Showing posts with label 1860s. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 1860s. Show all posts

Tuesday, May 6, 2025

Book Review: Anny in Love

Title: Anny in Love

Author: Barbara Wright 

Date: 2024 

Publisher: Onslow Square 

ISBN: 979-8-9904036-1-1 

Quote: "William Makepeace Thackeray, author of Vanity Fair...died unexpectedly on Christmas Eve." 

It was 1863. He was survived by two daughters and a certifiably insane wife, and, because he had never remarried, his funeral was gate-crashed by a crowd of prostitutes. Wright tells us that it had become customary for women not to attend funerals so that they wouldn't find out that kind of thing about their fathers and husbands... 

What was wrong with Mrs. Thackeray? There's little overlap between psychiatric diagnoses of the 1860s and those in use today. Wright characterizes her in terms that suggest the tired old "Brilliant creative people are susceptible to ballooning-brain autistic disorders" theory. (Brilliant creative people are the ones who learn to work around autistic-type disorders, and other disabilities. There's a correlation between intelligence and becoming famous as having worked through or around disabilities, not one between intelligence and having disabilities.) Mrs. Thackeray was certified on the basis of things like throwing herself and dragging her children into deep water where they nearly drowned, tearing out her own hair and her children's. She was also Irish; she may have had the really rather rare combination of genes that seems to allow classic schizophrenia to develop. In any case, Wright clearly concluded after studying the evidence, Mrs. Thackeray was genuinely dangerous to herself and others, not one of the women (and Irish people) who were declared insane merely because they were inconvenient to someone. 

Wright thinks William Makepeace Thackeray honestly loved his wife and daughters. Wright suggests that Anny and Minny Thackeray worried about having inherited "insanity" from their mother, and, since they hadn't done that, about having passed it on to Minny's daughter, Laura Makepeace Stephen. 

 What was wrong with Laura Stephen? Wright characterizes her as a classic case of autism, just functional enough that it must have broken her aunt's heart when Laura grew big enough to be dangerous and had to be put in an institution. In historical fact, Anny's mother and niece lived quite a long time in the institutions where they were kept, and Anny visited them whenever she could, though she wasn't always sure they knew. 

 The title of Anny in Love may seem ironic while you're reading the book. In a period where upper-middle-class women weren't supposed to cultivate any marketable job skills or do any kind of paid work, Anny was a writer just like her Papa. (Only not, so far as anyone has yet tried to claim, anywhere near as good.) She wasn't rich, beautiful, or sentimental. Young men left her alone. In the 1840s and 1850s "fat" was not automatically heard as meaning "ugly" or "repulsive." Thackeray called Anny fat, presumably in contrast to her sister Minny as being thin, but in their case Minny was skinny and tubercular. Anny was sturdy and strong; the scant evidence available indicates that she was ordinary-looking, but not obese. 


Portrait of Anne Thackeray Ritchie from Wikipedia.

Minny married first. Anny was the unmarried aunt who took care of sickly Minny and the one of her babies that survived, brain-damaged Laura Makepeace Stephen (no, not Stephens). Anny lived "in love" of her family with never a suitor in sight until she was old enough to create a scandal by marrying a much younger man--a relative of hers, at that. If she "fell in love" with him, as may have been the case, she concealed it well. She knew how to say no when she wanted to, so, Wright seems to conclude, when she said yes she must have meant it.

Anyway, because the Thackerays and most of their friends were literary types, they left enough details of their lives to make an enjoyable fact-based novel. When Wright describes the characters exchanging witticisms at a party, she's likely to be quoting the ones noted in their letters, diaries, or even published work. The result is fun to read and seems reasonably accurate. 

Thursday, July 20, 2023

Book Review: Harriet Tubman

Reclaimed from Associated Content...What Google doesn't like about an award-winning classic biography from Harper Collins, I don't know. I have never liked the kind of face images that fill up all the space with face, cutting out even the sides of the head; it always looks like a caricature.

Title: Harriet Tubman: Conductor on the Underground Railroad

Buy it

Harriet Tubman: Conductor on the Underground Railroad

Buy it

Author: Ann Petry

Publisher: Harper Collins

Date: 1955 (first edition), 1996 (paperback edition reviewed here)

Number of pages :242, plus index

Illustrations: none

Quote: “I never run my train off the track, and I never lost a single passenger.”

Harriet Ross Tubman was one of those people whose true stories are too unlikely to be printed as fiction. Going by the statistical odds, nobody could do what they did. Possibly things have been left out of their stories as we know the stories today. Nevertheless, the impossible thing was done.

Born a slave in Maryland in 1821, the girl Harriet Ross was marked for life by a head injury. It left her witha  scar, a lifelong tendency toward narcolepsy, and apparently an unusual manner of speaking. She was a small, restless, hyperactive girl who preferred jobs usually done by boys or men. When she wore boys' clothes to suit the job, people thought she was a boy. Her intelligence would have been startling even if she hadn't been expected to die from her head injury. In 1840 men were supposed to hate strong, tough-minded women, but John Tubman, a free Black man, chose to marry Harriet although she was a slave who might have been sold away from him.

By this time the slave system was falling apart. In what were then western states, like Tennessee, there were still "wilderness" areas where ex-slaves could disappear in the untracked swamps or forests. Maryland was not one of those areas. An elaborate patrol system had developed to keep slaves from escaping. The country was well settled, over-farmed, populated by a decaying upper class who thought it was their neighborly duty to keep slaves in their places.

Virginia had outlawed all free citizens of African descent, actually banishing such people to places like, well, Maryland, with the express purpose of keeping men like John Tubman from marrying, buying, and emancipating women like Harriet. Maryland tolerated couples like the Tubmans but when Harriet worried about being sold and urged her husband to take her further north, John laughed, threatened to help bring her back to slavery if she tried to escape,, and shamelessly selected his next wife.

Harriet Tubman made her way to Philadelphia. We know the names of some of the abolitionists who helped her. John Tubman was probably more concerned with courting his second wife, presumably convincing her he wouldn't betray her as he'd threatened to do to Harriet, than with tracking Harriet down.

What will never be fully explained is how this unusual, surely conspicuous fugitive slave was able to spend the next twenty years repeatedly sneaking back into Maryland and leading other slaves out. Mostly she rescued members of her extended family, taking them first to Pennsylvania, later to Canada. She was both illiterate and narcoleptic. Something had to have been wrong with her head for her even to think of trying what she did. Well, something was. And she succeeded. Those who whispered about her being a supernatural spirit, perhaps a reincarnation of Moses, trusted that they'd be safe with her even if she collapsed and lay "sleeping" for hours while they were being pursued. Somehow they always were.

By the time the Civil War broke out, other women of Harriet Tubman's age were considered "old" and expected to act like grandmothers, rocking and knitting. Perhaps because she was already a legend, Mrs. Tubman was not allowed to act "old." She served in the U.S. Army as both a spy and a nurse.

She never received even the pathetic wages regular (male) soldiers got, and never retired. She had bought a house and some land; she raised vegetables and sold them on the streets to make the house payments. She received some money for talking about her experiences. Her stories were collected and published as books, which she was never able to read. John Tubman died first, and Mrs. Tubman married a fellow veteran. He was already dying; he never collected his wages either, and had nothing of material value to give his wife. Harriet Tubman and her parents depended on neighbors' donations of food to balance their own diet.

Novelist Ann Petry fleshes out these facts with fictional details that show some of the ways Harriet Tubman's adventures might have been pulled off. Her version of the story is generally accepted as fact-based enough that some libraries classify this book as nonfiction. Petry's matter-of-fact narrative style, full of color, conversation, and even menus, brings the story to life for young readers, even if it is fictional life.

The books that were based on transcriptions of Harriet Tubman's own stories are no longer in print, though they ought to be. This book is still in print.

 

Thursday, April 22, 2021

Book Review: The Tall Woman

Title: The Tall Woman 

Author: Wilma Dykeman

Date: 1962

Publisher: Wakestone (and others)

ISBN: 0-9613859-1-X

Length: 315 pages

Quote: "Lydia said softly, 'I never asked for easy, Mama.'"

Trigger warning: This classic of American Women's Literature is not a comedy, in form, but a biography. When a novel has the form of a biography the character may succeed, and her or his successes may be both satisfactory and laughable, but the happy ending is often "Then the character died old, regretted by all, and his or her heir was..." The time frame of the story simply exceeds that of the main character. The time frame of The Tall Woman exceeds that of its protagonist, Lydia McQueen.

In 1962 books that emphasized women's height often addressed baby-boomers who had been so unladylike as to grow taller than their fathers were, and after assuring those girls that there were enough overgrown young men out there to go around, they spent most of the space available talking about how to look shorter (stripes, shirts and skirts in different colors, skirts that reached exactly to the knee). The Tall Woman broke that rule; though Lydia is apparently the tall skinny type, according to the jacket drawing, the story is not about how she copes with her body shape but about how she copes with crises, brings up children, appreciates the differences among most of her neighbors and eventually beats the one really unlikable neighbor she has in a political dispute. It's a feel-good story.

One of the things I've regretted in life was that, though Wilma Dykeman Stokely was still teaching at Berea when I was there, I didn't demand to be admitted to her class. However, apart from the history in this novel about the late nineteenth century, there's not all that much to discuss about The Tall Woman; the story is easy to follow. It reads like a family legend and, going by its dedication, probably is one. Lydia is as lovable as Elvira Ware in Jubilee, as admirable as Mary Peters

Despite its appearance on some school reading lists, this is a novel that can be read for pleasure. It's almost sex-free (we read about the children, not about their begetting) and less violent than many novels about this period (Lydia does kill a bear). It won't embarrass adults if the children read it, at all. It will repay attentive reading; Lydia's relationships with each of her neighbors have their own nuances, and the pleasure of the irony rests on your willingness to remember those nuances.

Friday, December 8, 2017

Book Review: The Big Family

Title: The Big Family


Author: Viña Delmar

Date: 1961

Publisher: Harcourt Brace & Company

ISBN: none

Length: 375 pages

Quote: “Historically, only one incident rests on a shaky foundation. There is nothing to substantiate that John, upon learning that he would be defeated in his first attempt to win a seat in Congress, then cleverly devoted himself to Andrew Jackson’s cause. However, it is true that after the election Jackson rewarded him with the position of United States district attorney at New Orleans.”

If you look up "Vina Delmar" online, with or without the tilde or old-style double N, the first thing you'll find is that it's the name of a city in Chile. The author really was married to a man whose stage name was "Gene Delmar," although his father's name was Zimmerman, and her parents really had named her Alvina. She is not remembered as a scholarly writer. Though first and best known for smutty novels and dramas (her first book was actually called Bad Girl), later on in life she wrote several family-friendly, relatively clean historical novels, only mildly Hollywooded-up. The Big Family is one of those.

I’ve written some harsh reviews of “family saga” novels about fictional families of unpleasant people; The Big Family is my kind of “family saga” novel. It’s about a real family, the descendants of Jane Mackenzie and John Slidell of New York, several of whom really did achieve distinction. John Slidell, Junior, advanced from being a district attorney at New Orleans to being a U.S. Senator for Louisiana. Jane Slidell was married to Commodore Matthew Perry, who opened diplomatic relations between the United States and Japan. Alexander Mackenzie, John’s and Jane’s brother who chose to use the name of his mother’s (much richer) family, also commanded a ship, though not quite so successfully as Perry.

History has spared the Slidells from any documentation of some of the less impressive events in the family saga. These events Delmar has filled in, not always with the most felicitous results.

John Slidell, Senior, was a soap-boiler’s son with nothing to recommend him to the wealthy Mackenzies. He didn’t know who his grandparents had been, or, when the question arose, whether they had been ethnically Jewish or nominally Christian--they were not, in any case, religious. How did he ever marry into that family? A scenario that was not uncommon, in the nineteenth century, was the rich girl who had been deliberately kept so “innocent” of the facts of life that she didn’t realize that one of the stupid, childish gross-out games a boy friend proposed could lead to pregnancy; sometimes, by way of punishment, she was ordered to marry the boy. Another possibility, suggested by old portraits, was that Jane Mackenzie was considered so unattractive that she thought she had to marry “down” or not at all. Another possibility, suggested by the corresponding point in this reviewer’s family history, is that some rich American parents were taking democracy very seriously and thought it was fantastic for an heiress to marry a self-made man. All of those things really happened but Delmar ignores these possibilities and spins a 1950s movie romance for the couple, where a hormone surge leads straight to a happy-ever-after marriage. There was no need for that. The story is really about the next generation, and could just as well have started with the known facts of Jane Slidell’s marriage to her brother’s superior officer.

Delmar also admits having filled in some of the details of Senator Slidell’s early life in what seems to have been the most sympathetic way, and used an unverified legend about his daughter’s old age to wrap up the story. John Slidell was always, to put it mildly, a controversial politician. His alliance with Andrew Jackson may well have been based on similarities of character, and Jackson’s readiness to balance the budget by cutting it, as well as his loyalty to an unpopular wife, were admired (and still are). Slidell probably wasn’t all bad. He was not, however, the fiscally conservative egalitarian Jackson had been. About a politician remembered for his associations with James Buchanan, with slavery, and with the doomed Confederate Cause, it’s hard to find good things to say. Delmar tries.

I don’t know why she doesn’t turn to the Congressional Record for pro-Slidell material; whether she thought that would be too wonky for a novel, or whether the Congressional Record does not in fact record anything Delmar thought would work as pro-Slidell material. I suspect the latter.

The adventures of the naval officers in the family, however, were abundantly documented and are good stories. Those stories are told in a way that addresses adults not children, but won’t embarrass the adults if the children happen to try reading this book, and may actually appeal to the children. Perry succeeds by studying a situation and thinking creatively about the constraints of the problem set before him; Mackenzie doesn’t succeed so much as he survives by being fair and decent enough that one of the men who’ve plotted to rob and kill him feels obliged to warn him.

If you like family stories with ambitious, glamorous, human but not vile characters who owe at least some of their success to talent and effort as well as family connections, The Big Family is for you. It's available (for now) at the standard price of $5 per book, $5 per package, $1 per online payment, to the appropriate address at the very bottom of the screen; one more book of this size, and perhaps one or two smaller ones, would fit into one $5 package.


Friday, September 22, 2017

Book Review: Many a Voyage

Title: Many a Voyage


Author: Loula Grace Erdman

Date: 1960

Publisher: Dodd Mead & Co.

ISBN: none

Length: 311 pages

Quote: “I was able to find only three recorded facts about Fannie Lathrop Ross, my heroine. These were the date of her birth, the date of her marriage, and the date of her death...There is no doubt in my mind, however, that she must have been an extraordinary woman. She would have needed to be to have lived with...Edmund Gibson Ross, past their golden wedding anniversary. Through him, in one way or another, her life was touched by almost every great national event during those tumultuous years, 1848-1889...”

I've observed more than once, in recent years, that his refusal to take sides in the American Civil War makes John Ross, of Oklahoma, one of my heroes. Enough things in east Tennessee have been named after him to show that others share this feeling. Nevertheless, in the nineteenth century another man was making the name of Ross even more famous.

Edmund Ross, of Kansas, was Horace Greeley's ideal young man. Rather than waiting for a job on Greeley's newspaper he bought his own little printing press and “went west to grow up with the country.” Abolitionist, frontiersman, “Indian fighter,” he was twice appointed territorial governor and even elected U.S. Senator. As a Senator he acted out the ambivalence many Americans felt about the Civil War at the time. Although he'd started fighting for the Northern side, in Kansas, long before the actual war started, and showed no particular admiration for Andrew Johnson's frantic efforts to show disloyalty to Tennessee, Ross didn't blame Johnson for President Lincoln's death or think Johnson needed to be removed from office. Thanks to the rules of procedure in use at the time, some blamed or credited Ross for President Johnson's opportunity to finish his term. Later, President Kennedy would list Edmund Ross among his Profiles in Courage.

Should any of the “Indian fighters” be regarded as heroes? Can that question be taken up some other day? In their own minds, by the standards of their own culture, the men who slaughtered the buffalo and the Plains people were brave. Certainly they were tough. Arguably their culture was wicked and they, individually, were its fools—the late Vine Deloria used to argue that position—but Erdman completely ignores arguments about the morality of North American immigrants' unofficial war on their host ethnic groups (and, in some cases, their cousins in those groups) in the nineteenth century. Her focus, like Kennedy's, is on Senator Ross's voting for conscience over constituents.

Loula Grace Erdman was an historical novelist popular with school librarians and book clubs in the pre-feminist mid-twentieth century. The story of Senator Edmund Ross moved her to invent a fictional character for his obscure wife. Although the fictional Fannie whose mock-biography this novel is cannot be positively identified with the real Mrs. Ross, as Erdman admitted in the endnote quoted above, history made it easy for Erdman to spin a story in which fictional Fannie comes through as a plausible, likable character. The endnote explains which of fictional Fannie's adventures seem likely and unlikely to have been similar to the real Mrs. Ross's.

But the writer can never not communicate...even when a writer like Gertrude Stein or Kim Kardashian publishes a book that communicates mainly “I'm so rich and famous that I don't have to write anything coherent to get people to buy my book.” What Erdman put into her fictional Fannie Lathrop Ross was an ideal of sanely submissive wifehood...that worked, because there are sanely submissive, passionately monogamous wives, and they behave like fictional Fannie.

Fictional Fannie is hardly docile, although she always wishes people could calm down and live in peace and harmony. She stands up to slave catchers, Civil War guerrillas, plagues, famines, and riots; after a battle she charges out to help the wounded, soothe the dying, and dispose of the dead. She's “in love” with her husband even into their old age, thanks to a generous supply of hormones (the real Mrs. Ross aged rather slowly, by nineteenth century standards, and died fairly old) and the romantic tension created by his constantly going off on adventures of his own. When tempted to disagree with her husband she's not afraid to do that, but she seems to ask herself “Do I want my own way, or do I want to be with him?” and decide she wants to be with him.

In the 1950s many wanted to believe that that was the way all women were, or ought to have been, or needed to be in order to be really happy in life...and we don't even know that it's the way the real Fannie Lathrop Ross was. The real Mrs. Ross may have been a teacher—Senator Ross went on record supporting women's rights to be fairly paid and recognized as teachers—but fictional Fannie is never employed in that profession. (The old French Socialist ideal of never-employed women being “innocent” of money was still kicking in 1960.) The real Mrs. Ross may have enjoyed travel and “frontier” living as much as Senator Ross did, but fictional Fannie is a homebody who has lost her home. As explained in the endnote, Erdman didn't even really know whether the real Mrs. Ross originally had brown hair, or whether she'd always been short; only one old, bad photo of her in her sixties survived. (In her sixties the real Mrs. Ross was short; in the nineteenth century brown hair was considered as suitable for romantic heroines as blonde, red, or black hair, and in the twentieth century many women wished that were still the case.)

So bah, humbug, I remember thinking when I read Erdman's little propaganda studies of “femi-ninny-ty” in high school. Fannie was admittedly fictional. Girls who wanted to be like fictional Fannie married early, generally got divorced early, and grew up miserable. Girls who wanted to be happy in life went to college, got jobs, and didn't let ourselves need men, even if we did eventually yield to a really choice admirer's really determined pursuit—and never allowed ourselves even to consider marriage with anyone whose life goals were different from ours. I wanted to live in my home town and not have babies; into my thirties I expected that to mean I'd never be married at all. And yet...in my early thirties, when I was finding it possible and even pleasant to live on two of the three corners of Virginia at one time, I started asking myself “Do I want to do my own thing, or do I want to be with him?” and deciding I wanted to be with my husband...in Maryland. Rereading Many a Voyage, I now find fictional Fannie believable. If not based on the real Mrs. Ross, fictional Fannie is based on some real women.


Lots of school libraries stocked Erdman's books in the mid-twentieth century. Lots of libraries have discarded them since; the copy of Many a Voyage I just reread is a discarded library book. But it may be time to reconsider whether Erdman's heroines deserve to be considered heroines after all. Maybe the real Fannie Lathrop Ross never met Jesse James, but then again the fictional encounter between those characters may have something to say to modern readers. Read or reread this book and tell me what you think.

To buy it here will cost $5 per book, $5 per package (four books of this size would fit into one package), plus $1 per online payment. The story is too long, the print too small, to appeal to most children who play with dolls, but adult doll collectors may commission a doll dressed like Fannie for an additional $10. 

Thursday, July 20, 2017

Book Review: The Red Badge of Courage

Classic book has been on reading lists for over a hundred years...should this be called a Book Announcement rather than a Book Review? Here's a shiny new edition you can buy from Amazon. What I physically read, reviewed, and have already sold, was a nostalgic, battered discard from a school library...


Title: The Red Badge of Courage

Author: Stephen Crane

Date: 1894, 1951, many reprints since then

Publisher: D. Appleton & Company (1894), Random House (1951)

ISBN: none

Length: 267 pages

Quote: “So they were at last going to fight. On the morrow, perhaps, there would be a battle, and he would be in it.”

Stephen Crane, who claimed to believe that great writing should reflect the writer's life experience, is remembered for two novels that substantially distorted any life experience Crane could possibly have put into them: Maggie, the story of a woman of the sort Mrs. Crane exploited, and The Red Badge of Courage, the story of a soldier in a war that ended ten years before Crane was born. In practice Crane could almost have been said to adhere to Willa Cather's rule—writing the stories of people who interested the writer by being so different from the writer. He shared Cather's gift of visualizing other people's stories so vividly that they agreed his books captured what their stories had been like.

It was on the strength of his vivid visualization of the American Civil War that Crane was allowed to visit a battlefield as a journalist, and see for himself that he'd imagined how he'd react to combat conditions, quite well. Real Civil War veterans bought The Red Badge of Courage. They criticized it liberally—one particular line, according to the reprint I have, was for some time “the most notorious metaphor in American literature”--but they recommended it to students with equal liberality. This novel has been on high school reading lists for a hundred years.

Crane said that he'd set out to communicate an experience as it had been communicated to him, without philosophy, symbolism, moralism, or overt religion. There are no meditations on life and death. Readers have often felt that there ought to be some significance about the initials of Jim Conklin, the character whose death (from a wound in the side, yet) gives his younger friend Henry a vicarious experience that helps Henry overcome panic. Crane never said that there was.

I acquired my copy of The Red Badge of Courage because a school library discarded it. My copy shows wear, including students' doodling. Newer editions are available and are what online purchasers are likely to receive.

Should schools keep on buying new editions of The Red Badge of Courage? I think so, even though, as I recall, even bright, precocious middle school kids are likely to miss the point. At sixteen or eighteen, when teenagers are considering military service, thinking about the horrors of war is horribly appropriate. At ten or twelve, I remember understanding all the words in this novel but thinking of it as just another gross-out horror story. (Not that it's terribly explicit--considering the historical reality it reflects, the gross-outs have been toned down. We see Jim dying quickly; we don't have to watch people dying slowly from wounds that went septic, or dead men and animals left rotting on the field...) If literary admiration is the reaction teachers want from students, Cather might be a better choice.

However, I can now affirm that, if you were a teenybopper who was told to read The Red Badge of Courage in school, and all you learned or remember is that you “didn't like” it, this unrelentingly grown-up story is worth rereading as an adult. Crane's literary achievement, and the question of whether Henry's experience is anything like one you had or think you might have had, deserve some attention from people who've lived long enough to have some idea what this novel was about.


Psychologists have been blamed for trying to offer “death education” to students before nature had provided them any opportunity to face the reality of mortality. Efforts to march any group of children through any curriculum plan, in lockstep, tend to fail so I don't blame parents for objecting to “death education.” Nevertheless, the psychological fact is that many people's anxious reactions and cowardly conduct seem to be caused by an excessive fear of death, and the experience of observing what might be called a “good” death can be liberating. Awareness that life ends, that the choices people make often contribute to making the ends of their lives more or less unpleasant, can help us make the most of the time we have. The “badge of courage” can even show up as a mental attitude that, without being aggressive, commands respect and scares off attackers. Children are not necessarily capable of developing this awareness. Teenagers' reckless thrill-seeking may be a not very effective effort to develop it—courage is risking your life for a valid reason, not for a stupid one. Adults, nevertheless, need a “badge of courage.” I believe they can come from watching good people die bravely in peacetime, from old age, too.

Obviously this is not a Fair Trade Book. It is, however, a small enough book to fit into a package along with several Fair Trade Books, so feel free to scroll down and look for some; James McPherson's Ordeal by Fire , an historical study of the years before, during, and after the Civil War, would be a nice choice for background information on this story. If you don't insist on one specific edition that may be hard to find, The Red Badge of Courage can be purchased in support of this web site for $5 per book + $5 per package + $1 per online payment.

Tuesday, July 4, 2017

Book Review: Ordeal by Fire

A Fair Trade Book

Happy Independence Day, Gentle Readers. (No, I'm not online; this is a pre-scheduled post.) There are more jubilant ways to celebrate the history of the United States than a consideration of the American Civil War, but in some ways today's book pick can be considered cheerful conservative reading: as a nation we have survived being much more bitterly divided than we are now.

Title: Ordeal by Fire



Author: James M. McPherson

Date: 2010

Publisher: McGraw-Hill

ISBN: 978-0-07-743035-1

Length: 671 pages

Illustrations: black and white reproductions of photographs and other documents

Quote: “Many [non-slave-owners]... aspired to become slaveholders, and...achieved this goal. Moreover, given the traditional patterns of kinship...a nonslaveholder was quite likely to be a cousin or a nephew of the planter down the road. The big planter was in the habit of treating his poorer neighbors once or twice a year to a barbecue—especially if he happened to be running for the legislature.”

If you’re interested in the social history of the United States in the 1850s, 1860s, and 1870s, more than the details of military history or the horrors of war, this is the Civil War history book for you. What you’ll like: lots of detailed documentation of the political countercurrents within the North and South, the historical anomalies of Northern districts that seriously debated secession and Southern districts that declared their “secession” from Confederate States and loyalty to the Union, and how the political thought of the mid-nineteenth century could be considered to have shaped more recent or current thought.

What you’ll not like: in order to get high school or college credit for reading the history of the Civil War, you’ll probably still have to read some other book that goes into more detail about the battles and the horrors. Ordeal by Fire was written by historians who’d already written that sort of books, for people who’d already read them. In this book McPherson can talk about economic conditions within a state or region without taking the time to explain the order in which battles were fought there; he can mention Gettysburg, Corinth, and Cold Harbor in one sentence if he feels like it, and occasionally he does.

Ordeal by Fire is particularly concerned with providing facts for those who want to try to understand race relations in the nineteenth century. For that purpose, it’s not perfect. It’s all too literally Black and White; McPherson’s “West” is Arkansas and Illinois, not Kansas and Oklahoma. This is understandable, since little was published about what was then the far-western territory, but a major weakness. McPherson also overlooks one of the grimmer realities of the Trail of Tears—the number of biracial, triracial, or even apparently “full blood ‘Indian’” people who identified with Christian churches and White, Black, or occasionally multiethnic communities, but retained some loyalty to the ruined Native American communities from which their relatives were banished. According to the old story, at least, no Real Cherokee would shed tears in the presence of the enemy, so it was those multiethnic types who stayed behind who watered the Trail with their tears. Arguably this minority group was enough of a true minority to have no impact on the outcome of the War, although the fact that McPherson doesn’t choose to mention Stand Watie, the most rebellious Rebel of all, or John Ross, who I think made the best of all contemporary comments on the War, does not alter the fact that they existed. The Cherokee Nation in Oklahoma, like the border States of Maryland and Missouri, had its own peculiar sort of Civil War in which those who favored the Northern or Southern causes did some damage to each other while contributing relatively little to either cause.

In order to have a War Between the States people had to think of each State as a solid bloc of people committed to one side or the other. This was, of course, inaccurate; states, counties, towns, and families had their own Civil Wars. Often overlooked in elementary school history books is the fact that none of the Confederate States had a 100% secessionist population. Several Southern counties and congressional districts declared themselves to have seceded from their States and remained part of the United States; their Congressmen stayed in Washington, and the U.S. Congress continued to recognize their votes. (In Virginia, notably, those dissident loyalists were the ones who agreed to allow West Virginia to be counted as a separate State.)

But if you want to understand the various kinds of race tension that were operating between Black and White Americans, and different demographic groups within each of those categories, Ordeal by Fire excels. Among other things it contains President Lincoln’s relatively less popular First Inaugural Address, in which Old Abe affirmed that ending slavery was neither his intention nor (as he then believed) his right, and the passage from the Confederate  Constitution specifying that slavery would not be abolished by the Confederate government (although the Confederate government would later recruit Black soldiers with the promise of freedom). It also discusses the people nicknamed “Butternuts” and “Copperheads,” found especially in Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois (where a lot of poor relations of Virginia families had settled), who couldn’t be called Southerners but whose political opinions and personal loyalties could often be identified as “Southern.” (“Butternuts,” the rare but tasty fruit of a native American tree, described the culture; “Copperheads,” the venomous snake, described Northerners who actively supported the Confederacy.)

McPherson also presents lots of quotes from the leaders of various organizations and movements, including but not limited to the Federal and Confederate army leaders, that bring their (sometimes distinctly strange) personalities to life. You knew that President Lincoln and General Lee failed to command more aggressive, decisive strategies, which might have been more humane in the long run, because both of them were just too decent human beings and both were sort of partial to the Washington area; any map of the military movement of the Civil War is enough to illustrate that. You might not have known that, although General Grant was a tacky guy who had sometimes been a drunkard, Vice-President Johnson was capable of embarrassing even him.  (The Southern-born future President was obviously very conflicted...McPherson shows how he acted out his conflictedness.) Readers also get to know Generals Bragg and McClellan especially well, and President Davis, another study in conflictedness.

The technology of nineteenth-century warfare makes any study of a nineteenth-century war particularly gruesome reading. Though Ordeal by Fire is mostly about the cross-currents of opinion, there’s no getting around the barbarities and atrocities. Among the barbarities and atrocities was the use of ex-slave soldiers. The North, at least, was concerned about not obviously putting all the Black soldiers where they would immediately be killed...although nearly all of them were; the reason why veterans of the “Colored Troops” were easily overlooked was that almost none of those “Colored Troops” lived to become a veteran.

Descendants of Union soldiers like to think of their ancestors as humanitarians who wanted to emancipate all the slaves and give them their rights. In fact a handful of Northerners—mostly in the Peace Churches—really did want that; General Howard, rare among Northerners, actually wanted "freedmen" to have jobs, schools, hospitals and suchlike, and succeeded in founding Howard University. More Northerners, like Lincoln, really wanted to resolve the socioeconomic problem of slavery by sending all the “freedmen” somewhere else. A truth unpalatable to many Northerners is that many of the “Butternuts” had chosen to live in “Free States” not because they hated to see human beings oppressed by slavery, but because they hated Black people, whom they didn’t recognize as fully human, and didn’t want to see any of them at all. In the absence of clear orders to exploit the slaves for war purposes, which was what the Emancipation Proclamation really was, Billy Yank was probably more inclined to kill slaves than to recruit them onto his side.

Johnny Reb, of course, had had to accept the idea that Black people were a different and inferior sort of life form in order to live with the slave system. This did not keep him from relating to Black people as individuals. He probably recognized a few as friends or even as poor relations, some as what Zora Neale Hurston called pets, most as “brothers to the ox” who deserved just enough good treatment to keep them fit and willing to work, and just an occasional specimen who had “gone crazy” or “turned vicious” who deserved harsh punishment. Slaves and slavemasters could not coexist in either real love, trust, and good will, or a total absence of those things. To a severely limited extent they learned to trust each other. So when the Confederates promised freedom to slaves who joined their army, there was no plan to send masses of those ex-slaves to be massacred, but also no particular intention that enough black veterans would live to form a parade unit, nor any plan for allowing any great number of them to live as “freedmen” in the Southern States. There was some vague, idealistic talk about sending the “freedmen” to the Western territories and letting them fight the war with the native people in which General Custer famously died.

In practice...there were a lot of Black soldiers on both sides, and very few Black veterans. The plain fact was that Confederates dropped like flies. The faithful slave who enlisted to serve beside Johnny Reb wasn’t likely to come home. Neither was Johnny. Nineteenth-century hygiene, the Southern climate, and the exigencies of a war that had gone on longer than the country could afford, killed thousands of men, and also horses.

There was some practical consideration of encouraging “freedmen” to organize separate-but-equal all-Black towns and schools, an idea that quickly lost popular support...partly because, in some cases, it worked. The historically Black schools were badly exploited in many ways, including pressure to lower their standards, but they were better schools than the extreme racists in the North wanted to have to recognize. The Roosevelt Administration tolerated Zora Neale Hurston’s documentation of the survival of a viable all-Black town—hers—under the heading of “folklore,” but the twentieth century was almost over before most Americans got around to reading Hurston or admitting that her own story was not only a “good story,” but also historically true. If thinking about this kind of thing raises your blood pressure—in either an infuriating or an inspiring way!—then Ordeal by Fire will raise your blood pressure.

Also discussed in Ordeal by Fire was Sherman’s famous, though unofficial and unworkable and therefore worthless, promise to give all the ex-slaves “forty acres and a mule.” Most history books in the twentieth century tried to skim over the whole history of the debate about re-allocating farmland to break up the big plantations and make slaves into small farmers...because in fact that history was relevant, and unsatisfactory, for both sides in the Cold War. In practice, if a thousand acres had been worked by five hundred laborers, even if the owner wanted to divide the land among those laborers and the laborers wanted that overworked played-out land, there obviously aren’t going to be enough small farms for each couple. Nature did not intend farming to become “large-scale”; whenever it does, although machines and poisons and bioengineered crops can’t demand civil rights, the large-scale farm is always forced to rely on short-term strategies that become unsustainable and counterproductive in a few years. McPherson does not discuss the implications of the facts of the 1870s for modern farmers and “social planners”—that’s beyond the scope of Ordeal by Fire—but he deserves kudos for presenting the facts, fairly and in enough detail to be useful to modern farmers and “planners.”

James McPherson (born in 1936) is still alive at the time of posting, so this is a Fair Trade Book, even though, ouch, those prices! The Amazon link to the cover of the copy I physically own will try to sell you the Kindle version; if you're using the book for a college class your teacher may order you to get the Kindle version for online class exercises, in which case you're just stuck paying the full price. For a real book, if you're willing to read one of the older editions, this web site can go as low as $15 per book + $5 per package (only one copy of this book per package, but you could squeeze in a thin paperback or picture book along with it) + $1 per online payment, from which this web site would send $2 to McPherson or a charity of his choice. For the current edition, we can offer $75 per book + $5 per package + $1 per online payment, from which we'll send $8 to McPherson or his charity.