Manifest Destiny, Little House style

I am a fond rereader. I keep most of the books I’ve ever read so I might revisit them when time allows. A few days ago I suggested to my friend Salman that if he wants to know about white Americans, he should read Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House books. I took my own suggestion instead. I’m into the second book in the series, Little House on the Prairie, which take place in the early 1870s. The Ingalls family has left the Big Woods of Wisconsin and headed into Indian Territory on the rumor that it will shortly be opened to settlement. Indians living there, Osage by the description, were not pleased to find a white family squatting on their land. After one particularly harrowing (well, for Ma, anyway) encounter with Indians, Pa played the fiddle and the family sang this song:

“Wild roved an Indian maid,
Bright Alfarata,
Where flow the waters
Of the blue Juniata.
Strong and true my arrows are
In my painted quiver,
Swift goes my light canoe
Adown the rapid river.

Bold is my warrior good,
The love of Alfarata,
Proud wave his sunny plumes
Along the Juniata.
Soft and low he speaks to me,
And then his war-cry sounding
Rings his voice in thunder loud
From height to height resounding.

So sang the Indian maid,
Bright Alfarata,
Where sweep the waters
Of the blue Juniata.
Fleeting years have borne away
The voice of Alfarata,
Still flow the waters
If the blue Juniata.” Continue reading

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Why can’t I just call it The Amazing Mr Book?

My dear readers, many thanks for your votes and your input on the title issue. Now that you’ve all voted, I can say what’s what.

1. From Potential Christians to Hereditary Heathens: Religion and Race in Virginia, 1550-1750.

This was the title of the dissertation. I love it because it perfectly encapsulates what the book is about, and also because my old, dear friend Louis Hyman thought up the beautifully alliterative phrase “Hereditary Heathens.” This has been the working title of the manuscript but it has the drawback of being kinda wordy. Well, not kinda. It is wordy.

2. Religion and Race in Early Virginia: From Potential Christians to Hereditary Heathens

This is one title the publisher has suggested. It’s basically the first title reversed. I’m not fond. While it will be good for keyword searching, it just does not flow. It doesn’t look like you guys liked this one either.

3. The Baptism of Virginia

This one was suggested by the marketing folks. I have a number of problems with it. First, it doesn’t actually say what the book is about. While I do have one chapter about baptism, the book itself is NOT about baptism. Specialists in my field might actually think that the book is about John Leland, or Methodists, or Baptists, or that it might be antebellum. Moreover, in a keyword search, someone searching for something about religion and race wouldn’t actually get this book. NOT FOND. But, I was surprised to note that in the poll and on twitter, you folks really liked it. So, food for thought.

4. Creating a Christian Race in Virginia, 1550-1750

My friend the magnificient sepoy came up with this one. He asked, what needs to be in the title? I said, three things need to be in the title: religion/Christianity/Christians, race, and Virginia. This title says it all, nice and simple, no subtitle, and gives a date range. Boom. I love it. Works for me.

It doesn’t work for the publishing house.

So, my father (deerislebound in the comments) suggested: The Baptism of Virginia: Creating a Christian Race, 1550-1750. I rather like this solution. It preserves the elements the marketing professionals seem to find most useful about the title, but it allows me to sneak in a subtitle that for me clarifies what the book is actually about.

Some other suggestions emanating from the folks with the power: Creating a Christian Master Race, and, Creating Christian Masters. Neither of those works for me because I don’t feel the book is a) about Nazis, or b) really about the planter class either, at least no exclusively, in the way that say, Roll, Jordan, Roll was about the master class. So.

Tomorrow phone call with my editor and hopefully we can work this out. #crossesfingers

Titling the Amazing Mr Book

I have, of course, been living with the Amazing Mr Book for longer than I have had this blog. I began the seminar that became the dissertation that became the book in the Fall of 2001. So now that I am in the last stages, I want to be sure to get the title right. So, dear readers, do give me your opinion.

Favorite teachable sources?

Ed’s last questions ask me to name two favorite primary sources and one favorite secondary source.
I’m going to cheat a little on this one! I like to teach with two kinds of primary sources: court records and political cartoons. Court records are marvelous because they give us a window into everyday lives and their little conflicts. They also allow the voices of the underclass—servants, slaves, and poor planters, to emerge, in the way that reading the letters, diaries, and other papers of the planter class do not. Consider this one from 29 January 1657/58, Northampton County, Virginia:

“Whereas I Jane Delimus having wrongfully scandalized and abused Mrs Ann Stringer ye wife of Capt John Stringer in saying and reporting that shee marked a sow of myne which I acknowledge to be false and untrue therefore I humbly desire her ye said mrs Ann Stringer to forgive and remitt my offence which I am heartely sory for.” [Volume 8, fol. 1]

There’s so much here to talk about: gender, status, the importance of livestock, even imagining the background that might help us make sense of what appears to be a petty dispute. I could drive an entire class period around this document.
Here’s one of my favorite American Revolution cartoons, by Paul Revere. If you thought the Quebec Bill didn’t matter, think again!
In terms of secondary sources, I think my absolute all-time favorite read is John Demos’s The Unredeemed Captive (1994). This is the story of a young English girl, taken and held for ransom by French-allied Mohawks. When her family finally got the money to redeem her, there was a problem: Eunice Williams did not want to come home. Ah, the problems of colonialism…

Colonial Divisions?

Ed’s third question deals with differences between the colonial North and the colonial South. As he points out, textbooks often present the northern colonies, most notably the New England colonies, as religious, enchanted, and driven by consumer goods. The south is presented as a place obsessed with profit and with slavery. I think these divisions are largely artificial. The roots of this division are twofold: it stems partly from a temptation to read antebellum sectional divisions back on the colonial period, and partly from Jack P. Greene’s synthetic history of the colonial period Pursuits of Happiness (1988). In Pursuits, Greene argued that Americans have too long been taught that New England was the source of the United States’ political and intellectual heritage. Greene showed that New England was in fact atypical: its demographics and culture were wildly different from that of the mid-Atlantic, the Chesapeake, Carolina, and the Caribbean. New England was comprised primarily of families and it resulted in a self-reproducing population of English people almost immediately. No other English region in the New World was like that. Far more typical were the wild demographies of the Chesapeake, where migrants were comprised mainly of young single men and it took decades to create a self-reproducing English population. Greene, I think, was right on about New England’s atypicality, but his synthesis has led to other divisions between New England and everywhere else. I don’t find these particularly productive.

Take religion, for example. New England’s puritans were a pious lot, and the Chesapeake harbored England’s lawless and godless. New Englanders lived in an enchanted, supernatural world, full of devils and witches and  portents. In Virginia, damned souls made tobacco for profit (apologies to Edward Bond). It’s a common portrait, and it would make historians’ lives so much simpler if it were true. But it isn’t. Consider this document:

“Upon the first day of April my wife was washing a bucke[t] of clothes, and of a sudden her clothes were all besprinkled with blood form the first beginning to the rincing of them, at last in such abundance as if an hand should invisibly take handfuls of gore blood and throw it upon the linnen. Where it lay all of an heape in the washing-tub, she sent for me in, and I tooke up one gobbet of blood as big as my fingers end, and stirring it in my hand it did not stain my fingers nor the linnen: Upon this miraculous premonition and warning from God having some kinde of intimation of some designe of the Indians (though nothing appeared till that day) I provided for defence, and though we were but five men and mistrusted not any villainy towards us before: yet we secured our selves against 20 savages which were three houres that day about my house. Blessed be the name of God.”

You’d think that this prophetic bit of blood in the laundry came from New England, but if you thought that, you would be wrong. James Horn uses this document from Virginia in 1644 in his book, Adapting to a New World: English Society in the Seventeenth-Century Chesapeake (1994, quote on page 381), to introduce a chapter on religion and popular belief. Horn argues, quite convincingly and with plenty of evidence, that English society in the Chesapeake was highly religious, and not all that different from New England. Edward Bond, in his Damned Souls in a Tobacco Colony: Religion in Seventeenth-Century Virginia (2000) makes a similar argument: historians must take the religiosity of English people outside of New England seriously.

The same goes for New England and slavery. Slavery was not just the province of the colonial South and Caribbean. Slavery was legal in all colonies; New York City’s population was 40% enslaved by the middle of the eighteenth century. The great merchant houses of Newport and Providence were up to their necks in the African slave trade. And New England’s founding fathers, even the oft-admired Governor John Winthrop, were perfectly happy to trade in Indian slaves with the Caribbean. (How else would one dispose of captured survivors of the Pequot War? We’ll be hearing more from Linford Fisher on this shortly.) No one in New England or elsewhere was making abolitionist arguments. (Well, hardly anyone, but that’s a post for another time.)

I suppose it is convenient to teach undergrads from the formula of difference, but I think a greater understanding of colonial English society emerges from thinking about similarity.  The divisions of the antebellum world shouldn’t be read onto the seventeenth and eighteenth-century past.

Patriarchalism? Paternalism? and also Indian slavery

My colleague and friend Ed Blum has asked me to write some entries for his course blog. For this one, he asked me to comment on excerpts from Kathleen Brown’s Good Wives, Nasty Wenches, and Anxious Patriarchs (1996) and Philip Morgan’s Slave Counterpoint (1998) that are reproduced, along with some primary sources, in the new edition of Major Problems in American Colonial History.

2. Patriarchalism? Paternalism? The scholarly conversation about the relationship between enslaved people and their owners.

I’m editing Professor Blum’s question a little here. In this post, I’ll address the conversation between Kathleen Brown and Phil Morgan. In the next post, I’ll talk about sectional divisions in early American history—what they mean, and what they don’t mean.

Eugene Genovese published his seminal, and justly famous, history of antebellum slavery Roll, Jordan, Roll: The World the Slaves Made in 1974. Genovese used the concept of paternalism to explore the relationship between masters and slaves. For masters, Genovese argued, paternalism was a benevolent ideology that justified enslavement; masters thought of themselves as protectors and caretakers of their enslaved property. By embracing a paternalistic ideology, southern planters also believed they could blunt the increasingly powerful critique of slavery emanating from abolitionists in the north. Paternalism was, though, a site of resistance for enslaved people, who manipulated their masters’ ideological commitment to slavery to gain slightly better conditions. Genovese embraced a Marxist interpretation of slavery, arguing that the south was a closed, precapitalist system. Genovese’s Marxism also led him to focus on slave resistance.

Genovese’s emphasis on paternalism has continued, though without the Marxist imprimatur, in more recent antebellum historiography (for example, Walter Johnson’s Soul by Soul: Inside the Antebellum Slave Market). Historians of early American slavery also read paternalism back into the seventeenth and eighteenth century, and I think that’s the conversation between Brown and Morgan. What isn’t clear to me from this discussion is the difference between patriarchalism and paternalism. Brown skates around this definitional issue on page 51, and I think her project is less about describing a transition from patriarchalism to paternalism and more about exploring how her “anxious patriarchs” tried to define their relationship with their dependents, whether those dependents were enslaved people, members of their family, or poor white planters. In the end, she sees paternalism as “one face of patriarchy” (58). Morgan’s piece echoes Genovese, I think, in the way that it emphasizes planters’ belief in reciprocal obligations between masters and slaves. Morgan urges readers to see that the planters’ worldview was real, though deeply flawed, and that it changed over the course of the eighteenth century—the greatest contribution of paternalism/patriarchalism might have been that it encouraged white unity. (As an aside, I will say my favorite recent work on eighteenth-century slavery and slaveowning is Rhys Isaac’s Landon Carter’s Uneasy Kingdom.)
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Why do I study Early American History?

My friend Ed Blum asked me to write several posts for his course blog. He likes to bring other historians into his class discussions, and for some strange reason he wants me to comment on early America.

His first question for me is weirdly autobiographical. What drew me to the study of early American history?

1. What drew you to the study of early America?
When I went to college, I was going to double-major in political science and Spanish, take the foreign service exam, and disappear into the diplomatic service somewhere in Latin America.

Obviously, that isn’t what happened in the end. How I came to be a history and German double major instead is largely the result of a series of accidental discoveries. My first semester I realized I really didn’t like political science. It seemed so divorced from historical context. I loved my history courses though. I took Latin American history and European history, and I loved every minute of those classes. So fine, I would be a history major.

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