury and impairment shape the way people access medical care.

Turning to nineteenth-century material cultures of disability, Bethany Schneider brings us to Whitman’s cane, which became necessary following the series of strokes that rendered him partially paralyzed. Beginning with her own pilgrimage to Whitman’s deathbed, Schneider describes her fascination with his final wooden cane, currently propped up against a bedroom wall in the Camden house, on display. Sketching an early account of assistive technology, Schneider shows how the verb “to lean” functions in Whitman’s life and poems. Schneider attends to how the cane represents not only disability but class, sexuality, and race relations in the nineteenth-century U.S. Through a philological investigation of the intersection between canes and Whitman’s attraction to the metaphor of the calamus root in Leaves of Grass, Schneider goes on to demonstrate that, in fact, we cannot understand his poetics of same-sex desire without understanding the centrality of the cane as a material referent for the forms of sociality his “Calamus” sequence unfolds. The art of leaning, an action Whitman invokes in dialogue with vocabularies of disablement from the early editions of Leaves of Grass up through the late conversations recorded by Traubel, became for Whitman a primary referent for the adhesive togetherness at the center of his lifelong project.

Delving deeper into the subject of age discourse, Sari Edelstein explores Whitman’s diverse articulations of aging in his postbellum writing and self-fashioning. As Edelstein has argued elsewhere regarding age as an analytic and discursive resource, “Chronological age” came to represent a consolidating “supervisory function” in the nineteenth century, “scripting individuals into age-appropriate behaviors, affects, and relationships.”^[34] In dialogue with these shifting social roles, nineteenth-century literature sometimes functioned as a site of ideological parallelism, but it could also provide a resource for negotiation, contestation, and outright rebellion. In this same work, Edelstein calls for greater attention to points of intersection between aging and disability. While we “cannot equate old age with disability,” she argues, as “embodied, stigmatized statuses” they “overlap as similarly subject to regulation, rehabilitation, and pathologization.”^[35]Exploring a constellation of what she calls “Whitman’s geriatric vistas,” Edelstein shows how Whitman at once insisted on candidly representing his experience of his aging body, while, at the same time, he strategically refashioned conventions of age discourse to his own reputational advantage.

We follow these five featured essays with additional segments that extend our focus on Whitman and disability studies, including two book reviews, a “Poetic Research” segment, and a segment for “Tales from the Vault.” The last of these explores a little-known publication of correspondence Whitman wrote documenting his experience of paralysis to his friend Peter Doyle, published posthumously under the title Calamus in 1897.

New Pathways, Alternative Mobilities

As we have noted, birthdays are complicated. They come with a lot of pressure. Occasions for looking backward (have I accomplished enough?) and forward (what is to come?), they impel self-reflection and attention to the body’s relationship to time. Whitman’s birthdays were no different. Some, like the seventieth birthday with which this issue begins, opened up new encounters. This was true of Whitman’s fourth birthday, too, which arrived just four days after his family’s move from Long Island to Brooklyn, a city (not yet consolidated as a borough) for which the poet famously developed a lifelong love. Others that this issue explores arrived in times of sadness, such as the birthday of 1873, which came just eight days after his mother, Louisa, had passed at the age of seventy-seven.

In 1863, the month of May found him volunteering at the war hospitals in Washington. Four days before that birthday, he wrote to Thomas P. Sawyer, “Well, dear brother, the great battle between Hooker & Lee came off, & what a battle it was—without any decisive results again, though at the cost of so many brave men’s lives & limbs—it seems too dreadful, that such bloody contests, without settling any thing, should go on. The hospitals here are filled with the wounded, I think the worst cases & the plentiest of any fighting yet.”^[36] Two years later, Whitman was watching the war come to a close. On May 24, 1865, he wrote, “FOR two days now the broad spaces of Pennsylvania avenue along to Treasury hill, and so by detour around to the President’s house, and so up to Georgetown, and across the aqueduct bridge, have been alive with a magnificent sight, the returning armies.”^[37]

The 1889 birthday was momentous, in no small part because Whitman had successfully obtained the out-door push chair he desired. On the day the chair arrived at the Mickle Street house from Wanamaker’s, Traubel took it up to Whitman’s bedroom on the second floor. “Started to rise instantly,” Traubel says of the moment Whitman saw it.^[38] “It looks like a glorious opportunity!” were the first words out of the poet’s mouth. “Guess I’ll just step into it at once and have the question settled.” Once situated, he expressed his satisfaction immediately. “It seems just made for me—or I for it!” he said. “A perfect fit! And so easy too!” For a moment, Traubel says, he “sat there composedly.” The chair was not manual but designed to be pushed by a companion. Whitman began to direct his friend. “Move it, Horace,” he said, “let us see now how she goes.” Traubel recalls,

And when I saw that the mere motion seemed to rejoice him, I said jokingly, “If the worst comes, Ed can wheel you up and down the room [as opposed to trying it outdoors],” he replying, “That is so—but that would be a poor apology indeed for the real thing!”

Traubel called Ed into the room, and Ed began to push the chair, too, “moving it about, manipulating it easily.” They did not take it outside immediately. Instead, Mary Davis’s foster son Warren Fritzinger, who was also there, “kissed him good-by and went out.” Ed soon followed. Whitman said to Traubel: “I guess I’ll stay in it a while. With my usual instinct to keep comfortable when I am so, I’ll stay in this good position!” Traubel writes, “And so there he sat, still in the middle of the floor, cane dangling from his hand, when I left.”

On May 11, the day after the chair’s arrival, Whitman went out. Ed guided the chair as Whitman directed. Later that evening, after they had returned home, Traubel records that Whitman was eager to recall the day to him. “[S]it down!” he said. “I have been out at last! The experiment has proved a success!”^[39]He went on, “I was out, I guess, more than an hour and a half. I sat half an hour in the front here, under the trees. We made quite an extensive detour, though we did not start out with that idea. I expected to go around the block, then stop. But when we got down the street, I had Ed go on, so that by going four or five blocks, we got to the [Delaware] river.” Traubel asked how he felt afterward, wondering if he felt “wearied.”^[40] Whitman corrected the misplaced worry. “No—quite the contrary—it exhilarated me.” Traubel says Whitman went on, “in his fervent way,” “And the chair…it was a wonderful true support—a revelation of ease and comfort.” “And we’re going again and again,” he said multiple times, “and we’ll send the good news to all our friends” (fig. 4).

The chair proceeds to become a prominent part of Traubel’s records. In concluding this introduction, however, we want to return to the first scene we receive of Whitman getting to know the new chair in his bedroom and deciding to remain in it as everyone exits the room, sitting “still in the middle of the floor, cane dangling from his hand.” In this evocative scene of Whitman seated, staying with his satisfaction, and seeing that satisfaction as a worthy pathway of its own—worth following, however fleeting—this issue begins. The pathways our contributors seek are divergent and take myriad forms. As Whitman would have preferred, they describe contradictory perspectives and incommensurable ontologies. And yet, they find common ground in the alternative mobilities they take to reach their destinations. The following essays, reviews, and meditations show Whitman’s corpus, notoriously capacious, to take a greater interest than critics have acknowledged in the interface between capacity and incapacity. We thus begin with the wheelchair in Whitman’s bedroom, his motion imminent. Here, once again, Whitman invites us to move with and alongside him.

4. Dr. John Johnston, photographer, Warren “Warry” Fritzinger (1866–1899) and Walt Whitman at the Camden docks, 1890. Copyprint. Digital ID# ppmsca-07548. Prints & Photographs Division, Library of Congress (57).Whitman sits in his wheelchair from Wanamaker’s, holding his cane, wearing a broad-brimmed hat, and showing a content expression behind his white beard. Fritzinger sports a black mustache, a white shirt under an open jacket, and a smaller derby hat, and rests his left hand on the top of Whitman’s chair.

Acknowledgments

We would like to thank our contributors for their excellent scholarship—Sari Edelstein, Christopher Hanlon, Manuel Herrero-Puertas, Jess Libow, Bob Scholnick, Bethany Schneider, and Lindsay Tuggle, with whom we feel privileged to have collaborated over the last several months. We are indebted to the people at Common-place and the American Antiquarian Society who contributed to making this special issue possible, including Nan Wolverton, James Moran, Caroline Stoffel, Jaclyn Penny, and Catherine Preus. We thank Reuben Gelley Newman for his research assistance as we began to conceive of the call for papers last summer. We would like to thank the many Whitman scholars who have had a formative influence on our thinking. We had the opportunity to have useful discussions with many of these scholars at the Whitman 200 conference at the University of Pennsylvania in March, among them Jay Grossman, Matt Cohen, Meredith McGill, Virginia Jackson, Michael Warner, Ed Whitley, Michael Winship, Ed Folsom, John Pollack, Peter Stallybrass, and Lynne Farrington. We are grateful to the editors of the WhitmanArchive.org, an incalculably valuable resource we relied upon throughout our work on this issue.

________________

[1] For references in the letters, see Walt Whitman’s “Letter to William Douglas O’Connor,” May 6, 1889, as well as his “Letter to William Sloane Kennedy,” May 8, 1889.

[2] Horace Traubel. With Walt Whitman in Camden, Vol. 5. (1964): 139.

[3] Traubel, 139.

[4] Traubel, 139.

[5] Traubel, 139.

[6] Traubel, 139.

[7] Traubel, 140.

[8] Traubel, 140.

[9] Traubel, 144.

[10] Traubel, 152.

[11] Traubel, 154.

[12] For the recent essay that revealed this discovery to scholars, see Sheldon Lee Gosline. “‘I am a fool’: Dr. Henry Cattell’s Private Confession about What Happened to Whitman’s Brain.” Walt Whitman Quarterly Review, Vol. 31, No. 4 (2014): 158-62.

[13] For a seminal work on the theme of “dissemination” in Whitman’s life and poetry, see Michael Moon’s Disseminating Whitman: Revision and Corporeality in Leaves of Grass (Cambridge, MA, 1993).

[14] See Beth Linker’s “On the Borderland of Medical and Disability History: A Survey of the Fields” in Bulletin of the History of Medicine 87.4 (2013): 499-535 and Catherine Kudlick’s “Disability History: Why We Need Another ‘Other’” in The American Historical Review 108.3 (2003): 763-793.

[15] See Alison Kafer’s discussion of the “political/relational model” of disability in Feminist, Queer, Crip (Bloomington, IN, 2013) and Tobin Siebers’s “Disability in Theory: From Social Constructionism to the New Realism of the Body” in American Literary History 13.4 (2001): 737-754.

[16] See Altschuler’s “‘Ain’t One Limb Enough’: Historicizing Disability in the American Novel,” American Literature 86.2 (2014): 147.

[17] See Ellen Samuels, Fantasies of Identification: Disability, Gender, Race (New York, 2014). Samuels goes on to demonstrate how disability has at once been shaped by these ideologies of identification and functioned to problematize their basic assumptions. On the one hand, disability “haunts” the rise of identity politics, in that it has reliably “function[ed] as the trope and embodiment of true physical difference.” Thus, we find literature on race, gender, and other categories of analysis consistently relying on vocabularies of disability to articulate the effects and nature of their corresponding disenfranchisement, sometimes through the invocation of medical authority, at other times by invoking disability figuratively. On the other hand, Samuels shows how “the disabled body presents a unique challenge to an identificatory system based upon classification, since its nonnormativity manifests itself through a vast diversity of form and function” (13) Thus, disability also exceeds the scope of liberal notions of identification, transgressing the imagined parameters of identity by virtue of its heterogeneous and endlessly proliferating forms.

[18] For more on the history of disability in early America, see Sari Altschuler and Cristobal Silva’s introduction to the special issue “Early American Disability Studies” in Early American Literature 52.1 (2017): 1-27. For a recent podcast on disability history in the nineteenth century, see Season 2, Episode 5 of the C19 podcast, “Beyond Ahab’s Peg Leg: Disability in 19th-Century American Literature,” featuring a conversation between Altschuler, Reiss, Samuels, and Ittai Orr.

[19] To be sure, in this toggling move, Whitman seems to lose control of his own nested extrapolations: the poem imagines comparative capacity as the necessary proof of ability for the universe itself. Yet, by virtue of its infinite totality, the universe has no exterior referent by which to measure the scope of ability Whitman alleges to evaluate.

[20] Tobin Siebers, Disability Theory. (Ann Arbor, 2008).

[21] Charles Feinberg. “Walt Whitman and His Doctors.” Archives of Internal Medicine Vol. 114, No. 6 (1964): 834-842.

[22] Michael Warner, “Introduction.” The Portable Walt Whitman. Penguin, 2003.

[23] See Catherine Waitinas, “’Animal Magnetism’: The ‘Cotemporary’ Roots of Whitman’s ‘Is Mesmerism True?’.” Walt Whitman Quarterly Review 34 (2016), 55-68.

[24] See Harold Aspiz, “Specimen Days: The Therapeutics of Sun-Bathing.” Walt Whitman Quarterly Review 1 (1983), 48-50.

[25] See Robert J. Scholnick, “Science.” J.R. LeMaster and Donald D. Kummings, eds., Walt Whitman: An Encyclopedia (New York: Garland Publishing, 1998).

[26] See Maria Farland, “Decomposing City: Walt Whitman’s New York and the Science of Life and Death.” ELH, Vol. 74, No. 4 (Winter 2007): 799-827.

[27] Robert J. Scholnick, “‘How Dare a Sick Man or an Obedient Man Write Poems?’: Whitman and the Dis-ease of the Perfect Body.” Disability Studies: Enabling the Humanities, edited by Sharon L. Snyder, et. al (Modern Language Association, 2002).

[2] Stephen Kuusisto, “Walt Whitman’s ‘Specimen Days’ and the Discovery of the Disability Memoir.” Prose Studies, vol. 27, No. 1-2 (2005): 155-162.

[29] Max Cavitch, American Elegy: The Poetry of Mourning from the Puritans to Whitman. (Minneapolis 2006).

[30] See Zachary Turpin’s edition, Manly Health and Training: To Teach the Science of a Sound and Beautiful Body (New York: 2017).

[31] Lindsay Tuggle, The Afterlives of Specimens: Science, Mourning, and Whitman’s Civil War (Iowa City, 2017).

[32] Christopher Hanlon, Emerson’s Memory Loss: Originality, Communality, and the Late Style. (Oxford, 2018): 26.

[33] See Margaret Price, Mad at School: Rhetorics of Mental Disability and Academic Life (Ann Arbor, 2011).

[34] Sari Edelstein, Adulthood and Other Fictions: American Literature and the Unmaking of Age. (Oxford, 2019), 6.

[35] Edelstein, 13

[36] Walt Whitman, “Letter to Thomas P. Sawyer” (May 27, 1863).

[37] Walt Whitman. Specimen Days, and Collect (Philadelphia, 1882): 73.

[38] Traubel, 167

[39] Traubel, 169.

[40] Traubel, 170.

www.whitmanbicentennialessays.com

This article originally appeared in issue 19.1 (Spring, 2019).

About the Authors

Don James McLaughlin is an assistant professor of nineteenth-century American literature at the University of Tulsa and the 2018-2019 Hench post-dissertation fellow at the American Antiquarian Society. He earned his PhD from the University of Pennsylvania in 2017. His writing has appeared in American Literature and the New Republic and is forthcoming in Literature and Medicine and J19: The Journal of Nineteenth-Century Americanists.

Clare Mullaney is a visiting assistant professor of English at Hamilton College. She earned her Ph.D. in the Department of English at the University of Pennsylvania. Her dissertation, “American Imprints: Disability and the Material Text, 1858-1932,” considers how bodily and mental impairments—from eyestrain and word-blindness (the late nineteenth-century term for dyslexia) to war wounds, melancholy, and old age—transformed everyday practices of reading and writing.