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History

Best Bargain of All Time: How Thomas Jefferson Doubled the Size of America at Five Cents per Acre

The dark shaded area in the center of the map highlights the territory added to the country with the Louisiana Purchase. (Jose Gil/Shutterstock)

One of Thomas Jefferson’s greatest achievements was the Louisiana Purchase, in which the United States acquired 828,800 square miles of the French territory La Louisiane in 1803. Encompassing all or part of 14 current U.S. states, the land included all of present-day Arkansas, Missouri, Iowa, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Nebraska; parts of Minnesota that were west of the Mississippi River; most of North Dakota; nearly all of South Dakota; northeastern New Mexico; portions of Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado east of the Continental Divide; and Louisiana west of the Mississippi River. Today, the land included in the purchase makes up approximately 23 percent of the territory of the United States.

French and Spanish Ownership

At the end of the French and Indian War in 1763, France lost all of its possessions in North America, dashing hopes of a colonial empire. This empire was centered on the Caribbean island of Santo Domingo and its lucrative cash crop of sugar. (“Santo Domingo” is an old name for the island of Hispaniola, where the modern countries Dominican Republic and Haiti are located.)

The French territory called La Louisiane, extending from New Orleans up the Missouri River to modern-day Montana, was intended as a granary for this empire and produced flour, salt, lumber, and food for the sugar islands. By the terms of the 1763 Treaty of Fontainebleau, however, Louisiana west of the Mississippi River was ceded to Spain, while the victorious British received the eastern portion of the huge colony.

When the United States won its independence from Great Britain in 1783, one of its major concerns was having a European power on its western boundary, as well as the need for unrestricted access to the Mississippi River. As American settlers pushed west, they found that the Appalachian Mountains provided a barrier to shipping goods eastward. The easiest way to ship produce was to build a flatboat and float down the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers to the port of New Orleans, from which goods could be put on ocean-going vessels. The problem with this route was that the Spanish owned both sides of the Mississippi below Natchez.

Flag raising in the Place d’Armes of New Orleans, marking the transfer of sovereignty of French Louisiana to the United States, December 20, 1803, as depicted by Thure de Thulstrup. (Public Domain)

In 1795, the United States negotiated the Pinckney Treaty with Spain, which provided the right of navigation on the river and the right of deposit of U.S. goods at the port of New Orleans. The treaty was to remain in effect for three years, with the possibility of renewal. By 1802, U.S. farmers, businessmen, trappers, and lumbermen were bringing over $1 million worth of products through New Orleans each year. Spanish officials were becoming concerned as U.S. settlement moved closer to their territory. Spain was eager to divest itself of Louisiana, which was a drain on its financial resources. On October 1, 1800, Napoleon Bonaparte, First Consul of France, concluded the Treaty of San Ildefonso with Spain, which returned Louisiana to French ownership in exchange for a Spanish kingdom in Italy.

Napoleon’s ambitions in Louisiana involved the creation of a new empire centered on the Caribbean sugar trade. By terms of the Treaty of Amiens of 1800, Great Britain returned ownership of the islands of Martinique and Guadaloupe to the French. Napoleon looked upon Louisiana as a depot for these sugar islands, and as a buffer to U.S. settlement. In October of 1801, he sent a large military force to retake the important island of Santo Domingo, lost in a slave revolt in the 1790s.

Jefferson’s Plans

Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States, was disturbed by Napoleon’s plans to re-establish French colonies in America. With the possession of New Orleans, Napoleon could close the Mississippi River to U.S. commerce at any time.

Jefferson authorized Robert R. Livingston, U.S. Minister to France, to negotiate for the purchase for up to $2 million of the City of New Orleans, portions of the east bank of the Mississippi River, and free navigation of the river for U.S. commerce.

President Thomas Jefferson, by Henry R. Robinson. (Public Domain)

An official transfer of Louisiana to French ownership had not yet taken place, and Napoleon’s deal with the Spanish was a poorly kept secret on the frontier. On October 18, 1802, however, a strange thing happened. Juan Ventura Moralis, Acting Intendant of Louisiana, made public the intention of Spain to revoke the right of deposit at New Orleans for all cargo from the United States.

The closure of this vital port to the United States caused anger and consternation, and commerce in the west was virtually blockaded. Historians believe that the revocation of the right of deposit was prompted by abuses of the Americans, particularly smuggling, and not by French intrigues, as was believed at the time.

President Jefferson ignored public pressure for war with France, and he appointed James Monroe special envoy to Napoleon to assist in obtaining New Orleans for the United States. Jefferson boosted the authorized expenditure of funds to $10 million.

Meanwhile, Napoleon’s plans in the Caribbean were being frustrated by Toussaint L’Ouverture, his army of former slaves, and yellow fever. During 10 months of fierce fighting on Santo Domingo, France lost over 40,000 soldiers. Without Santo Domingo, Napoleon’s colonial ambitions for a French empire were foiled in North America. Louisiana would be useless as a granary without sugar islanders to feed. Napoleon also considered the temper of the United States, where sentiment was growing against France and stronger ties with Great Britain were being considered. Spain’s refusal to sell Florida was the last straw, and Napoleon turned his attention once more to Europe; the sale of the now-useless Louisiana would supply needed funds to wage war there. Napoleon directed his ministers, Talleyrand and Barbé-Marbois, to offer the entire Louisiana territory to the United States—and quickly.

Unexpected Opportunity

On April 11, 1803, Talleyrand asked Robert Livingston how much the United States was prepared to pay for Louisiana. Livingston was confused, as his instructions only covered the purchase of New Orleans and the immediate area, not the entire Louisiana territory. James Monroe agreed with Livingston that Napoleon might withdraw this offer at any time.

Meriwether Lewis, leader of the Lewis and Clark Expedition. (Public Domain)

To wait for approval from President Jefferson might take months, so Livingston and Monroe decided to open negotiations immediately. By April 30, they closed a deal for the purchase of the entire 828,000-square-mile Louisiana territory for 60 million Francs (approximately $15 million). Part of this sum was used to forgive debts owed by France to the United States. The payment was made in United States bonds, which Napoleon sold at a discount. As a result, Napoleon received only $8,831,250 in cash for Louisiana.

When news of the purchase reached the United States, President Jefferson was surprised. He had authorized the expenditure of $10 million for a port city, and instead, he received treaties committing the government to spend $15 million on a land package which would double the size of the country.

Jefferson’s political opponents in the Federalist Party argued that the Louisiana purchase was a worthless desert, and that the Constitution did not provide for the acquisition of new land or negotiating treaties without the consent of the Senate. What really worried the opposition was the new states which would inevitably be carved from the Louisiana territory, strengthening Western and Southern interests in Congress and further reducing the influence of New England Federalists in national affairs. President Jefferson was an enthusiastic supporter of westward expansion and held firm in his support for the treaty. Despite Federalist objections, the U.S. Senate ratified the Louisiana treaty on October 20, 1803.

Goodbye France and Spain, Hello United States

A transfer ceremony was held in New Orleans on November 29, 1803. Since the Louisiana territory had never officially been turned over to the French, the Spanish took down their flag, and the French raised theirs. The following day, General James Wilkinson accepted possession of New Orleans for the United States. A similar ceremony was held in St. Louis on March 9, 1804, when a French tricolor was raised near the river, replacing the Spanish national flag. The following day, Captain Amos Stoddard of the First U.S. Artillery marched his troops into town and ran the stars and stripes up the fort’s flagpole. The Louisiana territory was officially transferred to the United States government, represented by Meriwether Lewis.

Treaty between the United States of America and the French Republic ceding the province of Louisiana to the United States, April 30, 1803. (Public Domain)

The Louisiana Territory, purchased for less than 5 cents an acre, was one of Thomas Jefferson’s greatest contributions to his country. Louisiana doubled the size of the United States literally overnight, without a war or the loss of a single American life, and set a precedent for the purchase of territory. It opened the way for the eventual expansion of the United States across the continent to the Pacific and its consequent rise to the status of world power. International affairs in the Caribbean, and Napoleon’s hunger for cash to support his war efforts, were the background for a glorious achievement of Thomas Jefferson’s presidency: new lands and new opportunities for the nation.

From April Issue, Volume II

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History

The Man Who Predicted Pearl Harbor

The front section of the Shenandoah wreck. The disaster was considered criminal negligence on the part of the Army and Navy by Gen. Mitchell. Library of Congress. (Public Domain)

Shortly after noon on July 21, 1921, bombs from American aircraft exploded beside the former German battleship Ostfriesland, already damaged by several previous bombing runs. Within half an hour, the enormous ship began sinking by the stern, rolled over, and soon slipped beneath the waters of the Chesapeake Bay.

Observers on the nearby U.S.S. Henderson could scarcely believe what they’d seen. For the first time in history, aircraft had sunk a battleship. Historian Roger G. Miller relates that some of the naval officers present, perhaps realizing what this event meant for the future of naval warfare, had tears in their eyes.

Meanwhile, in the cockpit of an airplane above the Bay, a vindicated Gen. Billy Mitchell was ecstatic over the results of this experiment, which he himself had devised. His predictions regarding the superiority of aircraft over the battle wagons of the fleet were now visible to all. He was ushering in a new era in naval warfare.

Or so he thought.

Billy Mitchell, circa 1920s. (Public Domain)

The Advocate of Air Power

William “Billy” Mitchell (1879–1936) grew up in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. A youth with a keen sense of adventure, he dropped out of college at age 18 and enlisted in the Army during the Spanish–American War. He was assigned to the Philippines, where he was soon commissioned as a lieutenant, in part because of the influence of his father, a former U.S. senator. He later served in Alaska, where he helped construct the Washington–Alaska Military Cable and Telegraph System.

Back in the States, he carried out different assignments while becoming increasingly fascinated with aviation, predicting as early as 1906 that it would change warfare forever. In 1916, he took private flying lessons, and with America’s entry into the war in Europe in 1917, he quickly showed himself a daring and resourceful pilot, rising rapidly through the ranks. In 1918, he had charge of over 1,400 American, French, British, and Italian aircraft during the pivotal Battle of Saint-Mihiel. By the war’s end, he had won numerous awards and medals and was the Assistant Chief of Air Service.

Mitchell as assistant chief of Air Service (in non-regulation uniform). (Public Domain)

Following his return stateside, Mitchell remained active in the upper echelons of the Air Service. To him, it was clear that air power would soon dominate the battlefield, not only on land but on the sea as well, and he pushed hard for an air corps separate from the other branches of military service. In those few years, he also made strenuous efforts to advance aviation as a multi-faceted military tool, helping to develop, for example, bombsights and aerial torpedoes, and he urged his Army pilots to aim at setting speed and endurance records.

The Critic and His Court Martial

Mitchell had few qualms about irritating his superiors. Gen. John H. Pershing’s 1923 efficiency report perfectly captures his flamboyant personality: “This officer is an exceptionally able one, enthusiastic, energetic and full of initiative (but) he is fond of publicity, more or less indiscreet as to speech, and rather difficult to control as a subordinate.”

The mix of these characteristics with his often strident advocacy for a separate air force brought some major pushback from both the Navy and the Army. Two years before his bombing demonstration on the Chesapeake, for example, Mitchell had testified before a congressional committee that the Navy was ignoring the role of airplanes at sea in favor of constructing more ships. Secretary of War Newton Baker and then Assistant Secretary of the Navy Franklin Roosevelt immediately refuted these charges.

A 2,000-pound bomb “near-miss” severely damages Ostfriesland at the stern hull plates. (Public Domain)

With the sinking of the Ostfriesland and other ships from the air, Mitchell would make his point, but his continued hectoring of his military and civilian superiors to do more, to build more planes and to create an independent air force, undoubtedly caused hard feelings and divisions that hurt rather than helped his cause.

In 1925, the Navy’s dirigible Shenandoah crashed as the result of a storm. Following this catastrophe, Mitchell publicly attacked both the Army and the Navy for what he saw as their “incompetency, criminal negligence, and almost treasonable administration of the national defense by the Navy and War Departments.”

With this pronouncement, he was charged with insubordination and court-martialed. He made the courtroom a platform for his views on aviation, but he was nonetheless found guilty and was suspended from active duty for five years. Rather than serve this sentence, Mitchell resigned from the Army in 1926 and retired to a Virginia farm, where he continued to write and speak about the pressing need for an air force and about the danger of falling behind other countries in aerial strategy and technology, particularly Japan.

The Pearl Harbor Prophet

Because of his court martial, Billy Mitchell is often called a prophet without honor in his own country. In addition to his farsighted take on military aviation, in one regard he also demonstrated his talent as a clairvoyant in a much more specific way.

A scene taken from Gen. William “Billy” Mitchell’s court-martial, 1925. U.S. Air Force. (Public Domain)

In 1923, the Army dispatched Mitchell to the Pacific for a year to collect information and gather intelligence. Though he was likely sent on this mission to silence his ongoing criticisms, Mitchell took his assignment seriously and submitted a 323-page report on his return. Years later, this document, which had quite a bit to say about the Japanese military, predicted that Japan would attack Pearl Harbor by air and sea at some point in the future. After listing specific points they would attack on the island of Oahu and on the Philippines, he then wrote:

“Attack will be launched as follows: bombardment, attack to be made on Ford Island [at Pearl Harbor] at 7:30 a.m. … Attack to be made on Clark Field (Philippine Islands) at 10:40 a.m.”

On December 7, 1941, the Japanese initiated such an attack, just as Mitchell predicted. He was off on his timing of these assaults by an hour or less. Moreover, as he had foreseen, the airplane played a crucial role in every Pacific naval battle of the war, from Pearl Harbor to the surrender of Japan.

In 1946, 10 years after his death and one year after the Japanese were defeated, the U.S. Congress awarded William Mitchell a special Congressional Gold Medal. On the back of the medal are these words: “For outstanding pioneer service and foresight in the field of American military aviation.”

The passionate prophet of air power had at last received his hard-won recognition.

From Nov. Issue, Volume IV

Categories
Features

The 6 Most Charming Southern Towns in America

An aerial view of Jonesborough, Tenn. (Courtesy of Jonesborough Tourism Department)

There’s nothing quite like a sunny day in a small Southern town. Whether you’re on the coast, the bayou, or the rippling mountain ranges, these places are special. It’s the smiles and hospitality and history, and so much more, that set them apart. Here are five of the very best, most charming Southern towns.

Historic Port

(Chris Rogers/Georgetown County Chamber of Commerce and the Hammock Coast)

Roughly halfway between Myrtle Beach and Charleston on South Carolina’s Hammock Coast, a visit to Georgetown is like a trip back in time to Colonial days. Stroll under oak-shaded streets in the well-preserved downtown. Then head to the Harborwalk to spot boats and sea birds while you settle into a waterfront restaurant, tucking into some of the freshest seafood you’ll find anywhere.

Horse and Hunt Capital

(Visit Middleburg)

Although the historic district in the small northern Virginia town of Middleburg is under a mile long, you’ll find plenty to explore along its cobblestone sidewalks and amid great stone buildings. Backdropped by the Blue Ridge Mountains, it was established in 1787 between Winchester and Alexandria (that’s the “middle” in the name). Browse art galleries and antique shops, and indulge in excellent food and local wine. If you’re lucky, watch an equestrian competition—Middleburg is the nation’s horse and hunt capital.

Tales of House and Home 

(Madison-Morgan CVB)

While Madison, Georgia, about an hour east of Atlanta, is very small (population: about 4,000), it has one of Georgia’s largest historic districts. Picture it: spreading magnolias and some 50 antebellum homes, their Victorian and Greek Revival beauty carefully preserved by local residents. The best part? In some cases, you can go inside. The town has a number of house museums, which tell not only an architectural tale, but also the stories of those who lived within.

Appalachian Beauty

(Courtesy of VisitNC.com)

One of the highest-altitude towns east of the Mississippi, Highlands, North Carolina, lives up to its name, sitting on a picturesque plateau deep in the Appalachians at above 4,000 feet elevation. Short hikes take you to beautiful views, like the vistas off the paths of Whiteside Mountain. Waterfalls abound, too, including the famous cascades in nearby Cullasaja Gorge. Breathe in the fresh air, then come back to town for a delectable Southern meal and a night at a historic inn.

Louisiana Getaway

(Launch Media/Visit St. Francisville)

St. Francisville, Louisiana (population about 1,000), was once one of the most important river ports between New Orleans and Memphis. In 1810, it served as the capital of the Republic of West Florida, an unrecognized state that lasted just 74 days before it was annexed by the United States. Today, it is peaceful and beautiful, all shady paths and Spanish moss. Browse the shops and galleries, then enjoy a meal at a restaurant serving up Cajun, Creole, or Southern cuisine.

Storytelling Roots

(Peter Montanti)

Established in 1779, Jonesboro, Tennessee, a postcard-perfect town set on the rolling edge of the Appalachians, claims two major titles. The first—Tennessee’s Oldest Town—works well with the second, the Storytelling Capital of the World. Indeed, there are centuries of tales to tell, and they invite you to come listen. The town is home to the National Storytelling Festival and the International Storytelling Center, which hosts performances and preserves oral traditions from across the globe.

From Sept. Issue, Volume IV

Categories
Arts & Letters History

The Fascinating History Behind Hunting Decoys, An American Folk Art Form

(dasytnik/Shutterstock)

Decoys originate from man’s efforts to lure waterfowl. Whether hunting with nets, traps, or firearms, hunters came to value decoys as highly as boats, blinds, and shotguns. As weaponry improved and populations increased in the latter part of the 19th century, more and more people hunted waterfowl for food and sport, and the demand for decoys grew. The art of the decoy entailed that the fabrications should appear lifelike from afar—the more realistic the decoys, the more successful the hunt.

The waterfowl decoy is now a treasured form of folk art. Often highly sought after as collectibles, many are quite valuable. From old working decoys to the modernized, stylized, and finely carved, they reflect the impact of technology, environment, society, and economy on an American way of life.

(Courtesy of John V. Quarstein)

The Magic of Migration

When the crisp winds of fall break across the Chesapeake, we hear again the glorious music of the migrant Canada goose drifting through the air. Look up into the sky or out above the cut cornfields, and you can see their wavering lines passing into the distance. One wonders what compels these birds to travel thousands of miles each year from their northern breeding grounds to winter destinations along the Atlantic Coast, and back again. How do they find their way? How do they know when to go and when to return? The answers to these questions lie in the mystery of migration.

The movement north and south of migratory waterfowl is probably triggered by meteorological conditions, including temperature and barometric pressure. The birds travel certain routes to particular places based on food and water sources, and waterfowl flocks return each year to the same wintering areas because of imprinting.

The Atlantic Flyway welcomes birds from the eastern Arctic, the coast of Greenland, Labrador, Newfoundland, Hudson Bay, the Yukon, and the prairies of Canada and the United States. Millions of ducks, swans, and geese move along the coast and overwinter on the Chesapeake and North Carolina sounds.

The Chesapeake Bay region is a great magnet for migrating waterfowl. These protected waters provide food and a safe haven. Aquatic grasses fill the waterways, and the harvested fields are sprinkled with corn. The tremendous number of birds flocking to the region has driven decoy demand for centuries.

Humans have been hunting waterfowl for food and sport for thousands of years. (RubberBall Productions/Brand X Pictures/Getty Images)

Waterfowl in America

The word decoy is derived from the Dutch words for the (de), cage (kooi), and duck or fowl (eend). The Dutch brought to New Amsterdam—today’s New York—an ancient method of using cages and tame ducks to lure and trap wild fowl. The tame birds were called the cage ducks, or “de kooi eend.” By the mid-19th century, the word decoy became commonplace in America as “an image of a bird used to entice within gunshot.”

While the earliest known decoys were used by pre-Columbian North Americans, a combination of factors expanded the demand for waterfowl during the post-Civil War era in America. Migratory birds, including canvasback ducks and whistling swans, were abundant, but access to and distribution of this seemingly endless food source was problematic. Rapid population growth motivated Americans to find ways to harvest the crop, and the expansion of railroads provided routes for refrigerated cars to transport the delicious waterfowl meat to eager markets in major cities otherwise disconnected from rivers, bays, and marshes.

At the same time, firearm improvements brought increased efficiency for hunters. From the paper shotgun shell to lever-action, pump-action, and eventually automatic shotguns, firing speed rose and weapons became so effective that waterfowl were quickly endangered, forcing the passage of the Migratory Bird Treaty Act of 1918.

Prior to that, natural abundance coupled with technological innovation enabled the harvesting of thousands of ducks each year. On the flat tidelands of the Susquehanna River, sinkbox blinds were favored—typically by market hunters—and required 300 to 700 decoys per layout. An estimated 75 sinkboxes were in use during the late 19th and early 20th centuries. With 50 to 100 decoys per sneakbox boat, and countless shore-blind rigs, approximately 20,000 decoys or more were needed every year to support hunting activities.

A shorebird decoy stands on driftwood. Made around 1900, it has tacks for eyes and a nail for its bill. It is part of the author’s personal collection. (Courtesy of John V. Quarstein)

The rapid expansion of market and sport hunting after the Civil War Era prompted many guides to begin making decoys, and the craft became an important trade. Influenced by regional differences in water, weather, paint, and stylistic traditions, decoy designs were handed down through generations. Every maker had an opinion about how various waterfowls should look.

Decoy-making practices were well established by the mid-19th century. Decoys were hand-chopped using simple woodworking tools such as axes, chopping blocks, spokeshaves, and various kinds of knives. With the rise in popularity of waterfowling in the 20th century, decoy needs increased, and the influence of industrialization set in just as the market expanded beyond the capacity of traditional makers.

Enterprising businessmen, hunters, and woodworkers endeavored to promote and mass-produce decoys. Traditional carvers turned to power tools to increase output. While some operations employed only a few workers and continued to use traditional carving methods, other manufacturers used assembly line processes. The common ground for these early producers was in advertising their products throughout the nation and shipping good-looking, high-quality decoys.

A Legacy Carved in Wood

Makers had often endeavored to craft decent decoys from materials other than wood. The post-World War I era witnessed the first shift from wooden working decoys to decoys mass-produced from other materials. This transition changed the decoy industry. Following World War II, decoys made from cork, canvas, papier-mâché, and plastic appeared. Many of these new styles were patented, and each promised to bring in the most ducks. As the cost of wooden birds increased, other types of decoys became more popular and dominated gunning rigs. Wood-carvers could not compete economically against plastic birds, and their work changed from crafting hunting tools to creating artworks.

People had already recognized the folk art qualities of decoys. Traditional makers strove for realism, carving decoys with raised wings or turned heads, for example. Others crafted miniatures as samples of their work. These “fancy ducks,” as Lem Ward called the early decoratives, began selling at premium prices. In time, carvers expanded their techniques by using wood burning tools to detail feathers, or branching out into new technologies like dental tools to make decoys so lifelike that any duck would be surprised to find otherwise.

(Courtesy of John V. Quarstein)

The art of the decoy is ever-changing. Today’s decoys are mixtures of traditional working decoys and reflections of minute detail. Many decoys aren’t intended as hunting tools, yet plenty still are. The craft continues as a connection between man and nature, form and function.

Waterfowl decoys existed for thousands of years before collectors came to appreciate the decoy as a historic art form—one of the oldest forms of American folk art—with a potential for aesthetic value exceeding its functional worth. While many decoys served as simple tools of the bayman’s trade, others became expressions of the birds themselves. In the end, material and style aren’t as important as process and overall effect. When a decoy truly captures a bird in body and spirit, then we call it art.
The Drifter I’m just an old has-been decoy No ribbons I have won. My sides and head are full of shot From many a blazing gun. My home has been by the river, Just drifting with the tide. No roof have I had for shelter, No one place where I could abide. I’ve rocked to winter’s wild fury, I’ve scorched in the heat of the sun, I’ve drifted and drifted and drifted, For tides never cease to run. I was picked up by some fool collector Who put me up here on a shelf. But my place is out on the river, Where I can drift all by myself. I want to go back to the shoreline Where flying clouds hang thick and low, And get the touch of the rain drops And the velvety soft touch of the snow. —Lem Ward, Chrisfield, Maryland
From May Issue, Volume II
Categories
History

The First Selfie

The first photo ever taken in America, by Jospeh Saxton and Robert Cornelius, in October 1839. It shows part of the State Arsenal and a section of a neighboring high school in Philadelphia.

As of this writing, about 700 billion photographs have been uploaded to the internet. Billions and billions more exist in physical form. Many of these photos fall into the category now referred to as “selfies,” a type of photograph that is typically assumed to be as young as Generation Y. However, the roots of the selfie actually go back almost 200 years.

The son of a Dutch immigrant, Robert Cornelius was born in Philadelphia in 1809. As a child, Cornelius was fascinated by chemistry. This interest was surely fanned by the boy’s father, a silversmith, who taught Robert the business of metal polishing and silver plating.

In 1839, the world was taken by storm when French artist Louis Daguerre invented the daguerreotype, a complex process—involving silver-plated copper, mercury vapor, and liquid chemical treatment—that could produce a photographic likeness. An account of Daguerre’s process was published in Philadelphia on October 15, 1839. The next day, Cornelius was approached by a local watchmaker and inventor named Joseph Saxton, who was at that time, an employee of the Philadelphia Mint. Saxton wanted Cornelius to help him produce a daguerreotype image. Cornelius agreed.

Cornelius created the silver plating for Saxton’s photographic image; and that image, as far as we know, was the first photograph ever taken in the United States. In dark hues of gold and brown, the image was taken from Saxton’s own Philadelphia Mint office window, and it portrays part of the State Arsenal and a section of a neighboring high school. A late-19th century description of the “camera” reveals Saxton’s quick ingenuity: A seidlitz powder (a laxative) box with a few flakes of iodine answered for a coating box, while a cigar box and burning glass were improvised for a camera. One Philadelphia photographer later wrote that the Saxton daguerreotype “created no small excitement among the curious in such matters; and from this date, many of our Philadelphia savants began cultivating the art.”

The experience ignited in Cornelius an abiding interest in photography, and he was determined to improve upon the makeshift daguerreotype he’d helped Saxton throw together. In this effort, he enlisted a physician named Paul Beck Goddard, and later that same month of October, they produced a daguerreotype image of Cornelius himself—the first photographic portrait (picture of a human being) ever taken in the United States. It was probably the first ever in history, although one earlier daguerreotype image had been taken a year before in Paris and happened to include a couple people in the background. But that image wasn’t meant as a portrait.

From the metallic, spotted image, Cornelius, with his head slightly tilted to the left, stares back at us with determined eyes set underneath a prominent forehead, that was partly covered by his thick, disheveled hair. He wears a dark coat with a cravat. His right arm is held upright across his chest, and his right hand is tucked beneath the left side of his coat. The limitations of the technology dictated that for this first-ever selfie, Cornelius had to sit still for up to 15 minutes.

The first photographic portrait made in the United States (and probably the world), by Paul Beck Goddard and Robert Cornelius. The subject is Cornelius himself, allowing him to claim the achievement of first-ever “selfie.”

Cornelius went on to establish several photo studios, manufacturing his own cameras, plates, and mats to produce portraits for the prominent people (among others) of his time. Many of those photographs survive to this day.

One of his innovations was in harnessing additional light via the use of reflectors. Writing several decades later, one observer of Cornelius described his process: For coating the plates, he used dry iodine exclusively; and by several large reflectors, set at different angles, both within doors and without, he was enabled, in strong sunshine, to concentrate upon his sitter light enough to obtain through a side-window facing south, an impression within from one to five minutes.

Cornelius was later able to improve his process to the point where he could produce “fair impressions, even without reflectors, in from 10 to 60 seconds—and this too within doors.” But success invited imitation, and, as one mid-19th century historian informs us: “Together with the improvements made by [Cornelius] and others in the heliographic apparatus [light reflectors] and manipulative methods, and the great advance consequent thereon in the mode of obtaining portraits from life, quite a number of persons directed their attention to the art from the hope of making it a source of profit.”

As the demand for and interest in photography spread, and as more studios opened, Cornelius opted to move on to other things: specifically, the invention of a solar lamp that proved highly popular across the United States and Europe—but that’s another story. Incidentally, few people knew or understood at the time that Cornelius had taken the first photographic portrait in American history. He wasn’t one to trumpet his own accomplishments.

Luckily for us, however, Cornelius mentored others at his studio. One of them was a young man named Marcus Root. A quarter-century after that first selfie was taken, in 1864, Root published “The Camera and the Pencil, or the Heliographic Art,” which included, along with the theory and practice of photography, a history of the field. That book explicitly, and rightly, credited Cornelius with the first photographic portrait.

Twelve years later, “The Camera and the Pencil” was exhibited at the Centennial Exhibition, where the book was noticed by a photographer named Julius Sachse. Sachse went on to interview Cornelius, and later became editor of the “American Journal of Photography.” In this way, Cornelius’ legacy was secure—and just in the nick of time. He died the following year, in1877.
So, the next time you take a selfie, take a moment to remember Cornelius—and be glad you don’t have to sit still for 15 minutes.

Categories
Features

Temples of Transportation

Pennsylvania Station, New York, NY, April 24, 1962. (Library of Congress)

In 1862, arguably one of the darkest and most uncertain years for our republic, President Abraham Lincoln pressed Congress to pass the Pacific Railway Act. As North and South were being ripped apart, Lincoln, a former railroad attorney, sought to use the rails to tie East and West together.

America was still involved in the process of recovering from her terrible civil war, when on May 10, 1869, the Transcontinental Railroad was celebrated as complete. The railroad had been constructed in a mad dash, as the two competing lines, Union Pacific and Central Pacific, raced to complete as much track as possible. The prize, 6,400 acres of land and $16,000 for every mile of track completed, led to a spirited competition. Union Pacific’s Thomas Durant and Central Pacific’s Leland Stanford pushed their crews on. When they met in Utah, they kept on pushing right past each other.

In a photo of a trestle by Andrew J. Russell, the bridge itself is built of fresh cut timbers—quite a contrast from Benjamin Henry Latrobe II’s beautiful railroad viaducts. This photo reveals another graded right-of-way beside the completed track, bearing witness to the competition between the two companies.

The next few decades saw the nation steadily crisscrossed with railways, as communities and permanent infrastructure replaced the rolling “hell on wheels” camps of railroad workers. As the 19th century drew to a close, railroads became the primary connection between great cities, and the various companies sought to show their importance by building grand terminals. Their desire for architectural significance would create grand entrances to the cities they served.

Of course, the great classical forms of the 1893 World’s Fair would inspire many of them. Washington, D.C., as a result of the McMillan plan for the Washington Mall, built a grand station, “monumental in character,” designed by Daniel Burnham and William Pierce Anderson. Burnham had planned the great Chicago Columbian Exposition of 1893, and for the Washington station, he chose a mixture of classical motifs. This station replaced a hodgepodge of railroad connections through Washington, placing tracks in tunnels and freeing the National Mall to become a grand avenue.

 

Burnham would also design the Pennsylvania Union Station for the growing manufacturing center of Pittsburgh, with its distinctive rotunda. It seems that every prominent city sought a great entryway in the form of her railway stations. America’s great classicists would find many commissions as they fulfilled that mission.

Cornelius Vanderbilt’s New York Central Railroad built a monumental terminal in New York City, beginning in 1869. Designed by John B. Snook in the Second Empire Style, it would be expanded and eventually replaced in 1913, with the present Grand Central Station, designed by Charles A. Reed and Allen H. Stem. Reed & Stem were hired to build a station that would compete with another great station being built by McKim, Mead & White in that same city. That great railroad rivalry would lead to New York City having two great entryways.

At the beginning of the 20th century, there was only one great railway into Manhattan—the New York Central. Cornelius Vanderbilt owned Manhattan, or so it seemed. Though the Pennsylvania Railroad was actually bigger than the New York Central, it was not able to come into New York City. Pennsylvania Railroad trains only came to the shore of New Jersey, and passengers would then ride a ferry to the docks of New York.

However, Pennsylvania Railroad President Alexander Cassatt would make a fateful trip to France to visit his sister, Mary, the Impressionist painter. There he would see electric locomotives being used to pull trains through tunnels beneath the ground. A great plan formed in his mind! It was a plan for not just one tunnel, but a series of tunnels that would bring tracks across New York’s Tenderloin District and continue on to Long Island. There, the Pennsylvania would connect with the Long Island Railroad.

But there was more. Crossing the Hell Gate Bridge would enable trains to connect with New England railroads as well. It was a brilliant, daring, and dangerous plan. The Hudson River was a mile wide, and tunneling had to be done in pressurized caissons through the muddy bottom. Engineer William McAdoo began the construction of the first Hudson tunnel in 1902, continuing an earlier tunnel begun and abandoned in the 19th century. This tunnel was completed in 1908, as were tunnels to Long Island under the East River.

Having acquired a significant amount of real estate in Manhattan—needed for right-of-way—the Pennsylvania Railroad commissioned McKim, Mead & White to build the greatest entry into New York imaginable. The result was the magnificent Beaux Arts Pennsylvania Station. Not to be outdone, New York Central hired Reed & Stem to design the competing Grand Central Station.

McKim, Mead & White would also design the James A. Farley Post Office Building as a companion to the terminal. Though this terminal was demolished in 1966, the Farley Building, with its fine Corinthian columns, remains. Its Moynihan Train Hall now provides access to the tracks of what once was Pennsylvania Station.

Cities of all sizes would build fine stations. Richmond, Virginia’s Main Street Station is an example of Italian Renaissance influence. Completed in 1901, it was designed by Wilson, Harris & Richards. It features a fine campanile, and a series of arches topped by a steep hipped roof. In Staunton, Virginia, Thomas Jasper Collins would place a bungalow style roof over a series of arches to create a distinctive train station. Built for the most part by private companies, these fine depot buildings would provide a unique identity for each metropolis they served—entering into the fabric of the republic’s civic architecture.

Categories
Arts & Letters

Preserving the Nation’s Heritage, One House at a Time

arkansas home
Laine and Kevin Berry's Conway, Arkansas house dates to 1909, late Victorian style. Laine often drove by this house as a teenager and dreamed of owning it. (David Hatfield)

If walls could talk, what stories would they tell?

During the Civil War, Union soldiers occupied the region of Helena, Arkansas. They quartered inside a Greek Revival-style home that belonged to a local Confederate soldier. It was a stately mansion built in 1858, with a robust pediment and tall, elegant columns on its facade. Union Gen. William Sherman is said to have stayed in the home while planning his battles.

When the house went up for sale, Laine and Kevin Berry—avid lovers of old houses with history and fine craftsmanship—couldn’t resist.

When the couple first viewed the house, they were stunned. Etched glass panels glimmered in the dining room’s double doors, depicting two Biblical figures, Ruth and Naomi, standing on pedestals and surrounded by ornate leaf patterns.

laine and kevin berry
Laine and Kevin in their home. Laine is a bridal gown designer and operates a local salon, while Kevin owns an advertising and marketing business. (Sam)

Later, the couple went looking through the home’s records and discovered that Laine has ancestry in common with its previous owners. The papers list the name of Laine’s five times great uncle.

In a way, as Laine explains in a video on the couple’s YouTube channel, Our Restoration Nation, it was like she was returning to a family home.

Preserving History

The couple has taken on a number of ambitious projects—houses that have completely rotten foundations or electrical wiring held together by duct tape—that most wouldn’t consider worth salvaging.

They began buying and rehabilitating old houses across the southern United States about 20 years ago. Laine said that she and Kevin, spurred on by a passion for history and fine architecture, “both felt like the best way to preserve some of our nation’s heritage was to tackle these wonderful historic structures.”

For the couple, the homes are a reflection of American culture. “Preserving them helps not only preserve our culture, but it helps educate people—to understand where we’ve come from and what got us to where we are today,” Laine said.

historic house
The interiors incorporate many antique items for a time-worn feel. (David Hatfield)

About a year ago, they started documenting their projects on YouTube, with practical tutorials on topics ranging from how to restore historical picture frames, to the best method for stripping lead paint from wood.

They also film tours of historical houses on the market—many in surprisingly good condition given their age—explaining architectural elements in loving detail.

The couple has amassed a steady following of people who cherish old things and yearn to “see, and touch, and feel a product that their labor has created,” Laine said.

Their Instagram account is filled with the latest updates about their houses, which are dubbed names like Helen, after the region of Helena; Willa, after the Willie family who built the home; and Scottie, after the street where the house is located. Sometimes, a house’s photo is cheekily accompanied by a post written from the house’s perspective.

Growing Trend

Old houses have become an increasingly popular choice among first-time homebuyers.

As the housing market becomes prohibitively expensive and the cost of rent skyrockets in many major cities, the millennial generation is being drawn in by lower prices, while at the same time relishing opportunities to get creative and work with their hands, according to Elizabeth Finkelstein, who co-founded the website CheapOldHouses.com along with her husband.

The site lists historical homes up for sale across the country. Finkelstein created it as a passion project in 2016, hoping to educate people on the value and beauty of old houses.

Real estate agents tend to give little promotion to old houses in disrepair. “What you end up with is a blurry, dusty photo in the dark, taken on someone’s iPhone. But there’s an Art Deco bathroom in there. And then you’re like, wait a minute, no one is going to see this. So I felt the need to show it to people,” Finkelstein said.

Appreciation for the old has struck a chord among the many millennials who make up Cheap Old Houses’ following (more than 1.5 million on Instagram at the time of writing). Finkelstein thinks that “people are getting very, very fed up with, and skeptical of, the superficiality and disposability of so much in our lives right now—fast food, fast restoration, fast fashion—all of it.”

renovation
The fireplace area under construction in the Conway house. (Courtesy of Kevin Berry)

Many of the latest trends are not only wasteful, but devoid of meaning. “You want to feel a sense of purpose in your home. And if anything, this pandemic has just brought that out,” she said. A growing number of people, especially after spending more time at home, are considering alternative lifestyles.

Finkelstein said Cheap Old Houses’ Instagram account gained followers at roughly three times the normal rate during the beginning of the pandemic last year.

Laine Berry expressed a similar sentiment about modern life. “We’re always on our phones. We always are on our computers. And I think there’s a bit of a national longing for things, and times, that were simpler,” she said.

The Berrys hope that more people across the country will see investing in a historical home as a viable option.

They want people to watch their videos and see that the work is not that intimidating. But, at the same time, homebuyers must be willing to take on the research to restore homes respectfully.

“You don’t change the footprint. You allow the history of the house to be the main focus, but you rehabilitate it to be livable by today’s standards fully,” Laine said. That means researching “what is and what is not appropriate for the style and period of your home.”

historic house
The living room features a Victorian hand-painted folding screen that dates to around 1876. (David Hatfield)

Over the years, the Berrys have accumulated an almost encyclopedic knowledge of how different period styles of mantles, staircase spindles, woodwork, and other elements look.

Twenty years ago, they would go to their local library to find resources on microfilm. Today, much of the information is available on the internet.

They’re excited that a new generation will carry the torch.

“That’s the most exciting thing to me, when somebody says, ‘I never thought I could do this. I’ve been so afraid of this. I thought it was out of reach either emotionally or financially. Watching you guys, I realize this is doable for me,’” Laine said.

Categories
History

New York’s Liberty Pole

Raising the Liberty Pole
"Raising the Liberty Pole." Painted by F.A. Chapman; engraved by John C. McRae, N.Y. (Library of Congress)

In the decade leading up to the American Revolutionary War, Boston wasn’t the only scene of intense friction between British soldiers and American colonials. Imperial troops had likewise been stationed in New York.

It’s a truism in history that occupying armies, whatever their original intentions, eventually breed resentment from the locals. While Boston had its Liberty Tree, here the Sons of Liberty had been erecting liberty poles—wooden poles mounted by a cap—since at least 1766, when the first was raised during celebrations of the repeal of the Stamp Act. That original pole, hoisted in “the Fields”—today’s City Hall Park in Manhattan, at the time located just outside the city but, not coincidentally, right in front of a British barracks—stood as a reminder to all of colonial rights.

Liberty poles invoked a well-known classical motif: the spear mounted by the cap of a freed slave, symbolizing the freedom of the Romans from the tyrant Julius Caesar. The same symbol had been used after the Glorious Revolution of 1688 on a commemorative medal struck for William III.

Joseph Allicocke—an influential merchant and one of the instigators of the raising of New York’s original Liberty Pole—described his motivations without mincing words: “to scourge the base Enemies of our Country and our greatest Darling LIBERTY.” Every day, a group of New Yorkers gathered at the Liberty Pole and performed drills, certainly meant to egg on watching British soldiers.

And it worked. As an object of protest and resistance, New York’s first Liberty Pole was torn down by those same British soldiers.

The colonists responded by raising it up again.

The soldiers once more tore it down, enraging many of New York’s inhabitants. Up it went again. Down, then up, then down.

During one demolition, a soldier fired into the disapproving crowd and wounded one of its members. Another Redcoat bayoneted a leading citizen of the colony. Though one of these soldiers was later punished with five hundred lashes for the crime of assaulting a civilian, tension between soldiery and citizenry remained high. Liberty poles kept going up, only to be torn down by ever-less-patient troops.

In response, New Yorkers raised a new sort of pole, its lower portions armored with iron plates, the pole itself driven so deep into the ground that it was nigh impossible to tear down the way previous poles had been. The British general on the scene, Thomas Gage, described the circumstances:

People seem distracted everywhere. It is now as common here to assemble on all occasions of public concern at the Liberty Pole and Coffee House as for the ancient Romans to repair to the Forum. And orators harangue on all sides.

Meanwhile, the New York assembly had been temporarily dissolved for failing to appropriate funds for the local garrison. When the assembly finally gave in to British demands for the appropriation in December 1769, the Sons of Liberty were furious, posting a broadside addressed “To the Betrayed Inhabitants of the City and Colony of New York.”

British soldiers, meanwhile, did what they had always done: they set out to chop down the Liberty Pole, though in this case, they used a charge of black powder to blow it up (when that didn’t work, they managed to chop it down the old-fashioned way). Then, to pour salt in the wound, they sawed the pole into pieces and dumped them in front of the above-mentioned, Sons-of-Liberty-frequented “Coffee House” before publishing their own broadside attacking the Sons of Liberty as “the real enemies of society.”

On Jan. 19, 1770—about a week after the (armored) Liberty Pole’s destruction—the deterioration of relations between soldiers and New Yorkers erupted into out-and-out fighting at the Fields. Three thousand New Yorkers, some armed with clubs or cutlasses, gathered at what was left of the pole (now a mere stump) and began to harass the soldiers.

Those soldiers now came pouring out of the barracks. The order to the troops: “Draw your bayonets and cut your way through them.”

The “battle” that resulted was actually more of a huge street brawl. From the Fields, it spilled into New York City’s streets, including one called Golden Hill (now Eden’s Alley in Manhattan). For two whole days, the city’s government collapsed, armed gangs of locals roaming the streets along with armed gangs of soldiers, all looking for a fight. Several Redcoats were injured (one seriously), and a few New Yorkers, too. The so-called Battle of Golden Hill ended when additional military forces finally managed to escort the roving soldiers back to their barracks.

Had things continued to spiral out of control, the situation might have devolved into a “Boston Massacre”-style event weeks before the actual Boston Massacre.

The regiment was eventually exiled by an appalled Gage to service in Florida. New York magistrates, similarly appalled at their own citizens’ behavior, refused to allow another Liberty Pole to be erected at the Fields.

But a leading Son of Liberty named Isaac Sears purchased the plot of land adjacent to the previous site—and proceeded to build a private liberty pole taller than any structure in New York. Fitted with metal plating, the pole was capped with the word “LIBERTY.”

It would stand until the outbreak of the Revolutionary War five years later.

W. Kesler Jackson, who teaches Western, Islamic, American, Asian, and World histories at the university level, is also known on YouTube as “The Nomadic Professor.” You can follow his work, including entire online history courses featuring his signature on-location videos filmed the world over, at his website (NomadicProfessor.com).