West Georgia College Studies in the Social Sciences, Vols. 16-20

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WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE
STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XVI

June, 1977

ESSAYS ON THE

HUMAN GEOGRAPHY OF

THE SOUTHEASTERN UNITED STATES

IVED

>lis

Published By

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

A Division of the University System of Georgia

CARROLLTON, GEORGIA

3

Digitized by the Internet Archive

in 2011 with funding from

LYRASIS Members and Sloan Foundation

http://www.archive.org/details/westgeorgiacolle1620unse

Volume XVI June, 1977

ESSAYS ON THE

HUMAN GEOGRAPHY OF THE

SOUTHEASTERN UNITED STATES

CONTENTS

Page
Contributors iii

Foreword John C. Upchurch v

Preface David C. Weaver vi

Agrarian Progress in the Cherokee

Nation Prior to Removal Douglas C. Wilms 1

Delicate Space: Race and Residence
in Charleston, South Carolina,
1860-1880 John P. Radford 17

The Declining Small Southern Town Charles F. Kovacik 39

Migration Patterns of Atlanta's Inner City

Displaced Residents Frank V. Keller, 49

Sanford H. Bederman,

and
Truman A. Hartshorn

Georgia's Crenelated County

Boundaries Burke G. Vanderhill 59

and
Frank A. Unger

The Northern Neck of Virginia:
A Tidewater Grain-Farming
Region in the Antebellum South James B. Gouger 73

1

TITLES IN PRINT

Vol. II, 1963, Georgia in Transition.

Vol. Ill, 1964, The New Europe.

Vol. IV, 1965, The Changing Role of Government.

Vol. V, 1966, Issues in the Cold War.

Vol. VII, 1968, Social Scientists Speak on Community Development.

Vol. VIII, 1969, Some Aspects of Black Culture.

Vol. XI, 1972, Georgia Diplomats and Nineteenth Century Trade
Expansion.

Vol. XII, 1973, Geographic Perspectives on Southern Development.

Vol. XIII, 1974, American Diplomatic History: Issues and Methods.

Price, each title, $2.00

Vol. XIV, 1975, Political Morality, Responsiveness, and Reform
in America.

Vol. XV, 1976, The American Revolution: The Home Front.

Price, each title, $3.00

Copyright 1977, West Georgia College

Printed in U.S.A.

Thomasson Printing Co., Carrollton, Georgia 30117

Price, $3.00

West Georgia College is an
Affirmative Action/ Equal Opportunity Employer

CONTRIBUTORS

BEDERMAN, SANFORD H., received the Ph.D. degree from the
University of Minnesota and is presently Professor of Geography at
Georgia State University. He has received grants from the National
Science Foundation and the Rockefeller Foundation to conduct re-
search in Africa. His articles on urban spatial problems have appeared
in the Annals, Association of American Geographers, the Southeastern
Geographer, and The Atlanta Economic Review.

GOUGER, JAMES B., received the M.A. and Ph.D. degrees in Geog-
raphy from the University of Florida. His teaching and research interests
include cartography and remote sensing, as well as the historical geog-
raphy of the upper South. He is presently Assistant Professor of Geog-
raphy at Mary Washington College, Fredericksburg, Virginia, and is
the editor of The Virginia Geographer.

HARTSHORN, TRUMAN A., is an Associate Professor of Geography
at Georgia State University. He has published articles on urban housing,
commercial activity, and transportation in the Annals, Association of
American Geographers, Geographical Review, Journal of Geography,
and Journal of High Speed Ground Transportation. He is the author of
Metropolis in Georgia: Atlanta's Rise as a Major Transaction Center
and received the Ph.D. from the University of Iowa.

KELLER, FRANK V., is an urban planner with the City of Atlanta
Bureau of Planning, and is a part-time instructor in the Department of
Geography, Georgia State University. He holds the M.A. degree in
geography from Georgia State University.

KOVACIK, CHARLES R, holds the Ph.D. degree in Geography from
Michigan State University. He has read papers at various conferences
and has published in the Annals, Association of American Geographers.
His research interests center around aspects of the historical geography
of the U.S. South, and South Carolina in particular. Dr. Kovacik is pres-
ently Associate Professor of Geography at the University of South
Carolina, Columbia.

RADFORD, JOHN P., received his Ph.D. in Geography from Clark
University in 1974. He is the author of recent articles in the South
Carolina Historical Magazine and the Journal of Historical Geography,
and is currently an Assistant Professor of Geography at York Univer-
sity, Toronto.

UNGER, FRANK A., is Associate Director of the Florida Resources
and Environmental Analysis Center at Florida State University. He holds
the M.S. degree in Geography from FSU.

iii

VANDERHILL, BURKE G., is Professor of Geography at Florida State
University. He holds the Ph.D. degree from the University of Michigan
and his articles have appeared in such journals as Annals, Association
of American Geographers, Economic Geography, Journal of Geog-
raphy, Southeastern Geographer, Canadian Geographer, Canadian
Geographical Journal, and Geografisch Tijdschrift.

WILMS, DOUGLAS C, is Associate Professor of Geography at East
Carolina University. He received the Ph.D. degree from the University
of Georgia. His articles have appeared in The Journal of Geography,
Southeastern Geographer, and The Chronicles of Oklahoma.

IV

FOREWORD

This volume continues the precedent of utilizing the services of a
volume editor working under the loose supervision of a general editor,
a policy initiated with the 1973 issue of Studies in the Social Sciences.
Responsibility for selecting the theme of the present volume, the papers
herein included, and initial editorial refinement was that of the volume
editor. The role of the general editor was limited to broad consultation
with the volume editor, final editing, and liaison with the printer.

Volume topics for the past five issues of Studies have rotated among
various social science disciplines. This year's issue rotated to the
Department of Geography, and it was the decision of the volume editor
to produce an issue in which scholars explore a variety of geographically
significant themes, all tied together by their regional foci on the south-
eastern United States.

As in the past, this journal is financed partially by The University
System of Georgia. It is distributed gratis to libraries of state supported
colleges and universities in Georgia and to selected institutions of higher
education in each southern state. Interested individuals or libraries may
purchase copies for $3.00 to help defray printing and mailing costs.
Standing orders for the series are available at reduced rates.

It is with considerable pleasure that we submit to you this volume on
geographical aspects of the southeastern United States.

John C. Upchurch
Professor and Chairman
Department of Geography
General Editor

PREFACE

This volume is the second of the West Georgia College Studies in
the Social Sciences series devoted to aspects of the geography of the
southeastern United States. The preceding issue, published in 1973 and
titled Geographic Perspectives on Southern Development, received
favorable comment and subscription. Its success has encouraged pro-
duction of this second volume with a similar regional and topical focus.

As was the case with the earlier issue, and as the title indicates, the
current volume comprises a collection of essays by professional geog-
raphers with a primary regional research interest in the southeastern
United States. The majority of the authors have lived in the South for a
considerable period of time, most of them in the precise areas about
which they are writing, and they can be considered authorities in their
particular field of study. A glance at the contents shows that the specific
topics of individual contributors are extremely varied. This is to a large
extent a result of decisions by the editors to attempt to compile a
broadly based assemblage with topical, spatial, and temporal balance.

While the emphasis of the collection is on case studies of particular
relevance to the human geography of the southeastern states, each of
the essays in the volume was included because of potential significance
to research outside the southern region. Wilms' article on the agriculture
of the Cherokee Nation is of consequence to any enquiry concerned
with the cultural adaptation of aboriginal societies to European expan-
sion in North America. Radford's study of residential discrimination in
post Civil War Charleston has reference and relevance to many of the
prevailing concepts on the nature of the urban spatial structure.
Kovacik, in his analysis of Fort Motte, South Carolina, investigates a
complex set of problems which are endemic to much of rural America.
In their study of Atlanta's displaced residents, Keller, Bederman, and
Hartshorn are able to substantiate contemporary urban migration theo-
ries with their findings. Vanderhill and Unger, in a discussion of some
unique aspects of county boundary lines in Georgia, provide further
insight into the way in which land subdivision has affected the pattern
of political boundaries in the United States. In the concluding article
on wheat growing in Tidewater Virginia, Gouger illustrates how the
interacting processes of physical environment, market demand, and
technical innovation influence fluctuations in the production patterns
of agricultural regions.

As a whole, the collection indicates both the variety of possibilities
for geographic research on the South and the increasing attention being
paid by professional geographers to this particular region. Although the
southeast was one of the earliest settled sections of North America,

VI

there is in general a poorly developed literature on the geography of
the area. It is hoped that this volume will help, in some small way, to
remedy this deficiency.

David C. Weaver

Associate Professor of Geography

Volume Editor

vn

AGRARIAN PROGRESS IN THE CHEROKEE
NATION PRIOR TO REMOVAL

By Douglas C. Wilms

Although there is a growing interest among researchers in matters
concerning the American Indian, there have been relatively few his-
torical studies aimed at evaluating early Indian settlement patterns and
land use. Writings on any Indian group have usually taken one of two
approaches either the ethnological approach, which stresses cultural
factors, or the historical approach, which tends to emphasize the
political and economic relations between Indians and whites.1 This
study deals with the changes the Cherokee Indians made in their
approach to land use after European contact. It is especially concerned
with the agrarian progress they made in light of these changes.

The earliest records indicate that the Cherokee Indians originally
occupied vast stretches of land in an area bordered by the Ohio and
Tennessee Rivers on the north and west, and by the southern Piedmont
on the east. In the south their territory extended to lands in present-day
Alabama, Georgia, and South Carolina.2 At the close of the American
Revolution their more constricted territorial boundaries included lands
in only four southeastern states (Figure 1).

At the time of European contact, the Cherokees were primarily
sedentary agriculturalists whose numerous towns were usually located
along streams scattered throughout the valleys of the southern Appa-
lachians.3 In addition to their riverine agriculture, the Cherokees' sub-
sistence economy consisted of hunting, fishing, and gathering. The
extensive woodlands surrounding their settlements were used for hunt-
ing with buffalo, deer, and bear being the principal large game in the
area. Animal domestication was limited to the dog.4

Fields to be prepared for cultivation were cleared by girdling and
subsequent burning of trees and undergrowth. John Adair, a trader who
lived among the Cherokees in the 1730s, commented upon this procedure:
... to a stranger, this may seem to be a lazy method of clearing
the wood-lands; yet it is the most expeditious method they
could have pitched upon, under their circumstances, as a
common hoe and a small hatchet are all their implements for
clearing and planting.5
Corn was the chief cultivated crop with beans and squash being nearly
as important. In addition, peas, pumpkins, melons, strawberries, wild
potatoes, and tobacco were raised. A limited number of hand tools such
as the hoe and pointed stick were used for cultivation. The hoe blade
usually consisted of animal bone, wood, stone, or shell.6

1

Figure 1

Louis De Vorsey, in his work on the southern Indian boundary,
noted that even as late as the mid-eighteenth century the Indian male
often spoke unfavorably of agricultural pursuits in his public utterances
". . . and credited only warfare and hunting as fit undertakings for a
man."7 While Cherokee men may have preferred hunting and warfare,
they did play an active role in agriculture. Normally they participated
in the heavier aspects of clearing fields, planting, and harvesting. Weed-
ing and protection of plants from birds and scavengers were tasks
assigned to women, children, and older men. Most hunting took place
during the summer after crops had been planted and during the fall and
winter months after the harvest. It has been suggested that the Chero-
kees' eventually successful assimilation of the white man's agricultural
techniques stems from this early preadaptation to farming.8

Beginning in the early eighteenth century, the Cherokees came into
increasing contact with white traders, soldiers, and settlers along the
eastern borders of their country. Continued culture contact appears to

have led many Cherokees to adopt a number of European culture traits
and, at the same time, to modify a number of their own. Within one
century these steps toward acculturation produced an amazing number
of changes in both the Cherokee society and the tribe's cultural land-
scape. It was not until the period between 1790 and 1830 that the full
effect of acculturation manifested itself in a new approach to agriculture
and land use. These new developments particularly reflected the in-
fluences of government agents and missionaries, each of which made
their own unique contribution to the acculturation process.

The earliest formal attempt of the Federal government to institute
a "civilizing" policy toward the Cherokees resulted from the Treaty of
Holston in 1791. Article 14 of the treaty stipulated:

That the Cherokee nation may be led to a greater degree
of civilization, and to become herdsmen and cultivators, in-
stead of remaining in a state of hunters, the United States will
from time to time furnish gratuitously the said nation with use-
ful implements of husbandry and further to assist the said
nation in so desirable a pursuit, and at the same time to estab-
lish a certain mode of communication, the United States will
send such and so many persons to reside in said nation as they
may judge proper, not exceeding four in number, who shall
qualify themselves to act as interpreters. . . .9
Many Cherokees had expressed an interest in receiving the type of
aid outlined in the Treaty of Holston. In his capacity as a treaty com-
missioner, Benjamin Hawkins wrote to the Secretary of War in 1785
that, "some of the women have lately learnt to spin, and many of them
are very desirous that some method should be fallen on to teach them
to raise flax, cotton, and wool, as well to spin and weave it."10 Chief
Bloody Fellow of the Cherokee nation conferred with the Secretary of
War in 1792 and expressed his desire for ". . . ploughs, hoes, cattle, and
other things for a farm; this is what we want; game is going fast away
from among us. If these things could be sent us next season, it would be
a great service to us."11

Agrarian reform was subsequently encouraged in 1793 when Con-
gress began annually to appropriate funds for the purchase of livestock
and tools for the Indians. It was felt such gifts would help create a desire
for private property and in turn bring about a basic change in the Indian
economy. It was also hoped such changes would mean that the Indians
would be content with less land.12

Pursuant to the Treaty of Holston, Indian agents had been ap-
pointed to live among the Cherokees and perform liaison tasks between
the tribe and the Federal government. Benjamin Hawkins, as agent for
the Southern Indians, passed through the Cherokee country in the
autumn of 1796. Hawkins had a keen eye for signs of Indian progress

and recorded his observations as he travelled. The following excerpts
portray not only some of the changes that had taken place, but also the
continued desire, especially on the part of women, to make additional
improvements:

November 26 I met two Indian women on horseback, driving

ten very fat cattle to the station for a market.
November 30 They (Indian women) informed me that the men
were all in the woods hunting, that they alone
were at home to receive me, that they rejoiced
much at what they had heard and hoped it would
prove true, that they had made some cotton, and
could make more and follow the instruction of
the agent and the advice of the President.
December 1 They (two women) told me that they would
make corn enough but that they never could
sell it. That they were willing to labour if they
could be directed how to profit by it.
December 3 The old fellow lives well, the land he cultivates
is lined with small growth of saplins for some
distance, his house is comfortable, he has a large
stock of cattle, and some hogs. He uses the
plow.13
Other observers also noticed the changes taking place in Cherokee
agriculture and land use. Two Moravian missionaries, Abraham Steiner
and Frederick von Schweinitz, journeyed through the Cherokee country
in 1799 seeking to establish a mission station. They wrote that the
Cherokees:

. . . had greatly increased in culture and civilization in the
last few years; that in course of last summer 300 plows and as
many pairs of cotton cordingcombs had been sent to this nation
and they had begun to devote themselves to agriculture and
the raising of cotton; had several times brought cotton for sale
and they had themselves begun to spin and to weave. . . .14
The two Moravians also observed that the inhabitants of the area were
well supplied with all forms of livestock and poultry. Some produce was
sold to local garrisons and droves of hogs were bought and driven out
of the Cherokee nation.15

In addition to playing important roles in treaty formation and land
cessions, government agents distributed annuities and gifts to the
Indians. The efforts of Silas Dinsmoor, an agent to the Cherokees, illus-
trate the benign philosophy of the Federal government at this time.
Dinsmoor had been credited with inducing many Cherokees to plant
cotton and with teaching the women how to spin and weave the fibers.16
Charles Hicks, a well-educated Cherokee chief, acknowledged his

tribe's indebtedness to Dinsmoor in a letter he wrote in 1819 to the
famous American geographer, Jedidiah Morse. He stated that the
"Cherokees had already with stimulus spirits, entered the manufacturing
system in cotton clothing in 1800 which had taken rise in one town in
1796 or 7, by the repeated recommendation of Silas Dinsmoor, Esq.
which were given to the Chiefs in Council."17

Much of the progress in agricultural development was verified
eighteen years after the Holston Treaty when a systematic census was
taken under the auspices of the Cherokee Indian Agent, Return Jon-
athan Meigs.18 Meigs was appointed Cherokee Indian agent in 1801.
This Revolutionary War veteran accepted the position at age 60 and
continued to work among the Cherokees until his death in 1823. He was
active in promoting stock-raising, agriculture, and industry. In his
capacity as Cherokee agent he granted money to schools and distribu-
ted tools, implements, and advice to the Cherokees.

His report of the 1809 census revealed there were 12,395 Chero-
kees, 583 Negro slaves, and 341 whites living in the nation. The number
and value of the "principal articles" were itemized as follows:19

6519 horses at $30 each $195,570

19,165 black cattle at $8 each 153,320

1037 sheep at $2 each 2,074

19,778 swine at $2 each 39,556

13 grist mills at $260 each 3,380

3 saw mills at $500 each 1,500

30 wagons at $40 each 1,200

583 negro slaves at an average of $300 each 174,900

$571,500
The following items also were enumerated as part of the census:
1592 spinning wheels 1 powder mill

429 looms 49 silver smiths

567 ploughs 5 schools

2 saltpetre works 94 children in school

Meigs' census, taken eighteen years after the Holston Treaty,
attests to the degree of progress that had taken place during that brief
period. Cherokee youth were attending school and some natives were
learning trades. Plows were seen on an ever-increasing number of farms,
while horses, cattle, swine, and sheep each numbered in the thousands.
Spinning wheels and looms were common-place items to many of the
women who produced cotton cloth. Total value of these improvements,
as they were termed, was in excess of one-half million dollars. The
census report stated that the improvements and property acquired
". . . has principally been done since 1796." Thus, within little more than
a decade, many Cherokees had acquired through initiative and annui-
ties the skills, tools, and livestock necessary to establish the foundations
of an agrarian economy.

Agrarian progress continued into the 1820s and was widely reported
by government officials and missionaries, as well as by the Cherokees.
In 1820 Secretary of War John C. Calhoun sent to the House of Repre-
sentatives a report on the Indian tribes of the United States that had
progressed in agriculture, industry, and "civilization". Of the entire
group, he could report that "the Cherokees exhibit a more favorable
appearance than any other tribe of Indians."20

In 1822 Rev. Abraham Steiner noted the changes that had taken
place during the first two decades of the nineteenth century:

Just twenty years ago I first saw and visited them; and I can
assure you, sir, though I had expected to see some signs of
civilization among them, that it far surpassed my expectations,
comparing the people with the state I first saw them in. Many
of their youths can read and write; and I found among them,
more especially half-breeds, as much knowledge as is com-
monly met with in persons of the same grade in civilized life.21
Much of the above progress was verified in 1824 when the Chero-
kees themselves took a census of their nation.22 Information from this
census is listed with similar material from the earlier ones taken by
Meigs in 1809 (Table 1). If these data are assumed to be essentially
correct, a significant number of changes had taken place during the
fifteen years between censuses. The native population numbered 14,283
while the number of slaves reached 1,277, an increase of 119 percent.
More children were attending private and mission schools. Some Cher-
okees owned and operated grist and saw mills, while spinning wheels
appear to have been found in virtually every Cherokee home. On the
farms, the number of plows in the nation had risen by 416 percent, and
domesticated horses, cattle, swine, sheep, and goats totaled 79,942, an
increase of 72 percent. Stores, blacksmith shops, and even a threshing
machine were in operation. The character of the material goods pos-
sessed by the Cherokees clearly suggests that, by the mid- 1820s, they
were becoming a nation of farmers.

Cherokee progress was accelerated in 1821 by Sequoyah's momen-
tous invention of an eighty-six chapter syllabary.23 Within months of
the introduction of Sequoyah's system of writing the Cherokee tongue,
many Cherokee could read and write their own language. The signifi-
cance of the syllabary to Cherokee education, agrarian progress, and
"civilization" was quickly recognized. At New Echota, the capital of the
nation, the Cherokee Council resolved in October, 1827 to establish a
weekly newspaper entitled the Cherokee Phoenix. Sequoyah's char-
acters were cast into type, printing supplies were purchased, and the
first copy of the Phoenix was issued on February 21, 1828. Elias
Boudinot, a prominent Cherokee who played a leading role in his
nation's history, served as the influential organ's energetic editor.24 Well-

educated and articulate, he championed the Cherokee cause both as a
private citizen and as the editor of the Phoenix.

Each issue of the Cherokee Phoenix appeared in both Cherokee
and English. Articles in the newspaper dealt with the Cherokee lan-
guage, tribal government, federal and state relations, religion, and news
of other tribes as well as foreign countries. It also contained articles on
agricultural improvements. Some of these dealt with the treatment of
cattle diseases, butter making, fattening swine, and planting potatoes.25

TABLE 1
CHEROKEE NATION INTER-CENSUS CHANGES, 1809-1824

Meigs' Census

Cherokee Nation

Percent of Change

of 1809

Census of 1824

1809-1824

Population3

1 2,395

14,283

15

Negro Slaves

583

1,277

119

Whites

314

215

-29

Schools

5

18

260

Students

94

314

234

Grist Mills

13

36

177

Saw Mills

3

13

333

Looms

429

762

78

Spinning Mills

1,572

2,486

58

Wagons

30

172

473

Ploughs

567

2,923

416

Horses

6,519

7,683

18

Black Cattle

19,165

22,531

18

Swine

19,778

46,732

136

Sheep

1,037

2,566

14'

Goats

430

Blacksmith Shops

62

Stores

9

Tan -Yards

2

Powder Mill

1

1

Threshing Machine

1

aThese figures include only Cherokees.
Source: Cherokee Censuses of 1809 and 1824.

The noted missionary, Samuel Worcester, wrote in 1830 that
agriculture was the principal employment and support of the Cherokee
people. He suggested that hunting as a way of life had been completely
abandoned. With regard to those who lived by the chase he wrote, "I
certainly have not found them, not even heard of them, except from the
floor of Congress, and other distant sources of information.26

In December, 1830, a group of resident missionaries met at New

Echota and issued a statement which included a thorough report on
agricultural progress. It noted that:

Thirty years ago a plough was scarcely seen in the nation.
Twenty years ago there were nearly 500. Still the ground was
cultivated chiefly by the hoe only. Six years ago the number of
ploughs, as enumerated, was 2,923. Among us all, we scarcely
know a field which is now cultivated withough ploughing.27
Progress also had been made in industry and commerce. The
natives recognized the value of skilled labor and, in 1810, the Cherokee
Council unanimously agreed to allow white craftsmen to reside in the
nation.28 By 1824 there were 62 blacksmith shops, 9 stores, 2 tan-yards,
and 1 powder mill in the country. A Cherokee law of 1825 encouraged
the residence of mechanics who would train native apprentices. Upon
completion of training, the youths' tools and equipment were to be
furnished by the Council.29 Within a decade the number of resident
mechanics rose to 337.30

Grist and saw mills were built by the government, missionaries, and
individual Cherokees. Increasing numbers of mills reflected the growing
use of the plow and agricultural expansion. Increased corn production
necessitated more grist mills, while lumber for fences, flooring, and
construction purposes created a similar demand for saw mills (Table 1).
Trade and commerce were facilitated by the numerous roads that
traversed the nation (Figure 2). Most of these were built by the United
States under the Treaty of 1816, which also gave the Federal govern-
ment the right to free navigation of all rivers within the Cherokee

CHEROKEE ROAD SYSTEM J

Ca. 1825 /Y^X.

r -i Hon mlary ol iht /( *
L ~) Cherokee Country j)

f^\

1 \ [ >\ / Y
1 \ \ 1 / /
' \ \ "*" ' *"' ^^**^N 1

j^ ^v \_y Giinasvlii

1 \ sS 1

Uf

1 ' **.^

'^ MIIES

Figure 2
8

nation.31 These roads not only allowed the Cherokees to ship surplus
agricultural products out of the area, but also permitted travelers and
drovers to cross the Cherokee nation on their way to neighboring states.
Surplus corn and livestock raised by the Cherokees usually were sold
in neighboring Tennessee, Georgia, and South Carolina.32

Thousands of hogs, cattle, horses, and mules were annually driven
from Tennessee and Kentucky to eastern markets in the early 1800s.
There was also an internal demand for livestock in the Southeast. In
1836, an estimated 40,000 hogs were driven to food-deficit cotton-
producing areas in middle Alabama and Georgia.33 Many drovers from
Tennessee and Kentucky passed through the nation on their way to
these states and their herds consumed vast amounts of corn at various
Cherokee-owned public houses or "stock stands" along the way. A drove
of hogs may have varied from several hundred to several thousand head
and could travel an estimated eight to twelve miles each day, and
perhaps more, depending on the size of the herd. On the average,
approximately 24 bushels of corn were consumed daily for each 1,000
hogs.34 A number of Cherokees established taverns and "stock stands"
along the roads used by drovers and thus profited from the traffic.

Cherokee trade was generally restricted to the sale of corn, live-
stock, and domestic hides. Although most cotton was used for domestic
purposes, some was shipped from the nation to neighboring states and
by boat down the Tennessee and Mississippi rivers to New Orleans.35
Most trade, however, was overland with adjacent states. Dr. Butler, a
missionary at Hiwassee, Georgia, wrote that many Cherokees, including
full bloods, raised meat and corn for sale. He observed:

Last season, while travelling on the frontiers of Georgia, I
well recollect seeing wagon loads of corn going from the nation
to the different states. Droves of beef cattle and hogs are driven
annually from this nation to different states. A few weeks since,
not less than 200 beeves were driven from this vicinity to the
northern market; and I think as great numbers were collected
in previous years.36

Another observer, presumably Elias Boudinot, editor of the Cher-
okee Phoenix, provided a similar observation which appeared in 1831:

It is supposed that not less than one thousand beeves will be
driven from the Nation for the northern markets this season,
besides those taken into Georgia and South Carolina. Those
for the north are bought by Tennesseeans, not from the half
breeds only but (as the expression is) from the common Indi-
ans. This fact perhaps may give some of our distant readers a
little light as to the condition of the Cherokees who were said
to be long since on the point of starvation, most of them sub-
sisting on sap and roots.37

An anonymous resident of the Carmel Mission wrote a penetrating
letter on the agrarian and commercial progress made by the Cherokees
at this time. Although the following extract is lengthy, it is included here
because it demonstrates the degree to which the Cherokees had be-
come involved in commercial activities by 1830:

It has been said and reiterated in the ear of the public, that
the game of the Indians is principally gone, that they are an
idle, intemperate race, that they never can be effectually taught
industrious and sober habits; and that so large a portion of
them are now in actual want, that the cause of humanity calls
to better their condition. I am aware that these and similar
statements have been already known relative to the situation
of the Cherokeees and consequently that every item of infor-
mation on this subject, may in some way subserve the course
of justice and truth.

There are three or four public roads leading from Georgia to
Tennessee through this nation. These roads are much travelled.
Besides persons on ordinary business, may be seen drovers with
large numbers of horses, mules and hogs, passing from Ken-
tucky and Tennessee to Georgia. While in this nation these
animals consume vast quantities of corn and other provisions,
and yet they are supplied almost exclusively from the products
of this country. Thousands of bushels of corn are sold by na-
tives every year, which are raised by full Cherokees, to travel-
lers and drovers. Within two miles of my residence are two
public houses, owned and kept by natives. To my own personal
knowledge, large droves of horses and hogs are very frequently
supplied with corn for the night at each of these taverns. I have
known as many as 1,400 hogs and their drivers to be supplied
at the same time at one of these houses. Nor are instances of
this kind rare. A part of the corn sold at these public houses is
raised by their owners, and a part purchased of full Cherokees.
Their sales are not, however, confined to the single article of
corn. Large numbers of cattle and hogs are sold by them every
year to citizens of Georgia and other states. Large droves of
cattle purchased in this nation are driven annually to Virginia,
and some are taken and sold in the Pennsylvania markets. I am
personally acquainted with individuals engaged in this business.
Cattle raised in this nation, I am informed, are sold in markets
as far distant as Philadelphia, in the State of Pennsylvania.

Wheat is also raised in some parts of this nation. As many as
five or six of my own neighbors have procured good crops of
this valuable article the present season. This wheat is floured at
a mill owned by natives. I have seen of the flour, and hesitate

10

not in saying that it would be considered merchantable in any
market.

Another fact worthy of mention is that from a single Indian
town, called Ellijay, fourteen miles from this place, were con-
veyed, during the summer of 1829, seventeen or eighteen loads
of corn averaging from thirty to thirty-five bushels each. This
corn was purchased by inhabitants of Georgia, and carried on
wagons seventy miles to some of the counties of that state con-
tiguous to this nation. It passed my own dwelling on its way
to Georgia.

If the Cherokees can sell hundreds of cattle and hogs an-
nually, and annually part with thousands of bushels of corn to
travellers, and if seventeen or eighteen loads of it can be spared
from a single Indian town, does the cause of humanity call for
their removal to the howling deserts of the west, to prevent
them from perishing from want? The facts I have mentioned
show moreover that corn, and beef, and pork can be obtained
here on cheaper terms than in neighboring counties of Georgia.
If it be not so, how, I ask, can purchasers of these articles
afford to buy and convey them seventy miles or upwards either
for their own use or for the purpose of selling them again? If it
be true then that the game of the Indian is gone, let it not be for-
gotten that he has a more valuable substitute for his support.38
The fate of the Cherokees was sealed when Congress passed the
hotly-debated Indian Removal Bill on May 28, 1830. Until their final
expulsion in 1838, however, most Cherokees resisted all efforts made
toward their removal. In general, the early 1830s was a period of turmoil
and confusion for the Indians. In an attempt to identify and enumerate
characteristics of the Indian population, land-holdings, and agriculture,
United States government officials took a census of the Cherokee
Nation in 1835. This census was the most comprehensive and complete
inventory of the Cherokees taken to that date.39

At the time the census was taken the Cherokees occupied lands
that are in present-day Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Ala-
bama. The largest portion of the nation was to be found in Georgia.
In addition to having vast expanses of fertile Piedmont and Ridge and
Valley lands, Cherokee Georgia was the site of New Echota. Moreover,
it was crossed by many miles of road, thus making it one of the most
accessible areas of the nation to those Cherokees desirous of settling
these lands. More than half of the Cherokees and a significant number
of slaves and intermarried whites lived in present-day Georgia (Table 2).
Although the 1835 Census shows that the number of white residents
had declined since the Census of 1824 was taken, both Cherokees and
Negro slaves continued to increase in number.

11

TABLE 2

POPULATION DISTRIBUTION IN THE
CHEROKEE NATION, 1835

Cherokees

Neg

ro Slaves

Intermarried
Whites

Georgia
North Carolina
Tennessee
Alabama

TOTAL

8,936
3,644
2,528
1,424

16,532

776

37

480

299

1,592

68

22
79
32

201

Source: Cherokee Census of 1835

It is unfortunate that livestock were not listed in the Census of 1835.
A number of other enumerations, however, give us a clearer picture
of the agrarian advances made by a people who had only recently
adopted the use of the plow. The increasing use of the plow meant that
more land was continually brought under cultivation. By 1835 more
than 3,700 farmers cultivated more than 44,000 acres of land. The nation
had 3,120 farms with an average of 14.1 acres under cultivation per
farm. A few were much larger and were worked with Negro slaves
whose numbers had increased to 1,592 at this time. Corn was the prin-
cipal crop and in one year more than one-half million bushels were
produced.40 Wheat was much less important and only 2,502 bushels of
this grain were raised. The wealthy Cherokee often had an elegant two-
story home while poor natives occupied very mean structures. The
average home, however, was a comfortable log cabin, modestly fur-
nished, with chimney and wooden floors.41

By the mid-1830s, the Cherokees had become a nation of farmers
and had progressed far toward developing an agrarian economy and a
life-style similar to that of white Americans. Nearly four decades earlier,
most Cherokees practiced the traditional hunting-farming economy
not unlike that of other aboriginal groups in the southeast. During the
eighteenth century most Cherokees continued to adhere to their time-
honored subsistence economy. During the last decade of that period,
however, and the early decades of the nineteenth century, a number of
significant changes had occurred within the Cherokee economy. Con-
tact with traders, missionaries, government agents, and others had
taught the Cherokees much about the white man's civilization. More
progressive Cherokees realized that both formal and vocational educa-
tion were necessary to institute the economic changes so necessary to
sustenance in an era of rapid game depletion. Encouraged by inter-
married whites, mixed bloods, and enterprising full bloods, a number
of Cherokees embarked upon the white man's path toward an agrarian
way of life.

12

The Cherokees, more than any other tribe, made great strides
toward adopting white agricultural techniques and their cultural land-
scape was beginning to reflect these changes. Success in establishing
farms, making improvements, and over-all progress in "civilization"
gave the Cherokee nation a look of permanence that was resented by
proponents of Indian removal. For a number of years Georgia had been
instrumental in attempting to have the Federal government expel the
Cherokees from their lands. Georgia's efforts were heightened in 1828
when gold was discovered in that portion of the Cherokee nation
claimed by Georgia. Shortly thereafter Georgia had these lands sur-
veyed in preparation for distribution to its citizens.42

With the passage of the Removal Bill, some Cherokees had begun
to question the wisdom of a continued fight against the political forces
of white Americans. In 1835 a group of influential Cherokees concluded
that emigration, with favorable terms, was the only possible alternative
available. This group signed the controversial Treaty of New Echota
on December 29, 1836.43 Briefly stated, the treaty provided that the
Cherokee Nation cede to the United States its remaining territory east
of the Mississippi River for a compensation of five million dollars. The
Indians were to be removed at government expense and given a one-
year subsistence allowance after they arrived in Oklahoma.

Chief John Ross and his supporters vehemently maintained that
the New Echota Treaty was fraudulent and was signed by a minority
group who did not represent the wishes of most of the Cherokees. For
three years, Ross fought without success to have the treaty nullified.
It became law on May 23, 1836, and for the next two years small bands
of Cherokees moved west. The final, forced Cherokee removal, called
the "Trail of Tears", began in late December, 1838.

FOOTNOTES

1 William T. Hogan, American Indians (Chicago: The University of Chicago
Press, 1961), p. 175.

2 William H. Gilbert, The Eastern Cherokees, Bureau of American Ethnology,
Bulletin 133 (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1943), p. 178.

3 Christopher Murphy and Charles Hudson, "On the Problem of Intensive
Agriculture in the Aboriginal and Southeastern United States," Working Papers
in Sociology and Anthropology. University of Georgia, April, 1968, pp. 24-34;
Douglas C. Wilms, "Cherokee Settlement Patterns in 19th Century Georgia,"
Southeastern Geographer. Vol. XIV, No. 1, (May, 1974), pp. 46-53.

4 Gilbert, The Eastern Cherokees, p. 185.

5 Samuel Cole Williams, Adair's History of the American Indians (Johnson City,
Tenn.: The Watauga Press, 1930), p. 435.

6 Harold E. Driver, Indians of North America (Chicago: The University of
Chicago Press, 1961), pp. 45-53.

13

7 Louis De Vorsey, The Indian Boundary in the Southern Colonies. 1763-1775
(Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1966). p. 17.

8 Raymond D. Fogelson and Paul Kutsche, "Cherokee Economic Cooperatives:
The Gadugi," in Symposium on Cherokee and Iroquois Culture, ed. William N.
Fenton and John Gulick, Bureau of American Ethnology, Bulletin 180 (Wash-
ington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1961), p. 116.

9 Quoted in Henry T Malone, Cherokees of the Old South (Athens: The Uni-
versity of Georgia Press, 1956), p. 36.

10 American State Papers, Indian Affairs, I, p. 39.

11 Ibid.

12 Hagan, American Indians, p. 45.

13 Letters of Benjamin Hawkins, 1796-1806, Collection of the Georgia Histor-
ical Society, Vol. IX (Savannah, Ga.: The Morning News, 1916), pp. 16-30.

14 Samuel Cole Williams, Earlv Travels in the Tennessee Country (Johnson City,
Tenn.: The Watauga Press, 1929), p. 59.

15 Ibid., pp. 464-490.

16 Henry T. Malone, "Cherokee Civilization in the Lower Appalachians, Espe-
cially in North Georgia, Before 1830" (unpublished M.A. thesis, Emory Uni-
versity, 1949), p. 47.

17 Quoted in Grant Foreman, The Five Civilized Tribes (Norman: The Univer-
sity of Oklahoma Press, 1934), pp. 352-353.

18 The complete title of the census is "A General Statistical Table for the
Cherokee Nation, Exhibiting a view of their population, and of their improve-
ments in the useful arts, and of their property acquired under the fostering hand
of Government, which has principally been done since the year 1796." Original
copy housed in the Moravian Archives, Winston-Salem, North Carolina.

19 Cherokee Census of 1809.

20 American State Papers. Indian Affairs, I, p. 200.

21 American State Papers. Indian Affairs, II, p. 278.

22 Laws of the Cherokee Nation (Knoxville, Tenn.: Heiskell and Brown, 1826).

23 For more detail on the life of this remarkable Cherokee see Grant Foreman,
Sequoyah (Norman: The University of Oklahoma Press, 1938).

24 Henry T. Malone, Cherokees of the Old South (Athens: University of Geor-
gia Press, 1965), pp. 157-158.

25 Cherokee Phoenix, August 13, 1828; August 20, 1828; October 1, 1828; July
1, 1939.

26 Jack F. Kilpatrick and Anna G. Kilpatrick, eds.. New Echota Letters (Dallas:
Southern Methodist University Press, 1968), p. 79.

27 Quoted in Allen Guttman, States' Rights and Indian Removal: The Cherokee
Nation v. The State of Georgia (Boston: D.C. Heath and Co., 1965), pp. 66-67.

28 American State Papers. Indian Affairs, II, p. 281.

29 Malone, Cherokees of the Old South, p. 144.

30 Census of the Eastern Cherokees, 1835, Bureau of Indian Affairs, Record
Group 75, Nation Archives, Washington, D.C.

31 Charles C. Royce, "The Cherokee Nation of Indians: A Narratiave of their
Official Relations with the Colonial and Federal Governments," Fifth Annual
Report, Bureau of Ethnology. 1883-84 (Washington, D.C: Government Print-
ing Office, 1887), p. 198.

14

32 The driving of hogs to Georgia must have been a profitable venture as early
as 1807. At that time the Moravian missionaries at Springplace, Georgia, at-
tempted to buy hogs from their wealthy Cherokee neighbor, Joseph Vann. He
refused to sell them any because he was preparing to take a large herd to Geor-
gia. See Bishop Kenneth G. Hamilton, "Minutes of the Mission Conference
Held in Springplace," The Atlanta Historical Bulletin (Winter 1970), p. 46.

33 Lewis C. Gray, History of Agriculture in Southern United States to I860. Vol.
II, Carnegie Institute of Washington, Publication No. 430 (New York: Peter
Smith, 1941), pp. 837-840. An excellent study of pork production in the southern
states is found in Sam B. Hilliard, "Pork in the Ante-Bellum South: The Geog-
raphy of Self-Sufficiency, " Annals, Association of American Geographers, LIX
(September, 1969), pp. 461-480.

34 Gray, History of Agriculture, Vol. II, p. 841.

35 Gilbert C. Fite, "Development of the Cotton Industry by the Five Civilized
Tribes in Indian Territory," Journal of Southern History, XV (August, 1949),
pp. 343-344.

36 Cherokee Phoenix, September 22, 1830.

37 Cherokee Phoenix, August 27, 1831.

38 Cherokee Phoenix, October 23, 1830.

39 The record of the Cherokee Census of 1835 is a large and extremely well
preserved book housed in the National Archives, Washington, D.C. Each page
of the census consists of a series of columns that lists, by individual landholder,
such items as the number of slaves owned, acres cultivated, bushels of corn
raised, and corn sold. At the left side of the page, the name of each landholder
is recorded, along with the name of the water-course adjacent to which he lived.

40 Census of the Eastern Cherokees, 1835.

41 Kilpatrick and Kilpatrick, New Echota Letters, pp. 79-80.

42 Douglas C. Wilms, "Georgia's Land Lottery of 1832," The Chronicles of
Oklahoma, Vol. LII, No. 1, (Spring, 1974), pp. 52-60.

43 Malone, Cherokees of the Old South, pp. 180-182.

15

DELICATE SPACE: RACE AND RESIDENCE
IN CHARLESTON, SOUTH CAROLINA,

1860-1880

By John P. Radford*

American cities have played many roles, but first and foremost they
have been the organizing centers of a dynamic and rapidly expanding
market economy. The network of U.S. cities is a creature of competitive
processes: wholesaling, retailing, industrial entrepreneurship and the
provision of a myriad of business and personal services. Within Ameri-
can cities, too, competition for space has been the dominant principle
regulating the arrangement of urban functions, including the allocation
of residential space.

This study seeks to summarize the intellectual bases of the most
seminal interpretation of competitive residential processes in the Amer-
ican city, and to use the insights contained therein as a foil against which
to examine residential processes within an alternative version of Amer-
ican urbanism. The alternative examined is one which crystallized in
Charleston, South Carolina during the mid-nineteenth century. It is part
of the underlying philosophy of the study that one can often gain as
much understanding of a situation by investigating its extreme mani-
festations as by attempting to construct a general model. Further, it is
often profitable to examine an institution or a city during periods of
crisis or shock, when important but normally hidden elements are
exposed to view. Attention will focus upon Chicago and Charleston as
epitomes of two American versions of the city, and then upon the period
1860 to 1880 in Charleston during which the residential patterns formed
during the antebellum decades were sharply challenged.

The most widely influential attempt to explain residential patterns
in U.S. cities is the model published in 1925 by E. W. Burgess.1 The dia-
grams which Burgess drew have probably been reproduced, at least in
modified form, more often than any others in the field of urban studies.
It is unfortunate that the accompanying text has so far had a somewhat
more restricted currency.

Burgess' main concern in the 1925 essay was to provide a frame-
work within which to study urban growth. He suggested that this might
be done by viewing the physical growth of the city as an expansion
process, within which two sub-processes could be isolated: invasion-
succession, and centralization-decentralization. These sub-processes

The author wishes to thank the staff of the York University Department of
Geography Cartographic Office for drafting the figures accompanying this
article.

17

tended to produce a differentiation of the city according to a pattern of
concentric zones, stretching outwards from the center. Around a
central business district was a "zone in transition," which included a
factory zone. Outside these were three residential zones of increasing
status with distance from the center.

Expansion processes might also be studied in terms of social organ-
ization. Here the problem was reduced to two questions:

How far is the growth of the city, in its physical and technical
aspects, matched by a natural but adequate readjustment in
the social organization? What, for a city, is a normal rate of
expansion with which controlled changes in the social organ-
ization might successfully keep pace?2

In order to clarify the notion of the existence of a "normal rate of
expansion" for a city, Burgess introduced a biological analogy. The
natural rate of population increase could be viewed in the same terms
as the anabolic and catabolic processes of metabolism in living organ-
isms. The natural rate of increase might be used as a yardstick against
which to measure excessive increases in population. Quite clearly, the
"normal rate of expansion" of American cities had far exceeded the
natural rate of increase in the population. The result had been "distur-
bances of metabolism," brought about by rapid in-migration.

The resulting condition of the city was reflective of that of individ-
ual in-migrants, being characterized by widespread disorganization.
Cities appeared to Burgess to go through phases of disorganization
which stemmed from disruptions of their metabolisms, and which were
"accompanied by excessive increases in disease, crime, disorder, vice,
insanity, and suicide." All of these conditions could thus be used as
indices of social disorganization. The best index of all, however, was the
rate of spatial mobility.3

During the city-expansion phases "a process of distribution takes
place which sifts and sorts and relocates individuals and groups by
residence and occupation."4 What eventually emerged was a social
landscape, but also including differentiated subareas produced by
segregation processes which separated the population into "economic
and cultural groupings." Such spatial changes took place at the same
time as related changes in the social structure of the city, particularly
in the division of labor.

Burgess' essay should be viewed within the context of a school of
human ecological thought which Willhelm has called "traditional ma-
terialism."5 The conceptual bases of this school of thought were for-
mulated largely by Robert E. Park. Although subsequent schools of
urban ecology departed from this original conception, they did so
largely by abandoning the study of process, thereby transforming urban
ecology into the study of the patterning of social variables. Park's orig-

18

inal conception remains as a profound insight into the nature of the
laissez-faire American city, and even the much derided biological
imagery should serve to heighten our appreciation of its inner dynamism.

The key ideas of the Burgessian scheme normal and excessive
rates of population increase, phases of disorganization and reorganiza-
tion, disturbances in metabolism, ensuing adjustments in the structural
and spatial composition of the city are fully consistent with the general
notions of Park.6 Central to Park's theory was the idea that the human
community qua ecological community tended toward a state of equi-
librium with its natural environment. The natural condition of the
ecological community was biological competition. In the human com-
munity this was frequently manifested in economic competition. But
above the human community was society, which, by establishing a
system of social controls, regulated the natural tendency toward out-
and-out competition. The level of competition within a society could
thus be used as an index of the strength and effectiveness of these
social controls.

William L. Kolb cast these concepts of social structure into a time
sequence, which he claimed was implied in the Parkian scheme.7 Ac-
cording to Kolb, Park viewed the achievement of a state of equilibrium
between a community and the "natural resources and spatial charac-
teristics of the environment" as allowing the development of a moral
order a system of social controls which reinforces the balance. A
shock, usually excessive population increase, may loosen the hold of
the moral order, allowing unregulated competition to resume. Read-
justmentsparticularly changes in the division of labor are subse-
quently made in society, allowing the restoration of equilibrium and the
eventual development of a new moral order. Kolb's paper directly con-
fronted the essence of the ecological argument, and provided a valuable
clue to its spatial and temporal relevance. Kolb regarded the main
deficiency in the argument as being a failure to allow for the influence
of social values, and proposed a partial remedy which would incorporate
into the ecological viewpoint several of the Parsonian pattern variables
of value orientation.8 The American city is seen as having developed
within a society dominated by universalistic achievement-orientation,
that is, one in which status was gained in direct relation to performance,
as evaluated against a set of highly generalized standards.9 The American
city could not be understood without the realization that these values
"came to pervade the major normative and belief systems of American
society: religion, morality, legal institutions, folkways, mores, proverbs,
practical philosophies, ideologies, and norms governing social action
in the political and occupational world." These were the orientations
which produced "the modern division of labor, the market economy,
and the bureaucratic enterprise."10

19

In Kolb's view, Park interpreted the pervasiveness of competition
in early twentieth century Chicago as a reflection of "the relative free-
dom from the moral order which [its] inhabitants enjoyed."11 Kolb him-
self preferred the interpretation that economic competition was sanctioned
by the moral order, the moral order itself being characterized by a
universalistic achievement-orientation. He saw the period 1870-1930 in
Chicago as one in which universalistic achievement values so permeated
the moral order that it was "barely capable of creating and sustaining a
social order." Social practices were pushed beyond those sanctioned by
Protestant individualism (of which Chicago was the purest product) to
new extremes of the "economic law of the jungle," of anomie, and of
social breakdown.12 Changes in patterns of residence were viewed by
the human ecologists as one of a number of adjustments which take
place in an urban system in response to shock. Such changes in pattern
are closely linked with related changes in mobility rates, the division of
labor, the incidence of mental disease, the spatial distribution of the
population, and other variables. The changes tend to occur in bursts,
periods of rapid change being separated by "normal" periods of relative
stability.

It is a remarkable fact that the city, which was the laboratory of the
early human ecologists, was also the city which epitomized the American
industrial age. Well before the Civil War, Chicago was establishing the
foundations of what became an urban industrial boom of extreme pro-
portions. Between 1840 and 1850 the city's population increased six-fold
and the value of its real estate increased twenty-fold, as the wheat trade
developed, and as factory industry gained a foothold.13 By the end of the
century, as a result of several frantic bursts of growth, Chicago had be-
come a world city. Its reputation grew almost as rapidly. Chicago was
the "noisy marketplace," the "roaring boiler factory,"14 dominated by
people who possessed, "an invulnerable faith in the power of man . . .
to overcome any obstacle [and] an unquenchable faith that physical
forces must and would be subdued and made to serve the purpose of
man."15 To many, Chicago meant ruthlessness, even menace.16 By the
1890s its blood-thunder reputation had made it the "shock city" of the
age.17 Visitors saw in it, "the very essence of American civilization," and
the epitome of the American miracle.18

Between the Civil War and the Great Depression, Chicago, according
to human ecological theory, experienced a period of sustained shock.
Bursts of rapid industrial growth and rapid in-migration threatened the
moral order and produced a state of disequilibrium. It was the social
adjustments to this situation, as interpreted within a survival of the
fittest framework by urban sociologists, which gave rise, beginning in
the 1920s, to a host of studies of "what the city did to man."

The miracle of American urban-industrial growth was celebrated

20

almost everywhere in the United States, except in the South. The Civil
War, which augmented Chicago's growth, brought devastation to the
South; and while the American mainstream was riding the post-war
economic boom, the South felt only the bitterness of Reconstruction.
The foundations of this contrast were laid down well before it evolved
into open conflict. During the first half of the nineteenth century the
South had become progressively more defensive of its way of life, more
provincial in outlook and more intolerant of outside influences. These
trends are revealed in the public pronouncements of politicians, in
personal letters and diaries, and in the literature of the age.19 A "cordon
sanitaire" was erected against those ideas which were regarded as dan-
gerous to the established order, creating, especially after 1830, "a nearly
static society walled off by a dike that was intended to preserve the
static character."20

In no city was this resistance to change, this reverence for the past,
more strongly expressed than in Charleston, S.C. Charleston was not in
any real sense the "capital" of the Old South; it was the capital only of
an important Tidewater planting community. But it did become, during
a period of declining economic fortunes, the center of the idea of
Southern nationalism.21 It was, in Eaton's phrase, "the very citadel of
Southernism," the center as Rogers has shown, of the idea of a Southern
way of life.22 Antebellum Charleston was, in fact, the center of a power-
ful moral order the focus of strands of thought which were to be found
throughout the South. Its intellectual community wove these strands
into a coherent idea which received strong historical and mythical rein-
forcement. The idea was sufficiently strong to propel the city and state
into unilateral secession from the Union.

The value system of late antebellum Charleston emanated from the
planters.23 Finding in this coastal seaport first a seasonal haven from
"country fever," and later a year round list of social activities, the
Tidewater planters became a growing presence within the city.24 It be-
came increasingly fashionable during the nineteenth century for planters
to build townhouses in the city, and the life of the city came to be
dominated by the planting families.25

The values of the plantation are, as Genovese put it, antithetical to
those of the bourgeois world.26 "The planter typically recoiled at the
notion that profit should be the goal of life; that the approach to pro-
duction and exchange should be internally rational and uncomplicated
by social values; that thrift and hard work should be the great virtues;
and that the test of the wholesomeness of a community should be the
vigor with which its citizens expand the economy."27 As the planter
presence in Charleston grew stronger, such views came to dominate the
city. Charleston's merchant community, previously comparable in size
and influence to those of many contemporary U.S. cities, was now over-
shadowed by the planters. The merchant became an outsider,28 and

21

Charleston, instead of evolving from mercantile seaport into industrial
city, became instead a leisure capital. The planters essentially stifled
the city's development.

The implications for Charleston's place in the U.S. urban hierarchy
and for its internal spatial arrangement were profound. It sank from fifth
place in the hierarchy in 1830 to sixty-eighth place in 1900. Within the
city, the effect of planter influence was to perpetuate a number of
internal spatial patterns which elsewhere became obsolete. The planters'
interests were in health, aesthetics and leisure.29 They encouraged the
creation and preservation of tasteful architecture and healthful open
space, and were adamantly opposed to potentially disruptive forces,
especially abolitionism and industrialization. Constant vigilance proved
necessary in order to minimize the effects of disruptive threats, both
internal and external in origin. Such is the context within which the
residential patterns and processes in mid-nineteenth century Charleston
should be viewed.

RACIAL PATTERNS 1860 AND 1880

One important illustration of the nature of the residential processes
and patterns which dominated mid-nineteenth century Charleston is
provided by a comparable study of its racial patterns in 1860 and 1880.
Charleston's population of just over forty thousand in 1860 was almost
evenly divided between black and white. The city's whole existence was
permeated by matters of race, and it is race which provides us with the
most sensitive indicator of the nature and direction of residential pro-
cesses. The period between the two cross-sections was the most
turbulent in Charleston's history, involving a major fire in 1861, bom-
bardment and partial abandonment during the Civil War, and the
apparent turmoil of Reconstruction. Such events may be regarded as
imparting a series of "shocks" to the city, and the nature of the response
manifested in the racial residential patterns are therefore of consider-
able significance to the present discussion.

After 1850 the City of Charleston included not only the four wards
south of Calhoun Street but also four additional Upper Wards on the
Neck (Figure 1). In order to reconstruct the racial residential patterns
of Charleston, a ten per cent systematic sample of heads of household
was selected from the federal manuscript censuses of 1860 and 1880.
Density maps were drawn of each major racial group for both dates. In
order to avoid aggregation problems associated with morphological
units such as city blocks, the spatial units adopted were formed by a set
of grid squares randomly placed over a map of the city. The frequencies
obtained were then generalized (Figures 2 and 3).

22

Figure 1. Charleston in 1860, showing
major streets and ward boundaries.

23

A. TOTAL FREE POPULATION

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PER GRID SQUARE
I I 0 [""I 5-6

I | 1-2 Kkl 7-8

mi 3-4 hi

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feet

Figure 2. Density of sample heads of household by race, 1860.

24

B. WHITE

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PER GRID SQUARE
0 FT! 5-6

I I 1-2 JH 7-8

ES3 3-4 ih

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feet

Figure 2 (Continued)

25

C. FREE MULATTO

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PER GRID SQUARE
0 E~l 5-6

I I 1-2 MM 7-8

ES3 3-4 MM >s

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feet

': Ml

Figure 2 (Continued)

26

FREE BLACK

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PEFI GRID SQUARE

I I 0 EZ] 5-6

I I 1-2 7-8

f:::::::1 3-4 H >8

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feel

Figure 2 (Continued)

27

(112 SUWES)

E. SLAVE HOUSES

HOUSES PER GRID SQUARE
I I 0 IM\ 5-6

I I 1-2 BH 7-8

Ex!] 3-4 >8

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feet

Figure 2 (Continued)

28

A. TOTAL POPULATION

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PER GRID SQUARE
0 HI 5-6

I I 1-2 H 7-

ES3 3-4 B9 >8

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feet

Figure 3. Density of sample heads of household by race, 1880.

29

B WHITE

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PER GRID SQUARE

I I 0 EO 5-6

I I 1-2 H 7-8

EE3 3-4

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Fee!

Figure 3 (Continued)

30

C. MULATTO

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PER GRID SQUARE
0 EH 5-6

ES3 3-4 wm

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feel

Figure 3 (Continued)

31

D. BLACK

HEADS OF HOUSEHOLD PER GRID SQUARE
I I 0 P5-6

E33 3-4 ma

Grid Square Side Measures 900 Feel

Figure 3 (Continued)

32

V

i#W

MILE

| 1 INCREASE IN PERCENT NONWHITE

I I NONWHITE NO CHANGE

["""I DECREASE IN PERCENT NONWHITE

Figure 4. Racial change by block, 1860-1880.

33

Figure 2A shows the density distribution of the total free population
in 1860, and figures 2B, 2C and 2D show the distributions of the major
racial subsets of the population as recognized in the federal census.
Figure 2E is an attempt to provide a comparable view of the distribu-
tions of the slave population by mapping the slave houses enumerated in
the Ford census of 1861. M While the distribution of the white population
approximates that of the total population, the slave houses are arrayed
in two broad sectors, one in the center of the peninsula (King Street) and
one in the east (East Bay Street). Some areas within these sectors show
very high levels of concentration. Perhaps the most interesting feature,
however, is the substantial northerly bias in the distribution of free
mulattoes. This becomes extreme in the distribution of free blacks.31

Figure 3 suggests that only a limited amount of change had taken
place in these macro patterns by 1880. It is true that detailed comparison
is made difficult by the absorption of former slaves into the mulatto and
black categories, and an increase in the total numbers caused by an
influx of rural freedmen.32 Further, in order to measure residential
change in detail, closer analysis of small sections of the city would be
necessary. Such a need is illustrated by Figure 4, which shows racial
change by city block and suggests the occurrence of marked changes
within small areas. Nevertheless, the lack of any major change at the
city-wide scale is clearly demonstrated by Figures 2 and 3. Given the
events of the two decades in question, the persistence of the overall
racial patterns is quite remarkable.

INTERPRETATION AND CONCLUSION

Despite repeated and in the short term highly disruptive shocks, the
residential patterns by race in Charleston were remarkably persistent
between 1860 and 1880. Two main reasons may be advanced for this:
the persistence of antebellum attitudes and the nature of the shocks
themselves.

After the Civil War the main desire of most of the whites reoccupy-
ing the partially ruined and abandoned city was to restore Charleston
to its former condition, and to re-establish life as it had been before the
war. Unavoidable realities such as the impoverishment of many leading
citizens and the abolition of slavery would, as far as possible, be accom-
modated. The War created no new direction, and neither indeed did
Reconstruction. The once popular view of a "world turned upside
down" in Reconstruction South Carolina has little foundation in reality
as recent studies have shown.33 While some in Charleston looked for a
"change of heart", either racially or economically, it never materialized.
The persistence of anachronistic patterns in 1880 is to a large extent a
reflection of the tenancity of antebellum values. The traumatic events
of the era bombardment, the virtual abandonment of the city, the

34

threat of total destruction, as well as the freeing of the city's slaves and
in in-migration of thousands of rural freedmen rivalled in intensity any-
thing experienced by Chicago. Yet these events were imposed upon the
city and were external to its value system. They were not, as in Chicago,
a result of processes sanctioned by its value system less ecological
shocks, perhaps, than parametric shocks. There existed no logical social
or spatial response by which to effect a "readjustment." In Charleston
we confront not the city dynamic but the city intransigent.

Human ecology reflected, if rather crudely and with some exaggera-
tion, the condition of Chicago in the late nineteenth and early twentieth
centuries. The inappropriateness of this formulation to Charleston is
most apparent in the virtual omission of racial factors. The earliest clear
statement concerning urban blacks in the ecological literature comes
from McKenzie who portrayed the black as an inmigrant whose differ-
entiating characteristic is highly visible and does not, like language and
culture, disappear.34 Instead of moving outward to homogeneous sub-
urbs, the black community expands in situ. This view has nothing to
contribute to our understanding of the delicate process which allocated
racial residential space in Charleston. The notion of competition for
residential space in human ecological terms also has little meaning in
Charleston. The city's growth rate did not approach anything which
could be described as "abnormal". The concept of "disturbance of
metabolism" seems to require a degree of dynamism which is not
present, and the notion of rapid spatial changes "sifting and sorting"
as part of a readjustment process presumes a rationality of response
rarely encountered in Charleston.

But for the moral flaw of slavery, the urban view offered by the Old
South and epitomized in Charleston might have produced a more lasting
alternative to the dominant strain of American urbanism. As it was,
Charleston, although resolutely un-Reconstructed, yielded spremacy
after the Civil War to those towns which, in Coulter's phrase, "had
Yankee stamped on them." The New South brought a new philosophy
and a different economic alignment which by-passed the city. Charles-
ton's moral order became once again confined to a small portion of the
Tidewater, and this city, for a time the center of a great idea, became,
in the context of the American mainstream, little more than a curiosity.

FOOTNOTES

1 Ernest W. Burgess, "The Growth of the City: An Introduction to a Research
Project," in Robert E. Park and Ernest W. Burgess, The City (Chicago: The
University of Chicago Press, 1925), pp. 47-62.

2 Ibid., p. 53.

3 Ibid., pp. 59-61.

4 Ibid., p. 54.

35

5 Sidney M. Willhelm, Urban Zoning and Land Use Theory' (New York: The
Free Press, 1962), pp. 13-49.

6 These notions are most concisely expressed in, Robert E. Park, "Human
Ecology," American Journal of Sociology. XLII (1936), pp. 1-15. They are
described in detail in several early works, notably in, Robert E. Park and Ernest
W. Burgess, Introduction to the Science of Sociology (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1921). For an overview of the intellectual history of this text,
and an evaluation of the relationship between the two men, see, Robert E. L.
Faris, Chicago Sociology: 1920-1932 (San Francisco: Chandler Publishing
Company, 1967), pp. 37-50.

7 William L. Kolb, "The Social Structure and Functions of Cities," Economic
Development and Cultural Change, III (1954), pp. 30-46.

8 Talcott Parsons, The Social System (New York: The MacMillan Co., 1951),
pp. 88-112.

9 In Parsons' words, universalism "favors status determination, i.e., the alloca-
tion of personnel, allocation of facilities and rewards, and role-treatment on the
basis of generalized rules relating to classificatory qualities and performances
independently of relational foci. . . . The combination with achievement values
. . . places the accent on the evaluation of goal-achievement and of instrumental
actions leading to such goal achievement . . . [and] promotion of the welfare of
a collectivity as such tends to be ruled out. The collectivity is valued so far as
it is necessary to the achievement of intrinsically valued goals. This is the basis
of a certain 'individualistic' trend in such a value system." Parsons, The Social
System, pp. 182-183.

10 Kolb, "The Social Structure," p. 34.

11 Ibid, p. 35.

12 Ibid, p. 37.

13 Bessie Louise Pierce, A Histon' of Chicago, Vol. I, 1673-1848 (New York:
Alfred A. Knopf, 1937), p. 403.

14 Henry Hanson, The Chicago (New York: Rinehart and Company, Inc., 1942),
p. 337.

15 Pierce, A History of Chicago, p. 403.

16 Henry Justin Smith, "Introduction" in Lloyd Lewis and Henry Justin Smith,
Chicago: The History of Its Reputation (New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co.,
Inc., 1929), pp. xi-xii.

17 Asa Briggs, Victorian Cities (2nd ed.; New York: Harper and Row, 1970),
p. 56.

18 Allan H. Spear, Black Chicago: The Making of a Negro Ghetto (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1967), p. 1.

19 See especially: Clement Eaton, Freedom of Thought in the Old South (New
York: Peter Smith, 1951) and William R. Taylor, Cavalier and Yankee: The
Old South and American National Character (New York: George Braziller,
Inc., 1961).

20 Rollin G. Osterweis, Romanticism and Nationalism in the Old South (New
Haven, Conn.: Yale University Press, 1949), p. 11.

21 Clement Eaton, The Mind of the South (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State Uni-
versity Press, 1969), pp. 162-165.

22 George C. Rogers, Charleston in the Age of the Pinckney's (Norman, Okla.:
University of Oklahoma Press, 1969), pp. 162-165.

36

23 Ibid., p. 323. See also Rogers' volume The History of Georgetown County,
South Carolina (Columbia: University of South Carolina Press, 1970).

24 Lawrence Fay Brewster, Summer Migrations of South Carolina Planters
(Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1947), p. 4.

25 John Lofton, Insurrection in South Carolina (Yellow Springs, Ohio: The
Antioch Press, 1964), p. 43. Brewster, Summer Migrations, pp. 4-5. Thomas R.
Waring, "Charleston: The Capital of the Plantations" in Augustine T. Smythe
et. al. The Carolina Low Country (New York: The MacMillan Co., 1931), p. 132.

26 Eugene D. Genovese, The World the Slaveholders Made: Two Essays in
Interpretation (New York: Random House, 1969), pp. 118-244.

27 Eugene D. Genovese, The Political Economy of Slavery: Studies in the
Economy and Society of the Slave South (New York: Random House, 1965),
pp. 28-29.

28 Rosser H. Taylor, Ante-Bellum South Carolina: A Social and Cultural
Histoty ("The James Sprunt Studies in History and Political Science" Vol. XXV,
No. 2; Chapel Hill, N.C.: University of North Carolina Press, 1942), p. 44. See
also William W. Freehling. Prelude to Civil War: The Nullification Controversy
in South Carolina, 1816-1836 (New York: Harper and Row, 1965), p. 13; and
Rogers, Charleston in the Age of the Pinckneys, p. 52.

29 The role of aesthetic appreciation and the importance of leisure among the
Tidewater planters is a recurrent theme in the secondary literature on Carolina
society. On Charleston, see, for example: Constance McLaughlin Green, Amer-
ican Cities in the Growth of the Nation (London: The Athlone Press, 1957);
Louis B. Wright, The Cultural Life of the American Colonies (New York:
Harper and Brothers, 1957), and Taylor, Ante-Bellum South Carolina, pp. 33-40.

30 Frederick A. Ford, Census of the City of Charleston. South Carolina for the
Year 1861 (Charleston, 1861).

31 For an interpretation of these patterns and an alternative set of maps of race
in Charleston, see John P. Radford, "Race, Residence and Ideology: Charles-
ton, South Carolina in the Mid-Nineteenth Century" Journal of Historical Geog-
raphy. II (1976), pp. 329-346.

32 These complications, and some possible adjustments which can be made to
allow for them, are discussed in, John P. Radford, "Culture, Economy and
Residential Structure in Charleston, South Carolina 1860-1880," Unpublished
Ph.D. dissertation, Clark University, 1974, pp. 291-293.

33 For example: Peggy Lamson, The Glorious Failure: Black Congressman
Robert Brown Elliott and the Reconstruction in South Carolina (New York:
W. W. Norton and Co., Inc., 1973); Martin Abbott, The Freedman's Bureau in
South Carolina: 1865-1872 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press,
1967); Carol K. Rothrock Blesser, The Promised Land: The History of the
South Carolina Land Commission, 1869-1890 (Columbia: University of South
Carolina Press, 1969).

34 R. D. McKenzie, The Metropolitan Community (New York: Russell and
Russell, 1933), p. 242.

37

THE DECLINING SMALL
SOUTHERN TOWN

By Charles F. Kovacik*

Although abandoned fields now overrun by kudzu or planted in
pine forests mask evidence of past occupance, many relict features,
such as empty tenant houses or lone brick chimneys standing mute in
fields of soybeans, testify to a once more densely inhabited rural
southern countryside. Many small towns which once served more
heavily populated agricultural hinterlands have also declined in popu-
lation and are now characterized by empty streets, abandoned stores,
ramshackle houses, silent railroad sidings, and a general atmosphere of
disrepair and despair. Anyone who has traveled through the rural South
is familiar with the declining small town. Fort Motte, South Carolina
is such a place.

Although the area surrounding the present-day town was settled
in the 1740s, the place name was not used until 1781. During the Revo-
lutionary War, the British seized the home of Colonel Isaac and
Rebecca Motte and used it as a fort. Rebecca Motte urged the colonials
to use burning arrows to fire the home, and this resulted in the surrender
of the British.1 This patriotic action ensured a place for both Rebecca
Motte and the place name, Fort Motte, in South Carolina's recorded
history.

The Fort Motte .battle site is located in Robert Mills1 1825 atlas
and many subsequent state maps.2 Development of a town, however,
did not begin until after 1842 when the Louisville, Cincinnati, and
Charleston Rail Road was completed from Branchville to Columbia.3
A post office opened in 1847, and in 1856 the train stopped at Fort
Motte twice daily.4 The town grew, and increased rail service stimu-
lated and reflected its development. The train stopped six times a day
in 1870 and provided two mail deliveries, four passenger stops, and more
regular freight service.5

Fort Motte was incorporated as a town in 1875 and, like most small
railway settlements in central South Carolina, served an agricultural
hinterland based upon cotton.6 During the late nineteenth and early
twentieth centuries, the town's growth was promising. In 1883 Fort
Motte included the post office, a general store, two physicians, a depot
agent, private school, and a cotton gin. The number of retail establish-

*The author wishes to express his appreciation to Dr. William R. Stanley,
Department of Geography, University of South Carolina, for his participation
in gathering the field information and for helping make this a most worthwhile
learning experience.

39

ments increased to nine, and the population was estimated at 250 indi-
viduals in 1888. Population increased to 375 by 1908 and there were 10
shops, a hotel, a bank, two physicians, a telephone exchange, a cotton
seed oil mill, grist mill, and a dispensary which sold liquor. The armory
housed the Fort Motte Guards and elms were planted along the gas
lighted sidewalk. The church was not far from the well-kept homes of
the white businessmen, and the railroad depot faced the business
district.7 Before the widespread adoption of the automobile, the streets
were crowded with people each Saturday.

Today the streets are empty and the community is but a shell of a
more glorious past (Figure 1). Buildings either sit abandoned or have
been torn down for their brick. The nearest grocery store is twelve miles
distant. The depot is gone, and rarely does the train blow its whistle at
the crossing. Those desiring bus service must walk three miles to the
main highway and hail a bus. Only one establishment serves the public,
a third class post office. A deserted Main Street and the unkempt homes
and yards of the 144 inhabitants (all but two of whom are black) are
typical of scores of towns that once served a more populated hinterland
in South Carolina and throughout rural America. Fort Motte has all
but expired.

FORT MOTTE

\

/

RESIDENCE

V

: ' /

ABANDONED BUILDING

0

Sr'J,

\i' 0*p.ii

/

Oil

STATE HIGHWAT
PAVED IOAO

o

>/ . '

/ /

DI1T iOAO GOOD OUAIITT
DltT IOAD POOI OUAIITT

o*

'

-4 IAUIOA0

*

B^

/

Xv:

^.*

1 o

' /

/ c*

I / -o

Figure 1
40

Industrialization, urbanization, and concomitant migration from
rural to urban areas have accounted for significant changes in the
American landscape and lifestyle since the turn of the century. For
many reasons millions left rural areas to seek a new way of life in the
nation's cities. The changes in transportation, agriculture, and industry
since World War I induced massive migration from most rural areas.
Southern agriculture became more diversified with a shift to beef cattle,
hogs, dairying, pulpwood, poultry, peanuts, soybeans, and truck farming.
Traditional row crop agriculture lost acreage. Small farmers and small
farms were eliminated in favor of larger more mechanized farms, and
the increased mechanization forced farm laborers and tenants off the
land.8 Both blacks and whites left the farm, but blacks could not com-
pete with whites for jobs in southern cities. Two World Wars stimulated
industry in the North, and a tremendous demand for unskilled workers
arose in northern cities. Rural southerners made the trek, most stayed
in the North and most were black.

Slow to industrialize, South Carolina experienced considerable out-
migration especially among its black population. Population growth
lagged behind the national average, and vast areas of the rural country-
side and many small towns became depopulated. Between 1920 and
1960 the state lost over one-half million persons to out-migration, and
this loss was predominantly among its non-white population.9 Net out-
migration among non-whites was recorded at 217,784 persons during
the 1950s and 176,912 in the 1960s.10 Recent migration estimates indi-
cate that a significant change is occurring. Between 1970 and 1974, it
appears that South Carolina has gained 79,000 persons through migra-
tion as compared to the negative statistics of previous decades." Never-
theless, the fact that South Carolina suffered substantial out-migration
for a long period has left lasting marks on the rural landscape.

Between 1960 and 1970, exactly one-half of the state's forty-six
counties suffered population decline. Thirty-five counties declined in
black population, and thirty-one lost rural population. The significance
of black out-migration with respect to depopulation is perhaps best
evidenced by the fact that thirty-nine counties reported net out-migra-
tion with forty-five of the forty-six counties registering a net out-
migration among blacks.12 Even though the most recent statistics reveal
that migration trends are changing, eighteen counties are estimated to
have experienced a negative net migration between 1970 and 1974, and
four declined in population.13 These counties include high proportions
of rural and black populations.

PURPOSE

The objective of this paper is to direct attention to a ubiquitous
southern landscape feature, the declining small town. The present-day
form, function, and problems of such towns are the result of changes

41

which have occurred through time. Many of these declining places owe
their condition to continuous and sustained black out-migration. Although
it has been recognized that black out-migration from the rural South
has swelled the size and altered the spatial organization of northern
cities, few geographers have studied the relationship between this out-
migration and decreasing social and economic opportunity in the rural
South. Even less energy has been directed at examining the quality of
rural or small town life of southern blacks. By illustrating some of the
problems facing such places, perhaps the southern landscape can be
better understood by its students, people, and decision-makers.

The paper is based upon information gathered in the field over a
period of several months in 1971 and 1972. Informal, yet structured,
personal interviews were conducted with a member of each household
in Fort Motte, South Carolina. The specific purposes of this paper
are: (1) to determine how many people left and where they went, (2) to
illustrate the relationship between out-migration and age structure and
its significance, and (3) to document the favorable and unfavorable
aspects of the quality of life in a small declining black community as
perceived by its residents.

DESTINATIONS

Situated in rural Calhoun County, Fort Motte provides an ideal
study area. Calhoun was one of twenty-three South Carolina counties
which declined in population between 1960 and 1970. The county re-
ported a population of 10,789 persons in 1970, a decline for the decade
of 12 percent. Blacks accounted for 60 percent of the total population,
and population has declined during each decade since 1920.

The head of each household was asked to disclose the age and
place of residence of each surviving child who left the household. These
questions were aimed at determining the age structure of some of the
out-migrants and their spatial distribution. By no means does this
information include all of Fort Motte's out-migrants. All of the 120
reported out-migrants are between the ages of fifteen and fifty-four,
sixty-eight are females and fifty-two are males, and 82 percent are
between the ages of twenty and thirty-nine.

The typical pattern of rural black out-migration appears to begin
after high school graduation. The migrant either moves immediately
after graduation or "hangs around" exploring the limited local employ-
ment situation. After age twenty, if a suitable job has not been found
he "goes up the road" where employment opportunities are more
plentiful. Thus, the rural area becomes depopulated, with the eco-
nomically productive living elsewhere.

Only twenty-three of the children who were born and raised in Fort
Motte and chose to leave relocated elsewhere in South Carolina. Nearly

42

three-fourths who did were females, and most of them reside in nearby
St. Matthews. Only four took residence in Columbia, one in Charleston,
and one in Fayetteville, North Carolina, which reaffirms the notion that
rural blacks see little opportunity in larger southern cities. The remain-
der are scattered in small central South Carolina towns or in other rural
locations.

Of the ninety-seven who left Fort Motte and South Carolina, 70
percent chose to establish their new way of life in one of the large
metropolitan areas extending from Washington, D.C. to Boston. New
York City attracted forty-one of the out-migrants, twenty-three went to
Washington, D.C. and eight to Newark, New Jersey. The remainder live
in six other northeastern seaboard cities. Cities of the Middle West and
Pacific Coast received few Fort Motte out-migrants. Cleveland, Chicago,
and Detroit combined attracted only four migrants, and one one person
ventured as far as Los Angeles. It appears that when a rural black South
Carolinian contemplates "goin' up the road" he is more often than not
evaluating conditions in either New York, Washington, or Newark.
More than likely these are the places which already include family or
friends. The potential out-migrant has more information onthese places
and can go to a friend for help upon arrival.

OUT-MIGRATION AND AGE STRUCTURE

Age structure, the proportion of people within various age groups,
is an important demographic characteristic. An individual's age influences
his personal needs, his social and economic activities, what he thinks,
and how he behaves. Many of the services and activities, potential or
real, operative in a particular area are related to the age of its popula-
tion. The age-sex pyramids for Calhoun County and Fort Motte illus-
trate the relationship between out-migration and age structure (Figure 2).

A population's age structure is the result of past and present
fertility, mortality, and migration. Since the population of Calhoun
County decreased from 14,753 to 10,870 persons between 1950 and 1970
and there has been no dramatic increase in mortality or decrease in
fertility, out-migration has been chiefly responsible for this population
decline. During this period there was a slight decrease in the number of
whites, but the non-white population dropped from 10,449 to 6,519
persons.

The age-sex pyramids illustrate the age selectivity of out-migration.
In each case the twenty to twenty-four year old age group includes a
smaller proportion of the population than the age group immediately
preceding. This disparity is much more evident among blacks as the
base of each pyramid is broad up to age twenty and then narrows sig-
nificantly with increasing age. Fort Motte has relatively few persons
in the young adult ages.

43

AGE-SEX POPULATION PYRAMIDS FOR
CALHOUN COUNTY, SOUTH CAROLINA

M

^

i
i i i ii i i i (-a-

! 1 1 1 1 4 1 1 1

?H=r

H 1 1 M

~jr i

H 1 1 1

1 1 1 I 1 I 1 JJ! I 1 I 1 1 I t H

i=C|

I 1 1 1 1 1 1 I"- I 1 1 1 1 M 1 1

AGE

SEX

POPULATION

TOTAL
POPULATION

PYRAMIDS

FOR FORT MOTTE, SOUTH

OUT MIGRANTS

CAROLINA

1 IB 1

I IOW,

I

1 SL|S9

I

1 boIb. 1

1

i

L_

^S

1 *}

I

J

.. - ,|

1 {si

i

(3< 1

1 --!-

I

1 !!t!9

i

r~

1

i

1

I

1

i

'{'

I

.1 . . :|- . . .

.i . . . .

\i. ' '" " ';..' ' ' : '..V ' * Vr-'L."

Figure 2

The rectangular shape of the 1970 white population pyramid pro-
vides an excellent example of an aging population. The white population
grew older and included proportionately fewer youngsters, fewer young
adults, and a greater proportion of people over fifty years of age in 1970
as compared to 1950. If this indeed represents a trend, fewer whites will
enter the reproductive ages resulting in a drop in birth rate while mor-
tality will increase as greater numbers of whites enter old age groups.

44

Fort Motte has suffered even greater out-migration than did Cal-
houn County. Of the surviving children sired by the 144 residents, 120
have departed. To a large degree, the population of Fort Motte is com-
posed of persons either over forty-five years of age or under the age of
twenty with very few people in the intermediate ages. The age-sex pyra-
mid of Fort Motte's out-migrants clearly illustrates that most of the
persons in the biologically reproductive and economically productive
ages have left. If current trends persist, the young people will continue
to leave while mortality takes its toll among the old, a situation which
forecasts a grim future for Fort Motte.

WHAT COULD BE DONE TO MAKE LIFE BETTER HERE?

The people of Fort Motte eagerly responded to this question. By
proposing measures which would improve their quality of life, they also
revealed what they perceived as unfavorable life conditions. Job avail-
ability was named by over two-thirds of the respondents as the number
one priority if Fort Motte is to become a better place in which to live.
The fact that nineteen of the twenty-four males between the ages of
twenty and fifty-nine are employed full-time strongly indicates that rural
blacks are willing to seek gainful employment. Furthermore, the five
who are unemployed are physically disabled.

Perhaps even more significant is the great distance these men travel
to their jobs. Since jobs are largely absent in the local area, most com-
mute forty-two miles daily to work in Columbia. One travels eighty-three
miles to the Savannah River Atomic Energy facility and three men,
employed by Southern Railway, are away from home for the five
working days. The residents of Fort Motte collectively agree that if
employment were available in the near vicinity, life conditions would
improve and fewer young people would choose to migrate.

The second priority was given to a grocery store. The nearest
grocery store is located in St. Matthews, twelve miles away. Some resi-
dents stated that if even a milkman or peddler came through town once
a week, life would improve. Running water and a laundromat often were
mentioned as factors which would make life better in Fort Motte. Many
of the wells are either dry or of poor quality and some residents lack a
dependable water supply. A laundromat would ease the burden of the
washboard and galvanized tub washday. It is not uncommon, during the
winter months, to see clothes boiling in steaming black iron kettles.
Poor medical service, littered streets, and the lack of a playground also
were reported as problems.

Although transportation was not articulated as a high priority for
the improvement of life, its absence weighs heavily on the residents of
Fort Motte. Only one-half of the households maintain a vehicle. The
transport problem justifies the second priority given to a grocery store,

45

especially among the elderly who do not own vehicles. Those without a
vehicle are almost solely dependent upon neighbors who own cars for
a ride to town. Most of the time transport can be arranged. Each trip,
however, costs between $1.50 and $2.00. This added cost to the food bill
is especially damaging to persons at minimal or fixed incomes. In addi-
tion, a $7.00 to $10.00 reduction in the weekly paycheck is suffered by
those who work in Columbia and must pay for transport. The depen-
dency on others for mobility also may be psychologically troublesome.
If transport can not be arranged or is too expensive, the alternative is a
three mile walk to the main highway and a wait for the bus.

WHAT IS GOOD ABOUT LIVING HERE?

Even though conditions in Fort Motte are far from good, blacks do
perceive some favorable aspects of life in a small rural community.
Some interesting responses were offered to the question: What is good
about living in Fort Motte? Nearly 57 percent reported that the freedom
of country life, peacefulness, quiet, safety, and fresh air were positive
factors. Another 21 percent stated that Fort Motte was their home and
that they would feel uncomfortable living elsewhere. About 9 percent
felt that the cost of living here was low, and 8 percent bluntly stated that
there was nothing good about living in Fort Motte.

Some might consider these responses to be of questionable value
since many believe that poor, isolated rural blacks have a limited exper-
ience or knowledge which would enable them to compare life in Fort
Motte with an alternative lifestyle. The notion of the isolated rural black
may be more myth than reality. The residents of Fort Motte are indeed
poor and black, but their experience with alternative lifestyles is not
limited. The fact is that because out-migration has been continuous and
of considerable proportion, especially among the inhabitants' children,
the people of Fort Motte are surprisingly knowledgeable of the ghetto
lifestyle in such places as Washington, New York, and Newark. Parents
visit their children, some frequently, or their children visit them during
vacation periods. It also is common for the residents of Fort Motte to
care for their grandchildren during the summer. It would be interesting
to compare some index of isolation for rural black and rural white resi-
dents of the South.

The high value placed on the freedom of country life, peacefulness,
quiet, safety, and fresh air is more meaningful when the northern ghetto
lifestyle is within the experience of Fort Motte residents. Certainly,
constraints exist on the freedom of country life for blacks. But, the
residents of Fort Motte define this freedom as being able to fish and
hunt, plant a garden, and raise some hogs or chickens if they so choose.
A large proportion, 71 percent, either raise livestock or tend a garden.
Significantly, 73 percent stated that they feel secure in Fort Motte. It
would be interesting to compare this response to that of blacks who live
in northern ghettos.

46

CONCLUSIONS

Certainly it would be untenable to suggest that information from
one small town can be related to all small southern towns, or for that
matter, all small towns in South Carolina. But anyone with even a
limited experience with the rural South can and has witnessed scores of
Fort Mottes. More often than not, the problems facing places like Fort
Motte and their people are real, deserve attention, and have been
created largely by out-migration. The result of out-migration is a smaller,
older, less skilled, less educated, and more dependent population.

People in such rural areas require services from their local govern-
ments such as law enforcement, fire protection, sewerage, water,
schools, roads, and hospitals which are increasingly more difficult to
provide from a shrinking local tax base. Retail establishments, enter-
tainment, physicians, and transportation also are required. Such services
are almost economically impossible to furnish in a declining market
area. Further, the decline in services and the less educated, less skilled
labor force discourages industries from locating and improving the
economy.

The absence of those things most urban Americans take for
granted such as job availability, convenient access to a grocery store or
laundromat, and running water are perceived as unfavorable aspects of
life by the residents of Fort Motte. In addition, these unfavorable condi-
tions are amplified by the absence of convenient and regular transpor-
tation. On the other hand, the residents of Fort Motte perceive country
life, peacefulness, quiet, security, and fresh air as favorable life conditions.
Interestingly, many middle class white urban Americans seek precisely
the same amenities in their flight to the suburbs.

If the attitudes of the people of Fort Motte represent those of other
rural southern blacks, job availability is crucial to the improvement of
their quality of life. Certainly industries will not rush to locate in places
like Fort Motte, but industrial growth in the many southern cities of less
than 25,000 inhabitants could be seriously encouraged by the govern-
ment. The fact that rural blacks overcome long distance and expense to
find work implies that there exists a willing labor reservoir in the rural
South.

The rural South has been confronted with problems associated with
out-migration while a completely different set of problems have been
associated with the migrant's arrival in northern metropolitan areas.
Rural black out-migration has resulted in a financial and human
resource drain for both the rural South and urban North. Even though
migration trends are changing and more people are moving into south-
ern states than moving out, most migrants appear to be attracted to the
larger urban centers. Unless the declining small towns are revitalized
and made more attractive to people and industry, they will continue to
decline and perhaps even disappear from the southern landscape.

47

FOOTNOTES

1 Claude Henry Neuffer, "Calhoun County Plantations of St. Matthews Parish
Near the Congaree-Santee River," Names in South Carolina, Vol. 12 (1965),
p. 46.

2 Robert Mills, Atlas of the State of South Carolina (Baltimore: F. Lucas Jr.,
1825). This work has special significance since it was the first published atlas of
a single state in the United States. For an interesting account of the Mills atlas
see: Walter W. Ristow, "Robert Mills's Atlas of South Carolina," The Quarterly
Journal of the Library of Congress, Vol. 34 (1977), pp. 52-66.

3 Samuel Melanchthan Derrick, Centennial History of South Carolina Railroad
(Columbia, S.C.: State Company, 1930), p. 187.

4 Schedule and Rules for the Running of Trains on the South Carolina Rail
Road (Charleston, S.C.: Walker and Evans, 1856), pp. 10-11.

s Traveller's Official Guide of the Railroads and Steamship Navigation Lines in
the United States and Canada: June, 1870 (Philadelphia: The Leisenring Print-
ing House, 1870). A facsimile reprint by the National Railway Publication Com-
pany (Ann Arbor, Mich.: Edwards Brothers Incorporated. 1971), entry 304.

6 South Carolina Planning Board, Towns of South Carolina. Pamphlet No. 8
(Columbia, S.C.: 1943), p. 52.

7 There is no history of Calhoun County, and materials used to trace the growth
of Fort Motte between 1883 and 1908 include: August Kohn and R. Lewis
Berry, A Descriptive Sketch of Orangeburg City and County. South Carolina
(Orangeburg, S.C.: R. Lewis Berry, 1888), p. 30; Ross A. Smith, The South
Carolina State Gazetteer and Business Directory: 1883, 1886-87, 1890-91
(Charleston, S.C.: Lucas and Richardson, 1883, 1886, and 1890); State Board of
Agriculture of South Carolina, South Carolina: Resources and Population,
Institutions, and Industries (Charleston, S.C.: Walker, Evans, and Cogswell,
1883), p. 693; and The Calhoun Times, St. Matthews, S.C., Sept. 18, 1941 and
Feb. 1, 1973.

8 For good accounts of changes in southern agriculture see: Merle C. Prunty,
"Some Contemporary Myths and Challenges in Southern Rural Land Utiliza-
tion," Southeastern Geographer, Vol. 10 (1970), pp. 1-12; Charles S. Aiken,
"The Fragmented Neoplantation: A New Type of Farm Operation in the South-
east," Southeastern Geographer. Vol. 11 (1971), pp. 43-51; and Merle C. Prunty
and Charles S. Aiken, "The Demise of the Piedmont Cotton Region," Annals,
Association of American Geographers, Vol. 62 (1972), pp. 283-306.

9 Julian J. Petty, 20th Century Changes in South Carolina Population (Colum-
bia, S.C.: University of South Carolina, Bureau of Business and Economic Re-
search, 1962), p. 177.

10 Gladys K. Bowles and James D. Tarver, Net Migration of the Population.
1950-60, By Age, Sex, and Color, Vol. I, Part 3. Economic Research Service,
U.S.D.A. in Cooperation with Research Foundation, Oklahoma State Univer-
sity (Washington: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1966), p. 505, and Gladys
K. Bowles, Calvin L. Beale, and Everett S. Lee, Net Migration of the Population,
1960-70, By Age, Sex, and Color, Part 3. Economic Research Service, U.S.D.A.;
Institute for Behavioral Research, University of Georgia (Athens, Ga.: Univer-
sity of Georgia Printing Department, 1975), p. 120.

" U.S. Bureau of Census, "Estimates of the Population of Counties: July 1, 1973
and 1974," Current Population Reports, Series P-25, No. 620 (Washington,
D.C.: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1976), p. 51.

12 Bowles, 1960-70, Net Migration of the Population, pp. 121-143.

13 U.S. Bureau of Census, "Estimates of the Population," p. 51.

48

MIGRATION PATTERNS OF ATLANTA'S
INNER CITY DISPLACED RESIDENTS

By Frank V. Keller, Sanford H. Bederman, and Truman A. Hartshorn*

The housing stock of central Atlanta, Georgia, unlike that in many
older cities in the northeast United States, is dominated by detached
single family residences, resulting in relatively low population densities.
The quality of housing in this inner city section has declined over the
years, however, and by the time massive urban renewal projects were
initiated in the early 1960s over half the housing stock in the part of the
city, which was to be designated as a Model Neighborhood Area (MNA),
was in substandard condition. Renewal programs, once initiated, were
extremely aggressive in Atlanta and together with clearance for freeway
construction had a dramatic effect on housing. Central Atlanta, for
example, experienced a gross loss of over 19,000 housing units in the
1960-1970 period. This decline in housing was especially acute in the
MNA, where several communities lost over a quarter of their 1960
housing stock during the decade. Much of the territory affected by
urban renewal and code enforcement programs has remained vacant,
and little of the land on which housing was removed has been restored
to residential use. While this situation is not unique to Atlanta, it is
worthy of further investigation.

The city's first Workable Program for Community Improvement
began in 1956, but activity utilizing federal funds did not start in earnest
until 1960, which marks the advent of record keeping related to the
pattern of family displacement. The common assumption has been that
these families gravitated to other poor areas and made their new neigh-
borhoods more crowded, but no systematic study has been made to
support or refute this problem. The purpose of this paper, therefore, is
to reveal where these movers relocated and to explain the resultant
distribution within the context of intra-urban migration theory.

ATLANTA'S MODEL NEIGHBORHOOD AREA (MNA)

The Model Neighborhood Area was located immediately south of
Atlanta's Central Business District.1 It comprised 3000 acres and con-
sisted of six residential neighborhoods Mechanicsville, Peoplestown,
Pittsburgh, Summerhill, Adair Park, and Grant Park. With the excep-
tion of the latter two communities, all were predominantly black. The

The authors wish to express their appreciation to Mr. Howard Grigsby, former
Director of Relocation, Atlanta Housing Authority, for his assistance in pro-
viding background information which made this study possible.

49

communities originally were chosen as part of the MNA because:
. . .all facets of blight and deterioration were located here. . . .
Approximately 48,000 citizens occupied twenty percent of all
the city's substandard and twenty-nine percent of the city's
dilapidated housing units; shared twenty percent of the major
crimes, twenty-five percent of the juvenile arrests and twenty-
two percent of the welfare cases. . . . Almost half the families
had incomes below the poverty level ($3000.00 per year).2
Selected demographic and housing data for the MNA, when com-
pared with the remainder of the city, indicated the extent of the prob-
lem. The Model Neighborhood Area contained some of the city's oldest
housing units, although advanced blight was more pronounced in the
four black communities than it was in the two white communities. The
1970 Census of Population listed 12,242 housing units in the MNA,
which represented a loss of 16.9 percent of the area's housing units from
1960. The greatest housing losses were in the communities of Summer-
hill and Mechanicsville 27 and 26 percent, respectively.

In 1960 the population of the MNA was 51,950. By 1970 the number
had decreased to 36,000 a loss of 15,950 or 30 percent of the total. The
communities of Mechanicsville and Summerhill lost about half their
population during the ten year period, 1960-1970. The population of
Pittsburgh and Peoplestown was reduced by more than 25 percent,
while Adair Park and Grant Park (the two white communities) experi-
enced insignificant losses. Population losses in Mechanicsville and
Summerhill are attributed to the clearance of land for the Atlanta
Stadium and the 1-75/85 downtown expressway connector and the
demolition of unsafe housing structures. Housing demolition and sub-
sequent population losses during the study period (May 1969-December
1972), however, were largely the result of Urban Renewal and housing
code displacement.

WHERE DID INVOLUNTARY MOVERS GO?

From the time record keeping began until 1972, over 6300 families
and individuals in Atlanta were forced to leave their homes because of
some publicly sanctioned program. In the MNA, over 800 families and
individuals were moved involuntarily between May 1969 and December
1972. From this group, a sample of 203 relocation records (25%) were
randomly selected for analysis. In order to answer the question "Where
did involuntary movers go?" the sample data were studied to determine
if distance and directional biases existed. Additionally, because 97
percent of the movers were black, the sample data were checked to
ascertain if there was a specific pattern of movement to the numerous,
but small black enclaves which are widely spread through suburban
Atlanta.

50

Distance Bias

The first step in examining the nature of movement from the MNA
was to plot each move destination on a map by block and census tract.
At the same time, rings centered on the MNA were drawn at two mile
intervals to a distance of six miles out (Figure 1). The number of moves
to each ring was recorded, and each group was sub-divided to reflect the
reason for displacement (Table 1). Of the 203 moves, 56 percent (114
moves) were made within the inner-most ring (0-1.9 miles). Conversely,
only 4 percent of the moves were made beyond the six-mile radius. The
two rings between 2.0 and 5.9 miles received the remaining 40 percent of
the moves. Two significant facts emerge: (1) the number of moves
decreased as distance increased from the origin of displacement, and (2)
of those who moved within the 0-1.9 mile ring, two-thirds actually
relocated in the MNA. Many of the movers never left their original
census tract.

-One Move
H CBD

Figure 1

New Residence Locations of Involuntary Movers, Model Neighborhood Area,
May 1969-December 1972. Source: Model Neighborhood Area Relocation
Records.

51

TABLE 1
DISPLACEMENT AND TYPE BY RING CATEGORY

Total Moves

Displacing Entity

Distance in

Urban Renewal

Code Enforcement

Miles

No. %

No. %

No. %

0- 1.9

114 56.2

68 60.1

46 51.1

2.0 - 3.9

48 23.6

31 27.5

17 18.8

4.0 - 5.9

33 16.2

9 8.0

24 26.7

6.0 +

8 3.9

5 4.4

3 3.3

Total

203 100%

113 100%

90 100%

Source: Compiled by Authors

Although distance decay was quite apparent in the moves, there
was an irregular distribution within the two-mile ring. Indeed, analysis at
a larger scale indicated that the moves were limited to specific sectors
within the inner ring (Figure 2). For example, predominantly white
Grant Park and Adair Park, both within the MNA, received only four
moves. To the north, the CBD served as a major constraint to movement
in that direction. Moves within the MNA were made to existing standard
housing and to public housing projects located mainly in the Mechanics-
ville community. Some of these moves within the MNA were directed to
blocks immediately adjacent to the areas of displacement. Moves out-
side the MNA, but within the two-mile ring, were limited primarily to
public housing to the south and northwest.

The major factor responsible for distance decay in the involuntary
moves seems to have been familiarity with available housing within the
income range of the displaced families in nearby blocks and neighbor-
hoods. Nevertheless, a problem emerged for those families or individuals
who remained within the two-mile ring. They were generally faced with
housing conditions similar to those they had left; these conditions
included very low value units, a high degree of substandardness, and
overcrowding.

Directional Bias, Search Behavior, and Public Housing Constraints

An examination of moves beyond the two-mile ring indicated that
they were not uniformly clustered, but rather, followed a sectoral align-
ment in four general directions: (1) eastward into DeKalb County and
the City of Decatur; (2) westward into the black residential wedge
towards the Chattahoochee River; (3) northwestward towards Cobb
County, especially along Bankhead Highway, and (4) southeastward
into South Atlanta and South DeKalb County (Figure 1). All of these
sectors were either predominantly black or in the process of racial tran-
sition in 1970. The availability of low and moderate cost single family
housing in these areas within the income range of those displaced is a
factor responsible for the occurrence of bias in these four directions.

52

53

Equally important is the blocking factor of the CBD and the predomi-
nance of higher income areas to the north. And finally, the distribution
of public housing itself was an important variable, because not all moves
were to the private sector. In view of the distinctiveness of each type of
move, those to public housing were examined separately from those to
the private sector.

The moves to private housing were specifically examined to deter-
mine if relocation patterns conformed to typical intra-urban search
behavior regularities. The literature on this topic suggests that urban
families relocate predominantly further from the old residence in
relation to the Central Business District or secondarily, closer in, rather
than moving crosstown.3 Although the directional bias is the norm for
outlying families, inner city residents have been shown to have more
circular than eliptical relocation patterns. Brown and Holmes, for
example indicate that these moves are "compact and localized."4

Housing meeting the tastes and preferences of movers was typically
found further out from the downtown because it was frequently newer
and the neighborhood more compatible with household aspirations than
alternative areas available in a cross-town move. In the latter case the
housing would be quite similar in age and character to the house being
vacated and not as desirable. In other words, the search for new housing
conformed to an elongated axis created by joining present locations to
the center of the city. Specifically, an angle formed by the old and new
residences and the CBD would be close to 0 to 180 when moves
followed this arrangement.5

Individual movement angles in relation to the old residence, new
residence, and the CBD were measured and aggregated to verify validity
of the axial tendency, or alternatively, the circularity hypothesis. The
percentage of moves of each of six angle categories is shown in (Table
2). Nearly equal frequencies in each category were found rather than a
polarization towards the extremes of 0 and 180. This is no doubt due
to the cramped area to which searches were of necessity confined by

TABLE 2
FREQUENCY OF RELOCATIONS IN ANGLE CATEGORIES

Angle Number Percent

0- 30 15 12.5

31 - 60 10 8.3

61 - 90 23 19.2

91 - 120 25 20.8

121 - 150 26 21.6

151 - 180 _2_i r^

Total 120* 99.9

*Public and temporary housing moves were not recorded in this tally because of the
apparent policy to restrict projects to certain geographic areas of the city. This would
create an artificial bias.

Source: Calculated by Authors (after Adams, 1969)

54

external forces. The paucity of standard low-cost units in the generally
declining inner city environment and the spatial restrictions of a segre-
gated housing market compounded the problem. Strongly axial intra-
urban migration search strategies apparently did not operate in the
inner city in this case, even though moves were confined to specific
growth "corridors".

The distribution of public housing was also important in deter-
mining the directional character of the movement (Figure 3). In the City
of Atlanta, public housing facilities play a significant role in rehousing
families that are displaced by urban renewal and code enforcement
programs. Over a third of all the moves in the sample went to public
housing.6 Considering the fact that low income people were involved in
these moves, one wonders why the percentage of moves to public
housing was not even higher. Perhaps this phenomenon was partially
explained by the existence of sales and rental housing within the income

AS\_

Miles
PHASES OF PUBLIC HOUSING
CONSTRUCTION IN ATLANTA

O 1936 - 1942
A 1953 - 1957

1963 - 1966

1968 - 1972
CBD

Figure 3

Construction of Public Housing in City of Atlanta, 1936-1972. Source: Atlanta
Housing Authority.

55

and price range of displaced families in combination with the economic
incentive provided by the relocation payments they received.7

Over 50 percent of the moves to the 4.0-5.9 mile ring were to new
public housing projects (Figure 3). It is important to note that displaced
families were moving to newer public housing, whereas moves to rental
and sales housing consisted of older close-in units. The reason why
families moving into public housing did not move to older close-in
public housing projects is explained by the low vacancy rates in these
projects and by the fact that many were already inhabited by both
elderly whites and blacks. This was especially the case with the housing
projects immediately north and west of the CBD.

Public housing projects traditionally have been placed in low
income areas in Atlanta and this policy has resulted in confining the
poor to specific locations. However, federal regulations now require
that housing for low income families be located in the vicinity of the job
market, which is rapidly decentralizing from the inner core to suburban
locations.8 Local officials, under a federal court order, organized a
committee for selection of public housing sites whose main objective
is to ". . . develop a plan to disperse future projects into the northern
portion of the city . . . within a ten mile radius of the city limits."9

The future distribution of low income families would certainly
change from the present configuration if and when the dispersal plan
becomes a reality. A polynucleated pattern could emerge whereby small
groups of poor black people are relocated to more affluent suburban
areas. On the other hand, the 1973 housing moratorium and the current
economic situation may make it virtually impossible for the develop-
ment of new housing in the suburbs, especially for the inner city poor.

Traditional Black Enclaves

Although public housing projects are not widely distributed through-
out the metropolitan region, at least nine traditionally black residential
enclaves were extant throughout the then five-county S.M.S.A. during
the study period. One might have suspected that these enclaves would
have served as potential destinations for displaced inner city families;
yet according to the sample, zero moves were directed to these wide-
spread neighborhoods. Most outlying black enclaves are located outside
the city limits of Atlanta, and current policies and the absence of
housing resources preclude the distribution of low income families into
these outlying areas.

CONCLUSIONS

When residents of the Model Neighborhood Area were forced to
leave their homes because of urban renewal or code enforcement, new
housing options available to them were limited. Low family incomes

56

often precluded either the purchase of medium value homes or renting
adequate quarters despite the fact that they received relocation assis-
tance. Because more than 95 percent of those affected were black, their
subsequent housing demand was satisfied within the territory of black
ghetto space. The findings of this study indicate that the majority of the
displaced moved less than two miles from old residences. Most of these
movers remained in the MNA. Although directional biases were evident
for moves in the aggregate, search behavior patterns of individual
households revealed that relocations were widely dispersed about the
original residence in a restricted space rather than predominantly
further from the old location in relation to the CBD. The notion that
these moves conformed to the axial outward migration framework, fre-
quently the case in middle class neighborhoods, was not supported. The
majority of the involuntary movers relocated in housing in neighborhoods
within the sectoral confines of the black residential space in the city.

FOOTNOTES

1 Federal funding for the Model Cities Program ended in December, 1974. The
programs not terminated at that time in Atlanta were subsumed by the Depart-
ment of Community Development.

2 Leflagi, Inc., Atlanta Model Cities Housing Strategy. Atlanta, 1972, p. 5.

3 John S. Adams, "Directional Bias in Intra Urban Migration," Economic Geog-
raphy, Vol. 45 (October, 1969), pp. 302-323, and Truman A. Hartshorn, "Inner
City Residential Structure and Decline," Annals, Association of American
Geographers, Vol. 61 (1971), pp. 72-96.

4 Lawrence A. Brown and J. Holmes, "Search Behavior in an Intra-Urban Mi-
gration Context: A Spatial Perspective," Discussion Paper Number 13, Depart-
ment of Geography, the Ohio State University, 1970, and Eric G. Moore, "Resi-
dential Mobility in the City," Resource Paper Number 13, Commission on
College Geography, Association of American Geographers, pp. 172, 16, 302-323.

5 Ronald Abler. John S. Adams, and Peter Gould, Spatial Organization: The
Geographer's View of the World (Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1971),
and Adams, "Directional Bias".

6 Chester Hartman, "The Housing of Relocated Families," The Journal of the
American Institute of Planners, Vol. 30 (1964), 266-286, discovered that on the
national level only 17 percent of the families displaced by urban renewal
actually moved into public housing. See also, Daniel Thurz, Where Are They
Now: A Study of the Impact of Relocation on Former Residents of Southwest
Washington, DC. (Washington, D.C.: Health and Welfare Council of the
National Capital Area, 1969.)

7 Displaced families and individuals received on the average of about $400 for
moving expenses. Also, home owners who were forced to move received be-
tween S7500-S8000 in replacement housing benefits, but only if they purchased
another house. Home owners relocating in public housing could not receive
replacement housing benefits.

57

8 Sanford H. Bederman and John S. Adams, "Job Accessibility and Under-
employment," Annals, Association of American Geographers, Vol. 64 (1974),
378-386 and Sid Davis and Truman A. Hartshorn, "How Does Your City Grow:
The Changing Pattern of Activity Location in the Atlanta Metropolitan Area."
Atlanta Economic Review, Vol. 23 (July-August, 1973), pp. 4-13.

9 Joint Committee for Selection of Public Housing Sites, Dispersal of Public
Housing (Atlanta: City of Atlanta, 1972.)

58

GEORGIA'S CRENELATED
COUNTY BOUNDARIES

By Burke G. Vanderhill and Frank A. Unger

The boundaries of seventy of the 159 counties of the State of
Georgia exhibit irregularies in the form of rectangular offsets (Figure 1).
When in close proximity, the offsets are reminiscent of medieval battle-
ments in profile (Figure 2). For this reason the term "crenelation" is
suggested for the phenomenon. Save for seven counties in eastern Ala-
bama, crenelated boundaries are found nowhere else in the United
States. It was to explain this unusual property of Georgia county lines,
and to establish the conditions under which it occurred, that the present
study was undertaken.

The possibility that crenelation resulted from simple gerrymander-
ing soon was dismissed, for the rectilinear pattern of the boundary off-
sets is remarkably consistent throughout the affected counties. Despite
local aberrations, the recurring shapes and sizes of the offsets suggested
that they reflect the prevailing pattern of land subdivision. Analysis of
the distribution of the crenelated boundaries within the state supported
this idea.

Crenelation does not occur in the eastern one-third of the state,
that part which was first settled and in which the metes and bounds
system of land description prevails, but is found only in those areas
opened to entry by means of Georgia's unique land lotteries. There were
six separate lotteries from 1805 to 1832, and in each case a large block
of land was surveyed into square lots, in most instances oriented to the
cardinal points of the compass. Numbering schemes varied from block
to block as did the size of the lots.1 Boundary offsets obviously corre-
spond to survey lots, or fractions thereof, and their dimensions and
orientation are derivative from the schema of the land districts in which
they are found.

While crenelation may be associated with Georgia's system of land
lots, it is not a necessary concomitant of such a system. When counties
were first established in central and western Georgia at the time of the
land lotteries they were given straight, compass-line boundaries wherever
physical features were not used. It seemed likely, therefore, that crene-
lation resulted from the adjustment of county lines to certain patterns of
land ownership. If this were so, unusual circumstances must have pre-
vailed in Georgia in order for such a large scale manipulation of bound-
ary lines to be accomplished. Among these circumstances, it was found,
was an indulgent legislature which for years gave landowners along
county borders relatively free choice as to their county of residence.2

59

GEORGIA

Counties exhibiting
border "crenelation"

Figure 1. Georgia's crenelated counties.

Investigation revealed that there is a tradition of boundary line
modification in the State of Georgia. As early as 1820 it was felt neces-
sary to enact a law forbidding the alteration of county boundaries by
citizens who might change the alignment of county line roads around
their houses for the purpose of putting their property into another
county, or "to evade civil process, militia duty, (or) payment of tax. . . ."3
It was not long, however, before legislators began to honor requests for
boundary changes. The first case of record, approved by the General
Assembly of 1828, added the residence of a William Robertson, "on the
north side of Little River," in Wilkes County, to the county of Taliaferro,
but with the proviso that any case or cases pending against Mr. Robert-
son in the courts of Wilkes County would not be interfered with or
prejudiced.4

60

Table 1 summarizes those boundary changes enacted by sessions of
the Georgia Legislature from 1828 to 1877 which led to crenelation. As
can be seen, the tempo of such changes increased until the middle 1850s
reaching a maximum during the 1855-56 session when forty-six Acts
containing sixty-three changes resulted in the transfer of 122 lots and
residences between counties. So heavy was the volume of boundary line
legislation that, beginning in 1851, such legislative activity was alloted a
special section of the official sessional reports. Crenelation activity
declined during the Civil War years but increased again following the
war, until brought to a virtual halt by the Constitutional Convention of
1877 and the resultant Act of 1879 which relegated to the counties
responsibility for transferring boundary lots between counties.5

_-ti.v 4

Northwest corner
Barlow County
Georgia

Figure 2. An example of creneation, northwest corner of Bartow
County.

Much of the county boundary tinkering involved redrawing the
lines around units of property, but there were also numerous cases in
which only the residences and "outhouses" and the land immediately
associated with them were transferred from one county to another.
Sometimes these moves were only temporary. As an example, in 1840
the residence of one Ely Jones was taken from Clark County and added

61

TABLE 1

GEORGIA COUNTY BOUNDARY CHANGES WHICH

RESULTED IN CRENELATION,

1828-1877

Number of Changes

1828-1832 5

1833-1837 8

1838-1842 26

1843-1847 16

1848-1852 72

1853-1857 113

1858-1862 95

1863-1867 49

1868-1872 50

1872-1877 97

to Walton County, but the transfer was to remain in effect only as long
as Mr. Jones lived there.6 Such boundary changes were rarely specific in
their references to land area and lot numbers, and the actual alterations
were made at the county level. Local record-keeping left much to be
desired, and in many cases the records have deteriorated or have been
lost through mishandling, fire, or flood. Deficiencies in county records
underlie most of the recent or current boundary disputes in Georgia.7
If boundary changes were debated or contested in the Georgia
Assembly, sessional reports do not reveal the fact. Only the official acts
are included, thus the rationale for the changes is not generally on
record. It can be assumed that landowners sought adjustments which
would in some way work to their benefit or convenience. Occasional
references to rivers or roads seem to imply that improvement of access
may have been a frequent concern. Lots acquired sight-unseen may
have been bisected by sizeable streams. Tax differentials across county
lines might have provided a motive for seeking alteration of boundaries.
The desire to run for public office in a particular county may have
entered in. In one exceptional case, in which the farmstead of a Samuel
Tarver was removed from the county of Washington and placed in
Jefferson County, the specific purpose was clear. Section 2 of this act
states:

"And be it further enacted, that the official acts of the said
Samuel Tarver as a Justice of the Inferior Court of the county
of Jefferson, be, and the same are hereby, legalized and made
valid."8
Non-resident Tarver obviously was in need of legislative succor.

A careful perusal of the Georgia legislative record reveals that it
would be an oversimplification, however, to ascribe county line changes
to purely personal whims. It is significant that the greatest number of

62

such changes followed the formation of new counties.9 During the time
of the land lotteries, extremely large county units had been established
for the administration of new and sparsely settled territories. As popu-
lation increased over the years, the original counties were subdivided
and then resubdivided. Each time, county boundaries were drawn along
survey lines, or along roads or rivers, apparently without reference to
the patterns of existing land ownership. In a time when the location of
county seats was deemed to be of vital importance and allegiance to
particular towns was strong, many landowners were in effect cut off by
new political boundaries from centers in which they had conducted
both their official business and their trading. Occasionally they found
themselves on the wrong side of the line when new county seats were
designated at otherwise convenient points. Those whose properties
were divided by the new county lines became taxpayers in more than
one county, a matter of particular inconvenience in a day when taxes
were paid in person and travel was by wagon, carriage, or horseback.
Public office holders in some cases became non-residents and thereby
ineligible for their posts. To run for office in a new county might require
facing an unfamiliar electorate. In the light of these and other problems,
it is not difficult to understand a rash of requests for boundary adjust-
ment. What is not yet clear is why legislators were so responsive to such
demands.

The answer seems to lie principally in the composition of the Geor-
gia Legislature during the period of extensive boundary modification.
A check of the roster of the 1860 body is revealing. The great majority
of legislators were identified either as farmers or planters.10 In this cir-
cumstance, county line questions had a sympathetic audience and
apparently were handled routinely in much the way that so-called "local
bills" are handled today.

By the time of the Constitutional Convention of 1877, the bound-
aries of nearly one-half of the counties in Georgia were to some degree
crenelated and the burden of dealing with boundary bills had become
irksome.11 The Constitution adopted by that convention established
certain procedures for changing county boundaries, the chief component
of which was to pass responsibility to the counties affected. These pro-
cedures were completely revised by the state assembly in 1879 and
extensively modified again in 1880. Acts 468 and 469 of the 1880 session
were subsequently codified and continue to serve as the basis for bound-
ary change policy in the State of Georgia.12

The present actions required of a citizen seeking to accomplish
a change in a county line are rather complicated and time consuming.
He must begin with a petition stating the situation in great detail and the
reasons for the desired change, to be followed by an advance, published,
notice of his application. A grand jury must be empanelled in each
county to consider his application, and if the judgments are favorable,

63

the case will be further considered by certain county officials, commonly
the Board of County Commissioners in each of the affected counties.
If these hurdles are crossed, the results must be subjected to public
scrutiny over a stipulated period of time. It is not surprising that few
boundary changes have been recorded since the legislative session of
1877. In fact, most boundary adjustments during the last one hundred
years have related to the settlement of disputes resulting from resurveys
of Georgia lot lines.

The process of crenelation in Georgia and the conditions under
which it occurred may now be understood in a general way, but it was
thought that further insights could be gained through an examination of
county line alteration in a specific case. Calhoun County, in the south-
western portion of the state, was selected as an appropriate and rela-
tively convenient example.

CALHOUN COUNTY: A CASE STUDY

Calhoun is one of a dozen counties created entirely from original
Early County, which was laid out in 1818 at the time of the land lotteries.
Early comprised a large block, occupying the southwestern corner of
the State of Georgia. In response to population increases, the north-
eastern section of original Early was designated as Baker County in
1825, and in 1854 Calhoun was formed from parts of both Baker and the
residual Early. The eastern half of the new county, within the Third
Land District, was taken from Baker, while the western half, comprising
portions of the Fourth Land District, came from Early.

Although Calhoun County is split between two land districts, both
were developed within the survey pattern of original Early County and
share its idealized system of 250-acre land lots. At first glance this would
seem to ensure uniformity throughout the county, and early maps,
possibly created in vacuuo in some draftsman's studio, presented
exactly such a picture. The actual ground surveys, however, proceeded
from separate bases and were conducted by various surveying parties,
producing a number of discrete survey blocks whose lot lines fail to
coincide with those of neighboring blocks. Moreover, land lots rarely
are of standard size and often are grossly misshapen.

The designated boundaries of Calhoun County (Figure 3) were in
part natural and in part cadastral. The eastern boundary was drawn
along Chickasawhatchie Creek, a feeder in the Flint River system, and
a three-mile reach of Spring Creek in the southwest was similarly used.
The northern and southern lines conformed to existing land district
boundaries and at the time were assumed to be true east-west lines. The
western boundary, where Calhoun bordered what was left of Early and
also the new Clay County formed out of Early at the same time, was
drawn along a north-south survey line between specified land lots.

64

65

The question of the county seat was addressed in the creating act
and selection of a centrally located point for this purpose was authorized.
At the county level, two crossroads settlements in the approximate
center of the new county vied for the honor. A compromise site even-
tually was chosen midway between the two and the town of Morgan was
established as the county seat.13

The process of crenelation was set in motion immediately upon the
establishment of Calhoun County, and in the first session of the Georgia
Assembly following that event, the session of 1855-56, four separate bills
were passed transferring parcels of land between the new county and its
chief northern neighbor, Randolph. The counties of Randolph and
Terrell, the latter touching Calhoun in the northeast, had been created
out of the original Lee County in 1828 and shared its system of 2021/2-
acre land lots. Property exchanges along this line, however, have not
involved Terrell.

The first transfer act, approved in December of 1855, must have
been an error, for it added an interior lot, number 284 in the Fourth
District of Calhoun, to the county of Randolph, whose boundary was a
good eight miles away14 (see Figure 4 for all Calhoun County lot
changes). In a subsequent act of the same session, border lot 294 in the
Fourth District of Calhoun was transferred to Randolph, which was
undoubtedly the intention of the previous act. Strangely, the transfer
of lot 284 was never repealed, but the matter was ignored at the county
level. As for lot 294, what happened illustrates the chaotic boundary
situation of the time. The earliest available map of Randolph County,
prepared for the Secretary of State in 1867, places lot 294 in Calhoun
County, while another state authorized map just four years later depicts
it as in Randolph. In 1892, a Calhoun County map shows lot 294 as part
of Randolph and a deed recorded in Calhoun in 1893 corroborates this.
A 1924 agriculture map and a 1930 railroad map in the State Archives
both place this lot back in Calhoun County but the 1941 Works Progress
Administration Rural Property Survey of Calhoun relegates it to Ran-
dolph.15 Meanwhile, for undetermined reasons, Randolph County does
not include this legislatively transferred lot and taxes are currently being
paid to Calhoun County by the recorded owner. Current maps of both
counties show lot 294 as being part of Calhoun County; Calhoun claims
it, Randolph does not openly dispute the claim while official records fail
to substantiate the return of this boundary lot to Calhoun.16 Today, this
lot is considered by both counties as a part of Calhoun, perhaps in
recognition of its long standing de facto jurisdictional control by Cal-
houn County.

The original rationale for adding lot 294 to Randolph County is
not indicated in the record. It may have related to its proximity and
accessibility to Cuthbert, the county seat of Randolph. In any case, it
would appear that the establishment of the new county of Calhoun

66

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should not have created any division of landholdings that did not exist
prior to 1854, for the northern boundary of Calhoun coincided with the
northern edge of original Early, drawn in 1818, and patterns of owner-
ship should have long since adjusted to that reality.

The boundaries of Calhoun have undergone their most extensive
remodeling in the area immediately north of Morgan, the county seat.
The first changes here, introduced as a section of the Act transferring
lot 294 to Randolph, added lots 210, 211, 246, and 247 of the Fifth
District of Randolph to the county of Calhoun. During the same legis-
lative session, lots 1 and 2, in the Fourth District of Randolph, were also
added to Calhoun. Through what was probably an oversight stemming
from the crush of county bills pushed through the 1855-56 session, a
second and identical transfer of lots 210, 211, 246, and 247 was
approved only a week after the initial act. Questions of legislative pro-
cedures aside, the basic factor in the alteration of the county line in this
instance seems to have been the close proximity of these land lots to
Morgan in contrast to the much greater distance to Cuthbert, the
county seat in Randolph. The likelihood of such a local prevailing factor
is suggested in the transfer to Calhoun in 1870 of lots 39 and 40 from the
Fourth District of Randolph. The justification for the action in this
instance was given as follows:

"Whereas, the residence of the two Mrs. Newberrys are situated
upon lots of land numbers thirty-nine and forty in the fourth
district of Randolph County, eighteen miles from the court-
house of said county; and whereas they live only five miles
from the court-house of Calhoun County . . . ."17
Factors underlying crenelation are not necessarily persistent. Lots
210, 211, 246, and 247 have a particularly checkered history, suggesting
changing conditions or perhaps changeable man. In 1863 these four
lots were returned to Randolph County without explanation. The Act
returning them was then repealed in 1865, restoring the four lots once
more to Calhoun. During the 1860 session, lots 77 and 114 and the west
half of 115, in the Fourth District of Randolph, were added to Calhoun.
In 1865 the transfer of the latter two units was repealed, but lot number
77 was left within Calhoun.

Before legislative responsibility for boundary matters was ended
several more parcels of land were added at the northern edge of Cal-
houn County. Lots 285 and 286 of the Fifth District of Randolph were
transferred in 1876, followed in 1877 by lots 248, 249, 245, the west half
of 284, and the east half of 212, also in the Fifth District of Randolph.
The relative lateness of these transfers suggess that new factors were
involved. The period was one of land speculation and turnover asso-
ciated with the break-up of pre-Civil War patterns of land ownership and
operation in the Deep South. The peripheral position of these lots with

68

reference to those transferred earlier probably represented reorganiza-
tion or expansion of landholdings by Calhoun county citizens.

Another group of boundary offsets appears along the southeastern
edge of Calhoun County where it adjoins Baker. Property transfer was
initiated here in 1860 when lots 383, 384, and 385 in the Third District of
Calhoun were added to Baker. Since Calhoun County had been formed
out of Baker, it seemed possible that this might be a case of reuniting a
landholding split by the new county line. Examination of the deed
records of Baker County revealed that these three lots were indeed parts
of a large family holding, most of which lay south of the district line.
Unfortunately, the record cannot be traced back beyond 1867, and the
timing of the transfer of the lots to Baker does not negate the possibility
that they may have been acquired after the establishment of Calhoun
County. Subsequent boundary alteration in this district points also to
land acquisition as a factor, but from the Calhoun side of the district
line. In these cases, lot 181 in the Seventh District of Baker was added to
Calhoun in 1863, and lots 140 and the north half of 101 were similarly
transferred in 1877.

During the investigation, a striking boundary problem was dis-
covered along this segment of the Calhoun-Baker line. Land lot 141 of
the Seventh District of Baker was found to have overlapping jurisdiction
and ownership. Tax rolls, property deeds and most maps of Calhoun
County identify an unusually large lot, number 388, mainly within
Calhoun's Third District, which extends across the district line so as
to include the northern half of lot 141. The county boundary usually is
shown offset to accomodate the southern end of lot 388. Baker County,
on the other hand, recognizes no such boundary offset, for their tax
records and deed books include lot 141, owned in its entirety by a Baker
County resident, thus overlapping with the end of Calhoun's lot 388.
To confuse the issue, the present official map of Calhoun County
ignores the evidence of county tax and deed records and identifies lot
141 rather than an extended 388, but includes it within Calhoun. If the
boundary was ever altered by an official act to include any part of lot
141 in Calhoun County, there seems to be no record of it.18 It was not
done at the legislative level. Meanwhile, landowners from both Calhoun
and Baker have been paying taxes on the same parcel of land for years,
taxes based upon duly recorded deeds. That an overlapping ownership
has continued undetected may be explained by the fact that the tract in
question is largely forested, and there has been only marginal penetra-
tion by clearing from each side.

The western margins of Calhoun County came under modification
in 1872 when a legislative act transferred the homesteads of Moses Fain
and Ebenezer Fain to Clay County. While the property was not spe-
cifically identified, a search of the deed books of Calhoun County re-
vealed that the parcels were lots 344, 341, and the northwest half of 327.

69

The half lot had been purchased in 1869 as an expansion of a large
landholding mainly within Clay County. Another Fain lot, number 340,
was added to Clay County in 1875, and a year later the north half of lot
345 was also transferred to Clay. This parcel was not acquired by the
Fains until eight months after its transfer, point to a remarkably coop-
erative legislature. The crenelation of the central section of Calhoun's
western boundary thus was entirely the product of the land operations
of the Fain brothers.

North of the Fain properties, lot 371 of the Fifth District of Clay
was added to Calhoun in 1876 and, at the same time, south of the Fains,
lots 318, 319, 320, and 348 in the Fourth District of Calhoun were trans-
ferred to the county of Early. Records are discontinuous, but the strong
role of specific families in the ownership patterns suggests that here too
acquisition of border lots by citizens of the adjoining counties was
involved.

Only a single county line change affecting Calhoun County has
been authorized by the legislature since 1877. This was the abortive
transfer of the greater part of the city of Arlington from Calhoun to
Early under an Act of 1945. Much of the growth of Arlington had been
toward the south, across the district line in Early County. While Calhoun
took the case to court, Early exercised jurisdiction over the disputed
area. In 1949 the Act was declared unconstitutional and the part of
Arlington within Calhoun County was restored to Calhoun.

Demands for boundary modification have not entirely been laid to
rest. In 1975 the owner of an 18-acre part of lot 77, on the northeastern
edge of the county, approached the Board of County Commissioners of
Calhoun County to have his land transferred to Randolph. This move
was preceded by a series of events arising from a resurvey of the county
line in that area in 1963 which indicated that his land was in lot 77 and
thus a part of Calhoun County while he had been paying taxes to Ran-
dolph. He continued to pay taxes to Randolph until 1974 when'he was
forced to remit to Calhoun. While the request was in part based upon
the argument that lot 77 was originally within Randolph, having been
added to Calhoun in 1860, the real purpose seems to have been to
escape the higher tax rate of Calhoun County. The request was denied.19

Several conclusions may be drawn from the case study of Calhoun
County. The subdivision of counties did disrupt established patterns, not
only of landholding but of trade and circulation, but it seems that the
location of county seats was at least as significant an initial factor in
crenelation as was the delineation of the boundaries themselves. Once a
precedent had been established, the system for boundary change
became a permissive one, lending itself to abuse and creating boundary
instability. Land transferred in one direction could just as easily be
transferred in another. Record-keeping has been inconsistent and
records are incomplete. While it is possible to verify action taken at the

70

state level, what occurred within or between counties is difficult to
document. Lastly, there seems to have been little inclination on the part
of county officials to question the accuracy of boundary crenelations
except in response to particular challenges.

FOOTNOTES

1 Lots of 2021/2 acres are standard in much of interior and west Georgia, but a
250-acre lot was adopted in the southwest, 490 acres was used in the south-
central area, 160 acres was the rule in the northern counties, while 40-acre
"gold" lots were surveyed in the Blue Ridge. In the Appalachian foothill zone,
both 250- and 490-acre lots were adopted. Sam B. Hilliard, "An Introduction to
Land Survey Systems in the Southeast," Geographical Perspectives on Southern
Development. Vol. 12 of West Georgia College Studies in the Social Sciences.
Edited by John C. Upchurch and David C. Weaver, Carrollton, Georgia: West
Georgia College, 1973, p. 3.

2 James C. Bonner, "What is Not on the Georgia Map," Georgia Historical
Quarterly. Vol. LI-3 (Sept., 1967), p. 259.

3 Act of Dec. 22, 1820, Georgia Legislative Acts. 1820, p. 88.

4 An Act to add a part of Wilkes County to the county of Taliaferro, Act of
Dec. 22, 1828, Georgia Legislative Acts. 1828-29, p. 42.

5 Mode of Transferring Boundary Lots to another County, Act of October 14,
1879, No. 259, Georgia Legislative Acts. 1879, p. 42.

6 An Act to add the residence of Ely Jones, now in the county of Clark, to the
county of Walton Act of Dec. 22, 1840, Georgia Legislative Acts. 1840, p. 36.

7 Mrs. Pat Bryant, Deputy Surveyor-General, State of Georgia, Atlanta, per-
sonal letter, Nov. 9, 1976.

8 An Act to change and define the line between the counties of Jefferson and
Washington, and to legalize and make valid the official acts of Samuel Tarver
as a Justice of the Inferior court of the county of Jefferson, Act of Dec. 21, 1839,
Georgia Legislative Acts, 1839, p. 33.

9 See E. Merton Coulter, "The Politics of Dividing a Georgia County: Oconee
from Clarke," Georgia Historical Quarterly. Vol. LVII-4 (Winter, 1973), p. 475.

10 Ralph A. Wooster, "Notes on the Georgia Legislature of 1860," Georgia
Historical Quarterly. Vol. XLV-1 (March, 1961), p. 24.

11 As a member of the constitutional convention, a Mr. Hill, put it, ". . . the
county lines have often been changed for personal convenience, and for politi-
cal reasons, and this sir, has sadly marred the maps of Georgia. I want the
county lines drawn straight, where there are no natural boundaries." Proceed-
ing. Georgia Constitutional Convention. 1877. Atlanta, August 25, 1877, p. 445.

12 Change of County Lines and County Sites. Disputed County Lines. Part III,
Chap. 23-3, Code of Georgia. Annotated. Book 8, Title 23, Atlanta, 1933. The
pertinent references are: Sees. 23-301 and 23-302, pp. 18-20.

13 J. C. Shippy, Clerk of the Court, Calhoun County, interview, Morgan,
Georgia, Feb. 8, 1977. Morgan retains the administrative function today but
little else, for the commercial activities once typical of such a county town have
been captured almost entirely by the small city of Arlington, on the southern
margin of the county, and by the larger city of Albany, in neighboring
Dougherty County to the east.

71

14 Information about this and all subsequent boundary changes affecting Cal-
houn County was drawn from the various sessional reports for the state of
Georgia, collectively known as the Georgia Statutes. Only direct quotes will
be footnoted herein.

15 Map of Randolph County. Georgia. N. C. Barnett. Secretary of State of Geor-
gia. Aug. 20. 1867; Map of Randolph County. Georgia. William Phillips. C. E..
1871; Map of Calhoun County. Georgia. Phillip Cook, Secretary of State of
Georgia. 1892; Deed Book J. p. 273. Oct. 6. 1893. Calhoun County Property
Records. Morgan, Georgia; U.S.D.A. and Georgia State College of Agriculture
map of Randolph County. 1924; Map of Randolph County. Georgia. Rural Real
Property Survey. W.P.A. of Georgia, Atlanta, 1941.

16 This is made clear in Deed of Conveyance, DB 27. p. 69. 1965. recorded in
Calhoun County, the pertinent part of which follows:

"The portion of Lot of Land No. 294 above conveyed is intended to
include the portion of that original lot number of the 4th Land District
of originally Early County. Georgia, later Calhoun County. Georgia,
and transferred by an Act of the Ligislature (sic). 1855-6. at page 127,
into Randolph County. Georgia, with no further act changing the same.
However, the maps of Randolph County fail to include said lot and it is
the intention of the parties to include the portion of said lot above
described, whether it be in Randolph or in Calhoun County. Georgia."

17 An Act to change the line between the county of Randolph and the county
of Calhoun. Public Law No. 11, Act (undated), 1870. Georgia Legislative Acts.
1870. p. 23.

18 Such records were to be maintained by county officials known until recently
as "Ordinaries." In the case of Calhoun County, many of the Ordinary's records
were destroyed in a courthouse fire in 1919.

19 No record of this request or denial by the Calhoun County Commissioners
was entered into the official county minutes. Information about the latest at-
tempt to transfer land from Calhoun to Randolph was provided by J. C. Shippy.
Clerk of the Court, and the Calhoun County Tax Appraiser, respectively, Cal-
houn County, interviews, Morgan. Georgia, Feb. 8. 1977. and March 15, 1977.
and corroborated bv W. P. Wood. Clerk of the Court. Randolph County. March
18. 1977.

72

THE NORTHERN NECK OF VIRGINIA:

A TIDEWATER GRAIN-FARMING REGION

IN THE ANTEBELLUM SOUTH

By James B. Gouger

Most Americans, in imagining Tidewater (i.e. coastal plain) Vir-
ginia in the period prior to the Civil War, would perceive a region domi-
nated by the cultivation of tobacco, a landscape in which large tobacco
plantations each complete with a magnificent manor house, numerous
slaves, and the air of an English country estate line the principal rivers.
Although Virginia was dominated by a tobacco-planting economy dur-
ing most of the colonial period, the century preceding the Civil War
saw a transformation of the agricultural economy in many parts of the
Old Dominion. Tobacco became more and more a specialty crop of
certain districts while farmers throughout the state were turning to
commercial grain cultivation. Early agricultural censuses reveal that
wheat harvests, for example, rose steadily in Virginia until, in 1859, the
Old Dominion surpassed both New York and Pennsylvania to become
the largest wheat-producer among the original American states.

The long history of grain cultivation in the Shenandoah Valley has
been the subject of several notable studies.1 However, grain farming
east of the Blue Ridge, and especially in Tidewater, has received little
attention from historically-minded scholars. Nowhere in Tidewater was
the transformation from a tobacco-planting region into a grain-farming
region more complete than in that group of counties between the
Potomac and the Rappahannock Rivers known as the "Northern Neck"
(Figure 1).

During the first half of the eighteenth century the Northern Neck
was one of the principal tobacco-producing regions in America. Among
the tobacco planters of the Northern Neck were many of the wealthiest
and most influential families of Virginia, including the Balls, the Wash-
ington, the Lees, the Monroes, the Carters, the Fitzhughs, and the
Fauntleroys. The remaining ancestral homes of the colonial planter
aristocracy stand today in mute testimony to the fortunes which were
accumulated here through the cultivation of tobacco. However, by the
eve of the Civil War tobacco cultivation had all but disappeared from
the Northern Neck, although it remained an important crop in adjacent
parts of Virginia and Maryland (Figure 2).

Most students of the colonial period have commented on the
destructive type of agriculture which was practiced in the tobacco-
growing regions, noting that the resulting soil exhaustion brought land
abandonment and westward migration in search of new lands.2 That
colonial planters in Virginia and Maryland commonly perceived soil

73

Figure 1

exhaustion to be the inevitable result of tobacco cultivation, and that
they frequently abandoned land when crops began to decline has been
well documented.3 However, this explanation alone does not account
for the more complete abandonment of tobacco cultivation in the
Northern Neck, as compared to adjacent areas. Nor can this anomaly
be attributed to variations in the soil types found here. Certain soils
which are "especially well liked for tobacco" in southern Maryland (and
on which tobacco is still grown today south of the Rappahannock) exist
in identical form in the Northern Neck, where tobacco has long-since
disappeared.

Instead, two other factors were primarily responsible for the
transition of the Northern Neck from a tobacco-planting region into a
grain-farming region. First, circumstances brought the Tidewater tobacco
planters of the Northern Neck into contact with immigrant grain farmers
who were moving down the Great Valley from Pennsylvania and who,
by their example, influenced the planters to a favorable disposition
toward grain cultivation. Second, no part of the Northern Neck is more
than eight miles from a navigable stream and all but a small portion lies
within four miles of such a waterway. This accessibility to cheap water
transportation gave a competitive advantage to Northern neck grain in
the early years, despite lower crop yields than were possible in other,
particularly interior, regions.

The Northern Neck was part of a vast territory which, in mid-

74

I I

TOBACCO PRODUCTION 1859

Figure 2

seventeenth century, had been granted by King Charles II to a group of
his loyal supporters in the fight against Cromwell (Figure 3). In develop-
ing this territory, the Proprietors employed a system of granting lands
which encouraged the accumulation by Tidewater tobacco planters of
larger and more extensive landholdings than were generally to be found
in the rest of Virginia or Maryland.4 When German, Scots-Irish,
Quaker, and other immigrants moved southwestward into the Shenan-
doah Valley after 1730 they found that much of the most desirable
agricultural land within the Proprietary had already been granted to
Tidewater planters. Preferring to rent good land rather than own mean
land, many of the immigrants chose to become tenants of the planters.
The planters found this arrangement agreeable since it produced
revenue to pay the quit-rents on these speculative landholdings. Further-
more, the tenants would clear the land of forest and prepare it for the
eventual use of the planter in cultivating his tobacco. The immigrant
grain farmers were preferred as tenants because it was felt that they
would be less likely to exhaust the fertility of the land than would
Virginians with their predisposition toward tobacco cultivation.5
By no means were the migrants moving into the Shenandoah Valley
from Pennsylvania the first to introduce grain cultivation into the Old
Dominion. Wheat and corn had always been the principal food crops of
colonial Virginia. Corn, particularly, was grown on virtually every plan-
tation and provided the principal source of food for the labor force.
Robert Beverley observed that "the Bread in Gentlemen's Houses, is
generally made of Wheat" but the majority of the population "choose

75

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Baltimore q, -^C? -^

-z-

V

Figure 3

the Pone [cornbread]."6 He said, in 1702, that "All sorts of English
Grain thrive, and increase [in Virginia] . . . And yet they don't make a
Trade of any of them."7 Because of low prices and high transportation
costs "it was not possible for grain to have been cultivated in the
Colony. . . and then sold at a profit" in England during the seventeenth
century.8 Only tobacco could bear the high cost of trans-Atlantic ship-
ment and still return a profit to the planter at this time.

After the middle of the eighteenth century, however, Virginians
began to produce wheat and corn for export whenever tobacco prices
were depressed. Markets for grain were opening at this time which
offered the Virginia planter an alternative to tobacco cultivation. The
expansion of plantation agriculture in the southern colonies created a
demand for Indian corn within that region to feed the growing slave
labor force. Both wheat and corn could be sold in the northern colonies
and markets for wheat were expanding in Europe.9 England, with a

76

rapidly increasing population, "found herself drifting more and more
toward dependence on imports."10 By 1772, wheat production in Vir-
ginia had expanded to such a degree that Roger Atkinson, a merchant,
could call it "another staple . . . which will I believe in a little time be
equal, if not superior to tobacco. . . . We shall in a few years make more
in Virginia than all the province of Pennsylvania put together."11

The halcyon era for the Virginia tobacco trade had been the
quarter-century ending in 1760. That year, however, began a decade of
"almost continuous depression"12 which weighed heaviest on the Tide-
water tobacco planters. It was during this decade that planters in the
Northern Neck, observing the relative prosperity of their tenants, began
to turn away from tobacco cultivation and to place greater emphasis
on the cultivation of grain.

George Washington, who was one of the principal tobacco planters
in the Northern Neck in 1760, wrote in 1765 that "It appears pretty evi-
dent to me, from the prices I have generally got for my tobacco in
London, . . . [that planters] should endeavour to substitute some other
article in place of tobacco, and try their success therewith."13 Washing-
ton began to gradually reduce the acreage he planted to tobacco during
this decade, while his sales of wheat steadily increased.14 The biographer
of Councillor Robert Carter of Nomini (Westmoreland County] found
that "after 1760, he decided definitely to cultivate grain for the export
trade."15 Carter appears to have placed greatest emphasis on corn pro-
duction, but he also grew considerable quantities of wheat and frequently
speculated in this commodity, buying up large quantities for sale in
Europe.16 Of course, Carter was an exceptional entrepreneur; few of his
neighbors in the Northern Neck would have engaged directly in the
export of grains themselves. Nevertheless, the fact that Carter was able
to purchase significant quantities of wheat shows that other planters
were embarking upon commercial grain production.

On the eve of the Revolution the anonymous author of American
Husbandry reported that

... [as for] the planters, none of them depend on tobacco
alone, and this is more and more the case since corn has yielded
a high price . . . They all raise corn and provisions enough to
support the family and plantation, besides exporting consider-
able quantities; no wheat in the world exceeds in quality that of
Virginia and Maryland.17 . . . The wheat and other corn . . . are
raised principally on old tobacco plantations that are worn out
for that plant without the assistance of much manure.18

The American Revolution was not a dramatic turning point for
agriculture in the Northern Neck in the sense that it was for most social
and political institutions. For agriculture the Revolution was a period
of disruption which necessitated temporary adjustments in the agri-

77

cultural system in response to changed market demands and the inter-
ruption of trade. Once the war ended, agriculture in the Northern Neck
was restored very nearly to its pre-war state and the gradual transition
which had begun about 1760 continued.

The principal emphasis of agriculture during the war was on food
production, stimulated by good prices and the requirements of the Con-
tinental armies.19 During the war years the production of grains, espe-
cially wheat, was greatly expanded throughout the Northern Neck, but
most notably in western Fauquier and Loudoun Counties and in the
Shenandoah Valley.20 These were, of course, the areas which had re-
ceived significant infusions of immigrant farmers from Pennsylvania and
which had a tradition of general farming based largely on grain cultivation.
At the beginning of the war trade between Britain and the colonies
was suspended and trade with other areas was greatly restricted by the
British navy. The tobacco trade during the war was, therefore, neces-
sarily limited. Exports from Virginia fell to about twenty-five per cent of
their pre-war levels,21 and Harrower reported that along the Rappahan-
nock the planting of tobacco was "intirely stopt."22 Robert Carter, whose
plantations were scattered throughout the Northern Neck, produced so
little tobacco during the war that in some years he had to borrow
tobacco from his neighbors to pay taxes which were collected in that
commodity. After borrowing 65,000 pounds from Colonel Richard Lee
and others, he explained "my intention was to make grain at my Planta-
tions. I was without my Tobacco when said Tax was collecting."23

There was a brief resumption of tobacco cultivation in the Northern
Neck in the years immediately following the Revolution but, increasingly,
the Tidewater planters were finding the crop to be less profitable than
grains. Markets were more restricted than they had been before the war:
Before the Revolution all Europe depended on us for supplies
of the article; but being cut off by the war, Europeans turned
their attention to growing tobacco for themselves, and have
continued to cultivate it all over the continent, while they have
checked its consumption by . . . onerous taxation.24
Furthermore, competition was increasing as newly-settled transmontane
regions began the production of tobacco. The problem facing the Tide-
water tobacco planter had been identified by the author of American
Husbandry even before the war began:

There is no plant in the world that requires richer land, or
more manure than tobacco; it will grow on poorer fields, but
not to yield crops that are sufficiently profitable to pay the ex-
pences of negroes, &. . . . Many of them [planters] have very
handsome houses, gardens, and improvements about them,
which fixes them to one spot; but others, when they have ex-
hausted their grounds, will sell them to new settlers for corn-

78

fields, and move backwards with their negroes, cattle, and
tools, to take up fresh land for tobacco.25
To continue the cultivation of tobacco meant as it had for more than
a century taking up fresh lands. Advertisements appearing in the
Virginia Herald testify to the fact that a small but significant number of
planters chose this option. Representative was an individual in the
Fredericksburg area who, in 1792, offered "To be Sold, or Exchanged
for Kentucky Lands, the Land where I now live, containing about 750
acres."26 Sales were especially common in northern Virginia, particularly
in Fairfax County, where the purchasers were usually "northerners"
intent upon the cultivation of grains.27

By 1790, wheat had become the staple on the heavy soils along the
major rivers where the large estates of the Northern Neck predominated,
its cultivation encouraged by success in the use of ground oyster shells
for fertilizer. On the sandier "upland" soils of the Northern Neck, how-
ever, wheat yields were less satisfactory and farmers in this area were
beginning to turn from wheat to corn. Isaac Weld, who traversed the
Northern Neck in 1796, was struck by the contrasts to be found there:
Amongst the inhabitants here . . . there is a disparity unknown
elsewhere in America, excepting in the large towns. Instead of
the lands being equally divided, immense estates are held by a
few individuals, who derive large incomes from them, whilst
the generality of the people are but in a state of mediocrity.28
Weld was impressed with the manor houses of the wealthy planters
along the rivers, particularly in Richmond and Westmoreland counties.
As he crossed overland from the Potomac to the Rappahannock, how-
ever, he observed that

Some parts of it [the Northern Neck] are well cultivated, and
afford good crops; but these are so intermixed with extensive
tracts of waste land, worn out by the culture of tobacco, and
which are almost destitute of verdure, that on the whole the
country has the appearance of barrenness.29
For decades many if not most of the Tidewater planters had
been aware of the shortcomings of their great dependence on tobacco:
soil erosion, low prices, and declining yields as their lands were "worn
out" by a rentless cultivation of the "pernicious weed." In the years after
1760, and again with the American Revolution, grains particularly
wheat offered a profitable alternative to tobacco cultivation and grain
crops were emphasized throughout the Northern Neck and adjacent
areas. The replacement of tobacco by widespread cultivation of wheat
and corn, however, did not eliminate the planters' long-range problems
of soil erosion and declining soil fertility. George Washington, in a 1787
letter to Arthur Young, described the usual approach to grain cultiva-
tion in the Northern Neck:

79

The general custom has been, first to raise a crop of Indian
corn, (maize,) which, according to the mode of cultivation, is a
good preparation for wheat; then a crop of wheat; after which
the ground is respited, (except from weeds, and every trash
that can contribute to its foulness,) for about eighteen months;
and so on, alternately, without any dressing, till the land is ex-
hausted; when it is turned out, without being sown with grass-
seeds, or roots, or any method taken to restore it, and another
piece is ruined in the same manner.30
Furthermore, grains like tobacco proved to be subject to great fluc-
tuations in price as overseas markets were opened and closed, and addi-
tional problems arose with the introduction of the Hessian fly.

The planter elite who were tied to eastern Virginia by their manor
houses and great estates and who were, therefore, less inclined to join
the increasing stream of out-migrants bound for Kentucky or beyond
were among the first to realize that relentless cultivation of any crop
was a practice which could not be sustained. Washington was but one
of a number of wealthy planters who resolved "to pursue a course of
husbandry which is altogether different and new to the gazing multitude,
ever averse to novelty in matters of this sort, and much attached to their
old customs."31 His correspondence indicates that he devoted consider-
able attention to experiments with various crop rotations, the develop-
ment of improved techniques for tilling, and a search for a better type of
plow.32 Agricultural innovations and reforms spread very slowly in the
old tobacco regions. Where they were adopted, however, it was gen-
erally by the planter elite, who proved receptive to new farming tech-
niques once their utility had been demonstrated much more so, at
least, than their poorer neighbors who frequently lacked either the
information or the capital necessary to adapt.

There was widespread admiration among the Northern Neck
planters for the farming ability of the Quakers and Germans from Penn-
sylvania who had settled much of the Shenandoah Valley.33 The diver-
sified agriculture which these farms introduced into the Shenandoah
Valley had already been carried east of the Blue Ridge into the western
parts of Loudoun and Fauquier Counties before the Revolution. At least
by the time of that conflict these farmers were beginning to have an
influence on the Tidewater planters who were their landlords or as
tobacco cultivation was extended westward neighbors. By 1790, the
diversified agriculture which characterized the Valley and western Pied-
mont had been adopted (or, perhaps more correctly, was being attempted)
by farmers scattered throughout northern Virginia.

A report prepared for President Washington in 1790 indicated that,
of the counties between the Potomac and the Rappahannock, only parts
of Prince William and Fauquier were "still attached to tobacco."34 The

80

balance of the area above Tidewater was given over to what a German
visitor called "the profitable culture of wheat,"35 together with a variety
of other grain crops and the increasing development of meadows.36 At
this time Fredericksburg, on the Rappahannock, and Alexandria, on the
Potomac, were emerging as the principal market towns for the Northern
Neck above Tidewater, based to no small degree on the growing trade in
wheat and flour. By 1795, so little tobacco was being produced in north-
ern Virginia it was declared that "the warehouses for the reception and
inspection of tobacco in the town of Alexandria are no longer necessary
for that purpose" and the inspection there was discontinued.37

The three decades which began with the outbreak of the French
Revolution in 1789 and lasted until the depression which engulfed the
United States in the wake of the Panic of 1819 was a period of relative
prosperity for the farmers of the Northern Neck. During this period
warfare in Europe served to raise wheat prices for several years and,
also, markets opened in Europe and the West Indies which had
previously been closed to American grains.38 In response to the
generally good prices for wheat, cultivation of that grain was increased
along the Potomac and the Rappahannock. At this time Northern Neck
farmers enjoyed a particular advantage in marketing their wheat, since
Baltimore then emerging as the principal flour milling and exporting
center of the middle states was easily accessible by water.

A similar advantage of easy water shipment enabled Northern Neck
farmers to produce corn for both the northeastern states and for the
plantation regions of the lower South markets denied to grain farming
districts in the interior because of the difficulty of getting the crop
to market.39

For the southern ports within the United States . . . the white
corn is purchased almost exclusively; it is intended for blacks,
employed in the more profitable cultivation of rice and cotton;
and blacks are known, it is believed, every where, to entertain
a strong disinclination, not to say antipathy, to yellow corn;
... On the other hand, for the Eastern States, where "the folks"
calculate very nicely the length, breadth and the weight of
things; where they have no slaves, and where the corn is fed to
their horses and other live stock, none but yellow corn is de-
manded, that being considered more solid and nutritious than
white.40

The distinct transportation advantage which the Northern Neck
farmers enjoyed seems to have offset the lower yields of wheat and
corn compared to Loudoun County or the Shenandoah Valley which
they were obtaining from their lands. With good grain prices even those
farmers who had not moved to adopt agricultural reforms were able to
prosper. However, the Northern Neck lost its unique transportation

81

advantage when, during the era of canal-building which reached its peak
in the United States after 1825, inland grain-producing regions began to
gain easy and relatively cheap access to the principal markets a
process which was completed during the era of railroad-building which,
in turn, followed.

When depression swept the United States in 1819, wheat prices fell
sharply and remained generally low for the next three decades.41 During
this same period the Hessian fly appears to have become especially
troublesome.42 For Northern Neck farmers a low point was reached
when, according to Edmund Ruffin, "the season of 1825, so fatal
throughout the eastern half of Virginia, did not leave enough of good
wheat on many farms to again sow the fields."43

In despair, many small farmers moved out of the Northern Neck
to other areas, including Kentucky, Ohio, and Alabama.

The man who had a small farm and a large family, whether
with or without slaves, who had not been industrious and
economical, was the first to feel the pressure, and off he went.
His more frugal neighbor, or neighbors, purchased his land,
which though poor, afforded a larger field for cultivation,
and at least for a time, helped to sustain him who purchased it.
In this way things progressed from bad to worse.44
The large estates, already the dominant feature of the Tidewater land-
scape in the Northern Neck, became even larger as the lands of the
emigrant small farmers were bought up.

Of the farmers who remained, many turned to non-agricultural
pursuits. A Northumberland County farmer wrote, in 1834, that "Many
are engaged in the wood business,"45 supplying steamboats as well as
shipping firewood to urban centers as far away as Norfolk, Baltimore,
and Washington. "A stranger," this man said, "if passing through some
parts of our county, would say it was abandoned and given up, or that it
had been visited by either 'war, pestilence or famine.' ',46 From Fairfax,
a farmer wrote "looking at the county as it was thirty six years ago, and
at the present time, I must say that hope and hope only, keeps two thirds
of the population of this county in it."47 A farmer in King George
County, with tongue-in-cheek, observed:

Our general course of operations has been, to cultivate our

lands in corn one year, and rest them in wheat the next; and

so on, until they are prepared for a good crop of old field

pines the best crop by the way, since the introduction of

steam boats, of the whole.48

The plight of farmers in the Tidewater counties of the Northern neck is

illustrated by an 1830 letter from a man whose brother was already

enroute to Ohio:

For my own part I shall have to move from this country as we

82

really do not make both ends meet. There is a little balance
against us every year. The fruits of the ground are what we
depend on for a living and for some years the depression with
the farmers here has been very great. And our land is not
rich so that we have to cultivate a great deal of ground to
make a little corn. I put in my corn house last year a hundred
barrels of corn which is 500 bushels. Out of that I shall scarcely
sell 40 bbls. It will take the rest to feed my family and stock
and at the present price of corn, which is only twenty-nine
cents per bushel, will only produce me forty-eight dollars; 100
weight of cotton, nine-fifty and about 30 bushels of wheat at
eighty cents. ... I think on many accounts that we ought to
remove from this place. It is certainly impossible to acquire
property in this country via farming. And property is lessening
in value every day. All the money is going out and none coming
in. Were it not for the Wood business times would be much
worse. Our land could not afford wood to cut many years
longer at 50 cords per year [which] is what I generally cut.49
While it is certain that the misfortunes of these times weighed more
heavily on the small farmers of the Northern Neck, the barons of the
Potomac and the Rappahannock were not immune to hardship. Such
was the case for the Lees, who lost their ancestral home, Stratford Hall,
in 1830. M Still others, in order to meet their expenses, found it necessary
to sell part of their slave labor force, following the example of
a profane old gentleman, who was in the habit of selling a
negro every year or two, to pay off his scores for corn and
meat, who had a large number of slaves, swearing that his
negroes should never eat him, but one the other.51
The sale of slaves from the old tobacco regions to the new cotton-
producing states became an important source of revenue for many
Virginia farmers. In the process, the huge slave population of the
Northern Neck a relict of the tobacco-planting days was reduced to a
level more appropriate for grain cultivation (a step which agricultural
reformer John Taylor had advocated a generation earlier). For example,
Olmsted reported that the percentage of slaves in the total population
of Fairfax County was reduced by half between 1836 and 1856, and this
was possible despite the fact that the county was then being transformed
from "a wilderness of pines" to "smiling fields of grain and grass."52
Primarily responsible for this transformation of Fairfax County
indeed of the entire eastern half of the Northern Neck was a renewed
emphasis on the use of fertilizers, particularly Peruvian guano. During
the last two decades preceding the Civil War farmers throughout the
upper South embraced the use of guano with enthusiasm which was
unprecedented for an agricultural innovation.

83

Glowing reports of the "most beneficial effect" of guano on a
variety of crops in England began to appear in the American agricultural
press after 1840.53 In 1844, the first shipload to be imported into the
United States reached Baltimore.

It was at first used with caution and in very limited quantities,
from the twofold reason of, first, its high cost, and secondly,
the doubts with practical farmers of the possibility of so small
a quantity of "dust" exerting such wonderful power upon vege-
tation as it was represented to do.M
The results of these early trials aroused considerable interest among
farmers as the experimenters began to report dramatic increases in their
crops. Wheat was particularly benefited by guano, the yields frequently
being doubled.55

Upon old worn-out land, long considered worthless, the effect
has in many instances been magical, frequently producing from
twenty to twenty-five bushels of wheat from a single application
of 250 lbs. per acre, where not a return for the seed could have
been expected before.56

In view of these results it is not surprising that guano gained quick
acceptance, even among farmers for whom fertilization had not been a
common practice. Despite rapidly increasing shipments (Baltimore, the
principal port for importation, received 2,700 tons in 1849, 6,800 tons in
1850, and 25,000 tons in 1851), and prices held artificially high by the
Peruvian government, "only on rare occasions did the supply equal
the demand."57

The introduction of Peruvian guano was of particular importance
to the Northern Neck, for it proved to be most beneficial on soils where
other fertilizers had had little effect.58

No lands in the country are so well adapted to the use of guano
as those of the forest [upland] Northern Neck. While its appli-
cation on the river lands of this Neck has yielded but a small
profit [these "necklands" were already producing good wheat,
especially when fertilized with marl), and its use on the south
side of the Rappahannock been attended with scarce any
profit at all, throughout the whole forest of which we are
speaking, it has quadrupled the crop, and yielded an average
profit of at least a hundred per cent. Before the introduction of
guano wheat was little cultivated in this region. Now, we be-
lieve, taking into the estimate the cheapness of land, the
cheapness and facility of cultivation, and the cheapness of
freights, that wheat is a far more profitable crop in the forest
of the Northern Neck, than in the valley of Virginia, which
latter, has always been considered one of the best wheat-
growing sections of the Union.59

84

Additional evidence of the role of guano in transforming the
Northern Neck from a state of mediocrity into a major grain-producing
region can be seen in an address made, in 1853, to the Rappahannock
Agricultural and Mechanical Society. The speaker, Willoughby Newton,
asserted that

in no part of the world has [agricultural] improvement been
more rapid, or its results more profitable, than in the favored
region which we inhabit. Wheat, which was formerly considered
so precarious a crop that its culture was almost abandoned,
has now, by improved husbandry, the use of lime, marl, clover,
plaster, and the best of all fertilizers, guano, become our great-
est staple, in the production of which we can defy the competi-
tion of the world. So rapid has been the improvement, and so
great the increased profits of agriculture, that it may be safely
affirmed, that in the short space of seven years, the value of the
landed property of Eastern Virginia has been fully doubled;
whilst of many neighborhoods, it has been quadrupled, and
some particular farms increased more than ten fold. I can see
no reasonable limit to this improvement, if we continue to
pursue the same course of steady, enlightened and hopeful in-
dustry, that has now become almost universal. The only mis-
giving that ever crosses my mind, is the fear that the supply of
our greatest fertilizer [Peruvian guano] may become insufficient,
or be entirely cut off.60

The continuing improvement in the lot of the Tidewater farmer
which Newton forecast was to be swiftly realized. By the early 1850s it
was reported that "the demand for wheat, for exportation, is now very
great, and increasing, and the highest prices are paid."61 Furthermore,
even as Newton was delivering his address, the clouds of war were, for
the first time since Waterloo, gathering over Europe. Noting the depen-
dence of England on the Mediterranean and Black Sea regions for grain,
and anticipating the Crimean War, J. D. B. DeBow concluded
The consequence of a Turko-Russian war would be, that all
that immense quantity of wheat which has hitherto flown into
the English markets, would immediately cease to flow in that
direction. It would all be absorbed at home. The produce of
the Baltic, too, would be stopped; and then England's only reli-
ance for wheat and other products would be on America. . . .
Brighter prospects were never held out to the agricultural
world of America than at present.62

Wheat prices did rise with the outbreak of the Crimean War and
tended to remain high through the remaining years before the American
Civil War. This, together with the expanded wheat production which
accompanied the introduction of guano, ushered in a period of prosperity

85

in the Northern Neck which exceeded even that of the halcyon days of
the colonial tobacco trade. Wheat production in the five Tidewater
counties of the Northern Neck almost doubled between 1850 and 1860
(in Lancaster County the increase was 231%) (Figure 4).

As wheat production increased in the Northern Neck, this "rich and
productive region"' more than ever became "tributary to Baltimore," the
principal flour-milling and grain exporting center of the upper South.63
The fine landings on this [Rappahannock] river [and on the
Potomac as well] now enable the farmers to dispense with
neighborhood stores and villages altogether. The steamboats
for Baltimore and Fredericksburg pass them four times a week,
and it is more convenient to procure merchandise from those
towns, than from stores a few miles off. Some of them have
granaries on the river bank, with short troughs, or spouts,
running into the hold of the vessel, in the river below.64

CHANGE IN WHEAT PRODUCTION
1849-1859
INCREASE DECREASE

0-10%

Figure 4

So convenient was the steamboat service that many Northern Neck
residents found it easier to travel to Washington or Baltimore "than to
cross our ferries, with a cold, head wind."65 The steamboats were not
without their discomforts, however. One traveler, passing from Balti-
more to Fredericksburg in 1854, remarked

Your nose, I will grant, is odorated pretty freely, there being
now a guano epidemic among the planters of the Old Dominion.
No vessel, I hear, leaves Baltimore for "long shore" at this
season, which is not freighted with it. The "Virginia" had

86

hundreds of bags amidships, the trip I made in her; indeed, it
seemed to me as if the Chincha Islands had all been tumbled
upon her deck. I shall never forget the bouquet; it was inhaled
by me with every thing I ate; indeed, after attaining my journey's
end, it was a long time before I forgot the rich Islands of Peru.66
It is unlikely, however, that the farmers of the Northern Neck ob-
jected to sharing passage with the guano, despite its pungent aroma.
This was the substance which had made them ". . . already the richest
agricultural population in America, averaging, we should think, a
property to each man, whose lands adjoin the river, of near a hundred
thousand dollars."67

On the eve of the Civil War the residents of the Northern Neck were
as devoted to wheat as they had been before 1760 to tobacco, while the
old staple was all but forgotten (Figure 5). During the century from 1760

WHEAT PRODUCTION 1859

Figure 5

to 1860 the planters of the Northern Neck, having far-ranging interests
and contacts, had reacted swiftly to changing economic circumstances
and, whenever possible, capitalized on their transportation advantage.
Influenced by the prosperity of tenants on their interior landholdings,
they had led the shift from tobacco planting to cash grain farming in
Tidewater. They were the leading innovators during the period of the
agricultural revival and contributed to out-migration during the depres-
sion which followed by buying out neighboring farmers and selling off
slaves. With the introduction of a fertilizer which again made wheat
farming profitable in Tidewater, they had the information and the
capital to be among the first adopters.

87

As a region characterized by the production of cash grains on
Tidewater plantations with slave labor, the Northern Neck appears to
have been unique. The difference between the Northern Neck and sur-
rounding regions, however, was generally one of degree rather than
kind. The agricultural changes which took place in the Northern Neck
between 1760 and 1860 either anticipated or reflected changes which
were taking place in neighboring regions, although the wealthy planters
who dominated the Northern Neck carried each of these changes to
an extreme.

FOOTNOTES

1 For example. Robert D. Mitchell. "The Commercial Nature of Frontier
Settlement in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia," Proceedings of the Associa-
tion of American Geographers, Vol. I (1969), 109-113; and "The Shenandoah
Valley Frontier." Annals, Association of American Geographers, Vol. 62, No. 3
(September, 1972), pp. 461-486.

2 e.g., Clement Eaton, A History of the Old South (New York: Macmillan,
1949), pp. 21, 27.

3 Avery Odell Craven, Soil Exhaustion as a Factor in the Agricultural History
of Virginia and Maryland. 1606-1860 (Urbana: University of Illinois. 1925).

4 Willard F. Bliss, "The Rise of Tenancy in Virginia," The Virginia Magazine
of History and Biography. Vol. 58. No. 4 (October. 1950). pp. 428-429.

5 Fairfax Harrison, Landmarks of Old Prince William: A Study of Origins in
Northern Virginia in Two Volumes (Richmond: The Old Dominion Press,
1924). p. 401:' Bliss. "The Rise of Tenancy," pp. 427-441.

6 Robert Beverley, The History and Present State of Virginia \ 1705|. (reprinted,
Charlottesville: The University Press of Virginia, 1968), p. 292.

7 Ibid., p. 316.

8 Philip Alexander Bruce, Economic History of Virginia in the Seventeenth
Century (2 volumes, New York: Peter Smith, 1935). p. 257.

9 For a discussion of trade during this period see Arthur Pierce Middleton,
Tobacco Coast. A Maritime History of Chesapeake Bay in the Colonial Era
(Newport News: The Mariners' Museum, 1953).

10 Lewis Cecil Gray, History of Agriculture in the Southern United States To
1860 (2 volumes, New York: Peter Smith, 1941), p. 165.

11 "Letters of Roger Atkinson," Virginia Magazine of History and Biography.
Vol. XV (April, 1908), p. 352.

12 L. C. Gray, "The Market Surplus Problem of Colonial Tobacco." William and
Man- College Quarterly Historical Magazine. Vol. VII, No. 4 (October, 1927),
pp. '235-236.

13 The Writings of George Washington; Being His Correspondence. Addresses.
Messages, and Other Papers. Official and Private. Selected and Published from
the Original Manuscripts . . . |edited by Jared Sparks], (12 Volumes, Boston:
American Stationers' Company, 1837), Vol. 12, pp. 262-263.

14 Ibid., pp. 257-263; Diaries of George Washington. 1748-1799 [edited by John
C. Fitzpatrick], (4 volumes, Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1925), Vol. I. pp.
165-345 > passim; Gray, History of Agriculture, p. 606.

88

15 Louis Morton, Robert Carter of Nomini Hall. A Virginia Tobacco Planter of
the Eighteenth Centurv (Williamsburg: Colonial Williamsburg, Inc., 1941), p.
144.

16 Ibid., pp. 133-150, passim; Journal & Letters of Philip Vickers Fithian. 1773-
1774: A Plantation Tutor of the Old Dominion. | edited by Hunter Dickinson
Farish|, (Williamsburg: Colonial Williamsburg, Inc., 1945), p. 249.

17 American Husbandry. Containing an Account of the Soil. Climate. Produc-
tion and Agriculture of the British Colonies in North America and the West
Indies. . . by an American. |2 volumes, London: J. Bew, 1775; reprint edited by
Harry J. Carman] (New York: Columbia University Press, 1939), p. 163.

18 Ibid. p. 187.

19 Gray, History of Agriculture, p. 585.

20 Robert D. Mitchell. "The Shenandoah Valley Frontier," p. 480; Gray, History
of Agriculture, pp. 581-583, passim.

21 R. A. Brock, "A Succinct Account of Tobacco in Virginia," Report on the
Productions of Agriculture as Returned at the Tenth Census. (Washington:
Government Printing Office, 1883), pp. 223-225.

22 John Harrower, The Journal of John Harrower: An Indentured Servant in the
Colony of Virginia. 1773-1776 [edited by Edward Miles Riley], (Williamsburg:
Colonial Williamsburg, Inc.. 1940), p. 111.

23 Morton, Robert Carter of Nomini, pp. 133-134.

24 Brock, Succinct Account of Tobacco," p. 225.

25 American Husbandry, pp. 164-165.

26 Advertisement by Robert Smith in the Virginia Herald and Fredericksburg
Advertiser. September 6, 1792.

27 Gray, History of Agriculture, p. 608.

28 Isaac Weld, Travels Through the States of North America, and the Provinces
of Upper and Lower Canada. During the Years 1795. 1796, and 1 797 (London:
John Stockdale, 1800), p. 113.

29 Ibid. p. 116.

30 George Washington to Arthur Young, November 1, 1787. Letter reprinted in
The Farmers' Register, Vol. V, No. 6 (October 1, 1837), p. 323.

31 George Washington to Arthur Young, August 6, 1786. Ibid., p. 322.

32 See, for example, "Letters From His Excellency George Washington to
Arthur Young, Esq., F.R.S., and Sir John Sinclair, Bart. M.P., Containing an
Account of his Husbandry . . . ," The Farmers' Register, Vol. V, No. 6 (October
1, 1837), pp. 321-358, and Vol. V, No. 7 (November 1, 1837), pp. 385-389; and
Diaries of George Washington, Vol. I, pp. 140-142, 164-165, 374, passim.

33 See, for example, "Letters From His Excellency George Washington to
Arthur Young," Ibid.; and "Dr. David Stuart's Report to President Washington
on Agricultural Conditions in Northern Virginia," [edited by Gertrude R. B.
Richards], The Virginia Magazine of History and Biography. Vol. 61, No. 3
(July, 1953), pp. 283-292.

34 "Dr. David Stuart's Report to President Washington on Agricultural Condi-
tions in Northern Virgina," Ibid., p. 288.

35 Johann David Schoepf, Travels in the Confederation [1783-1784], [translated
and edited by Alfred J. Morrison], (Philadelphia: William J. Campbell, 1911),
p. 44.

36 "Dr. David Stuart's Report to President Washington," pp. 286-290.

89

37 Fairfax Harrison, Landmarks of Old Prince William, p. 416.

38 Gray, History of Agriculture, pp. 817, 1039.

39 Ibid. p. 812.

40 American Farmer. Vol. I (Friday, April 30, 1819), pp. 39-40.

41 Gray, History of Agriculture, pp. 817, 1039.

42 American Farmer, Vol. I, pp. 301-302.

43 Edmund Ruffin, "Sketch of the Progress of Agriculture in Virginia, and the
Causes of its Decline, and Present Depression," Farmers' Register, Vol. Ill, No.
12 (April, 1836), p. 759.

44 Farmers' Register. Vol. II, No. 10 (March, 1835), p. 612.

45 Farmers' Register. Vol. I, No. 10 (March, 1834), p. 630.

46 Ibid.

47 Farmers' Register. Vol. I, No. 9 (February, 1834), p. 553.

48 Farmers' Register. Vol. I, No. 3 (August, 1833), p. 186.

49 Frederick Wood ["Kennersley," Northumberland County] to George Wood
[Washington, D.C.], April 10, 1830. Letter in Kenner MSS, Northumberland
County Historical Society, Heathsville, Virginia.

50 Westmoreland County Deeds & Wills (MSS), Book 26, pp. 286-293.

51 Farmers' Register. Vol. II, No. 10 (March, 1835), p. 612.

52 Frederick Law Olmsted, A Journey in the Seaboard Slave States, with
Remarks on their Economv\ 1856], (New York: Negro Universi'ies Press, 1968),
p. 213; also see pp. 55-57, 273-274, 279.

53 See, for example, Farmers' Register, Vol. IX, No. 9 (September 30, 1841),
pp. 556-557.

54 DeBow's Review, Vol. XIII, No. 6 (December, 1852), p. 627.

55 DeBow's Review, Vol. IX, No. 2 (August, 1850), p. 203; Vol. XIII, No. 6
(December, 1852), p. 628; American Farmer, Vol. IX, No. 4 (October, 1853),
p. 110; Vol. IX, No. 11 (May, 1854), p. 347.

56 DeBow's Review, Vol. XIII, No. 6 (December, 1852), p. 628.

57 Craven, Soil Exhaustion, p. 149; also, DeBow's Review. Vol. XIV, No. 5 (May,
1853), p. 472; Vol. XVI, No. 5 (May, 1854), pp. 495-461.

58 Craven, Soil Exhaustion, p. 148; DeBow's Review, Vol. XIII, No. 6 (Decem-
ber, 1852), p. 629.

59 George Fitzhugh, "The Northern Neck of Virginia," DeBow's Review, Vol.
XXVII, No. 3 (September, 1859), p. 282.

60 Willoughby Newton, address before the Rappahannock Agricultural and
Mechanical Society, November 10, 1853, in American Farmer, Vol. IX (New
Series), No. 11 (May, 1854), p. 347.

61 DeBow's Review, Vol. XV, No. 3 (September, 1853), p. 308.

62 Ibid. p. 309.

63 George Fitzhugh, "The Valleys of Virginia The Rappahannock," DeBow's
Review. Vol. XXVI, No. 3 (March, 1859), p. 269.

64 Ibid., p. 276.

65 Ibid. p. 279.

66 The Fredericksburg News. Vol. VIII, No. 55 (January 15, 1855).

67 Fitzhugh, "The Valleys of Virginia," p. 270.

90

'ia ' y

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XVII

June, 1978

DEPENDENCY UNBENDS: CASE
STUDIES IN INTER-AMERICAN RELATIONS

RECEIVED

JUL 3 11978

Published By

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

A Division of the University System of Georgia

CARROLLTON, GEORGIA

STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XVII June, 1978

DEPENDENCY UNBENDS: CASE
STUDIES IN INTER-AMERICAN RELATIONS

CONTENTS

Page
Contributors iii

Foreword John C. Upchurch v

Preface Robert H. Claxton vi

A Shared Prosperity: W.R. Grace & Company and

Modern Peru, 1852-1952 Lawrence A. Clayton 2

Our Man in Honduras: Washington S.

Valentine Kenneth V. Finney 13

Diplomatic Dullard: The Career of Thomas Sumter, Jr. and
Diplomatic Relations of the United States with the
Portuguese Court in Brazil, 1809-1821 Phil Brian Johnson 21

The Personnel Approach to United States Relations with

Chile, 1823-1850 T. Ray Shurbutt 37

The Piatt Amendment and Dysfunctional Politics in Cuba:

The Electoral Crises of 1916-1917 Louis A. Perez, Jr. 49

United States Involvement in Panamanian Politics during

Taft's Administration Frank Gerome 61

John Wesley Butler and the

Mexican Revolution, 1910-1911 Richard Millett 73

Carleton Beals on the Ambiguities of Revolutionary

Change in Mexico and Peru John A. Britton 89

Mexican Oil Diplomacy and the

Legacy of Teapot Dome James J. Horn 99

i

TITLES IN PRINT

Vol. II, 1963, Georgia in Transition.

Vol. Ill, 1964, The New Europe.

Vol. IV, 1965, The Changing Role of Government.

Vol. V, 1966, Issues in the Cold War.

Vol. VII, 1968, Social Scientists Speak on Community Development.

Vol. VIII, 1969, Some Aspects of Black Culture.

Vol. XI, 1972, Georgia Diplomats and Nineteenth Century Trade
Expansion.

Vol. XII, 1973, Geographic Perspectives on Southern Development.

Vol. XIII, 1974, American Diplomatic History: Issues and Methods.

Price, each title, $2.00

Vol. XIV, 1975, Political Morality, Responsiveness, and Reform
in America.

Vol. XV, 1976, The American Revolution: The Home Front.

Vol. XVI, 1977, Essays on the Human Geography of the
Southeastern United States.

Price, each title, $3.00

Copyright c 1978, West Georgia College

Printed in U.S.A.

Thomasson Printing Co., Carrollton, Georgia 30117

Price, $3.00

West Georgia College is an
Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity Employer

CONTRIBUTORS

CLAYTON, LAWRENCE A., is Associate Professor at the University
of Alabama in Tuscaloosa. He received his Ph.D. from Tulane University
in 1972 and has published articles in the Hispanic American Historical
Review, Journal of Latin American Studies, The Americas, Latin Amer-
ican Research Review. Revista del Archivo Historico del Guayas, and
others. His Los astilleros de Guayaquil colonial: historia de una industria
will be published in Guayaquil in 1978.

FINNEY, KENNETH V., who received his Ph.D. from Tulane, is pre-
sently Assistant Professor at North Carolina Wesleyan College at Rocky
Mount. He was granted a Shell Foundation Fellowship and is a Danforth
Associate. His articles have appeared in the Revista del Archivo y
Biblioteca Nacional (Honduras) and in R.L. Watson, Ed., Urbanization
and Agriculture: A Problem in National Modernization (1976).

JOHNSON, PHIL BRIAN, Associate Professor at San Francisco State
University, also received a doctorate from Tulane. He is the author of
several works on the life of Rui Barbosa. His articles have appeared in
the Journal of Inter-American Studies and World Affairs. The Americas,
and the Revista do Instituto Historico e Geogrdfico Brasileiro. Dr.
Johnson serves on the editorial boards of the Proceedings of the Pacific
Coast Council on Latin American Studies and The New Scholar. In
addition to a Fulbright-Hays Fellowship for research in Brazil, he has
received grants from the Organization of American States and the
Department of Health, Education, and Welfare.

SHURBUTT, THOMAS RAY, received his A.B. from West Georgia
College in 1965 and his Ph.D. from the University of Georgia in 1971.
From 1967-1972, he taught at Albany Junior College. Since 1972, he has
been Coordinator of Latin American Studies at Georgia Southern Col-
lege. His major research area is mid-nineteenth century Chile.

PEREZ, LOUIS A., is Associate Professor at the University of South
Florida in Tampa, having received his doctorate in 1970 from the Uni-
versity of New Mexico. The recipient of a Ford Foundation Fellowship,
Dr. Perez is the author of over two dozen articles which have appeared
in the Hispanic American Historical Review, Inter-American Economic
Affairs, The Americas, Science and Society, Journal of Latin American
Studies, and the South Eastern Latin Americanist. His four books
include Army Politics in Cuba, 1898-1958 (1976). His current research
focuses upon Cuba during the era of the Piatt Amendment.

in

GEROME, FRANK A., received his doctorate from Kent State University
and is presently Associate Professor at James Madison University in
Harrisonburg, Virginia. His recent article relatedto Taft's policy toward
Latin America was published in the SECOLAS Annals in March, 1977.

MILLETT, RICHARD, received his A.B. from Harvard and Ph.D. from
New Mexico. He is currently Professor of History at Southern Illinois
University at Edwardsville and Chairman of the Committee on Central
American-Caribbean Studies of the Conference on Latin American
History. He is the author of Guardians of the Dynasty and some fifteen
articles. With Marvin Will, he edited The Restless Caribbean which will
be published late in 1978.

BRITTON, JOHN A., is Associate Professor at Francis Marion College.
He holds the A.B. from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill
and the Ph.D. from Tulane. His publications include Educacion y radi-
calisms) en Mexico, 1931-1940 (1976) and articles in Historia Mexicana,
Journal of Latin American Studies and The Americas.

HORN, JAMES J., is Associate Professor at State University College of
New York at Brockport and Director of the SUNY Overseas Academic
Program in Cuernavaca, Mexico. A former president of the New York
State Latin Americanists, he has published several articles on United
States-Latin American relations. He is currently writing about health
and socio-economic development in Latin America.

IV

FOREWORD

This volume continues the precedent of utilizing the services of a
volume editor working under the loose supervision of a general editor,
a policy begun with the 1973 issue of Studies in the Social Sciences.
Responsibility for selecting the theme of the present volume, the nine
papers herein included, and initial editorial refinement was that of the
volume editor. The role of the general editor was limited to broad con-
sultation with the volume editor, final editing, and liaison with the editor.

Volume topics for the past six issues of Studies have rotated among
various social science disciplines. This year's issue devolved to the
History Department, and it was the decision of the volume editor to
produce an issue in which several Latin American scholars explore
aspects of the dependency theory. The editors believe that this collec-
tion of essays represent significant contributions to the field of Latin
American history by reason of their using new sources, exploring new
areas, and employing new theoretical approaches.

As in the past, this journal is financed partially by The University
System of Georgia. It is distributed gratis to libraries of state supported
colleges and universities in Georgia, and to selected institutions of
higher education in each southern state. Interested individuals or li-
braries may purchase copies for S3. 00 each to help defray printing and
mailing costs. Standing orders for the annual series are available at
reduced rates.

It is with considerable pleasure that the editors submit to you this
volume on Latin America.

John C. Upchurch
Professor and Chairman
Department of Geography
General Editor

PREFACE

No modern nation is independent. Citizens of one nationality regu-
larly become involved in the affairs of other countries through commer-
cial, financial, diplomatic, political, religious, media, and other channels.
Even so, only in recent years have historians given attention to the
systematic study of this matter.

Developing an analytic model aids the investigator by demonstra-
ting a possible relationship between seemingly isolated events, by guiding
the researcher into new areas of study, and by enabling the specialist to
project behavior patterns. During the past decade, perhaps by default,
dependency theory has emerged as a popular theoretical point of departure.

Dependency theory has certain fundamental assumptions. (1) In
every society, there are two classes: the ruling elite which, by monopo-
lizing power, controls the powerless majority. (2) The government serves
only the elite. There is essential continuity in foreign policy which joins
together the elite interests of different nations. (3) Such a fusing of
interests is of far greater benefit to the elite in the nation with the
greatest quantity of technology, surplus capital, and merchandise to
export. The ruling classes elsewhere are satisfied with lesser status and
gain as agents of their superior counterparts. In effect, their nations are
underdeveloped economic colonies, exporting raw materials to a devel-
oped metropolis. (4) Business firms built upon this unified linkage sys-
tem must maximize profits to survive. Metropolitan decision-makers
have no choice except to perpetuate the dependency of the colonies by
regulating credit, supporting authoritarian government, and preventing
the growth of competitive modernization by remitting profits from the
periphery to the center of the system. (5) Ultimately, this movement of
capital internationalizes the class conflict inherent in individual societies.
An organized and enlightened working class majority will reorient pro-
duction decisions away from profit-taking and toward meeting basic
human needs without interpersonal and international exploitation.

Proponents of dependency theory have reminded others that power
is not allotted equally. They challenge researchers to investigate the
holders of power and their methods of acquiring and retaining it. Never-
theless, they often speak in generalities, confuse cause with effect, and
find psychological security in gathering for a service of inflexible, reaf-
firming liturgy at professional meetings. Dependency assumptions need
to be respected, but they also need to be tried and modified by many
case studies.

Each essay in this volume makes a contribution relevant to that end
and leaves questions for additional study. Lawrence Clayton delves into
the history of one particular nineteenth century firm which rapidly grew
into a diversified transnational, due more to fortuitous circumstances
than to deliberate design. More individual business histories are welcome
if less than diehard supporters can have access to company records.

vi

Private enterprise indeed seeks public instrumentalities to support its
goals, according to Kenneth Finney who nonetheless offers a variant
theoretical basis. Phil Johnson and Ray Shurbutt demonstrate that early
United States envoys to Brazil and Chile definitely tried to serve the
commercial elite, but such representatives did not fare terribly well in
that endeavor. Johnson reiterates the fact that neutral maritime principles
set forth in Washington in the years before the War of 1812 were sub-
stantive issues in South Atlantic relations. Shurbutt describes State
Department personnel in Chile as interfering in local affairs as much as
any businessman might. Yet vast distance from the metropolis and per-
sonal incompetence precluded any effective and coherent policy toward
the Southern Cone.

Frank Gerome and Louis Perez provide two examples of ambitious
Caribbean parties actively cultivating United States involvement as they
played protectorate politics. Enticed into that web, the State Depart-
ment further entangled itself in legalism and moralism. Manipulating
people with the possibility of having the Marines sent in was as powerful
a force as their actual presence.

Most United States citizens have known Latin America only indi-
rectly, generally through the secular press and often through missionary
reports to church memberships. Richard Millett shows researchers that
missionaries who ventured where other North Americans seldom went
left frequently overlooked accounts of social and political conditions.
Millett presents a Methodist leader, preoccupied with support for the
established order, but caught up in the early events of the Mexican
Revolution. John Wesley Butler favored moral regeneration and abhorred
armed intervention or upheaval. John Britton calls attention to the fact
that the degree to which correspondents interpret events accurately
determines how the North American public reacts. He presents journalist
Carleton Beals as an example of a sophisticated analyst of rural moderni-
zation in Latin America. Of course, not all religious figures have been as
staid as Butler nor all reporters as perceptive as Beals. Finally, James
Horn examines the vehicles within the United States for expressing
public sentiment about Latin American policy and the reasons why
there was no direct involvement in Mexico despite the sheer size of the
challenged oil interests.

Latin American studies has been a frequent theme for essays in the

West Georgia College Studies in the Social Sciences. Eugene R. Huck

edited Volume VI which contained the 1967 papers of the Southeastern

Conference on Latin American Studies. Volumes I, V, VIII, and XI also

included selections on Latin America in relation to other themes. Volume

XVII therefore continues and expands this tradition with contributions

from several states, discussing several Latin American nations.

Robert H. Claxton

Associate Professor of History

Volume Editor
vii

Vlll

A SHARED PROSPERITY:

W.R. GRACE & COMPANY

AND MODERN PERU, 1852-1952*

By Lawrence A. Clayton

In the language of social scientists the term "modernization" has
been interpreted in one sense to mean the emergence of a nation or
people into the industrial and, in some cases, the post-industrial age,
with all the accompanying assets and ills that one commonly associates
with a modern, industrialized state. Almost, if not actually all, of the
contemporary practitioners that concern themselves in one way or
another with this phenomenon the sociologists, the political scientists,
the economists, and those few individuals whose mastery of the inter-
disciplinary approach makes them difficult to categorize borrow from
the historical background of their subject. In effect, they are all historians
before they pass into the realm of their own disciplines. Nonetheless, the
crucial framework for their studies, analyses, and paradigm-building
is historical in nature.

Keeping the above in mind, the study encompassed by the title to
this article deals with modernization from an historical perspective. The
subject, W. R. Grace and Company, actively fostered change and devel-
opmentaspects of modernization through its commercial, agricultural,
and industrial activities in Peru.

When a young Irishman named William Russell Grace arrived at
Callao in 1852 he entered a country that had only tentatively been
brushed by the modern age. It was a nation steeped in traditional ways
and marked by rhythms more in consonance with its Incaic and Hispanic
origins than those of the dynamic, industrializing nations of Europe and
North America. When Grace's grandson, Joseph Peter, accepted the
final expropriation in the 1960s of the last major properties owned by
the company founded by his grandfather, a great portion of Peru had
emerged, for better or worse, into the age called "modern". W. R. Grace
& Co. was certainly neither strictly nor exclusively the handmaiden that
accompanied Peru in this dramatic century. Yet this company introduced
more commercial enterprises, more modern technologies, more indus-
tries, and more of the sinews of a modern and international transporta-
tion system than any other agency, company, or individual in that

*This article is an extended version of a paper presented at the Southern His-
torical Association meeting in New Orleans (November 12, 1977). The author
wishes to acknowledge gratefully The University of Alabama Research Grants
Committee for assistance during the summer of 1977.

1

period. Furthermore, the relationship between company and country
was more often marked by cooperation and mutual regard in contrast to
the adversary tone that developed so commonly between major United
States corporations and Latin American nations in this same period.

When Grace began operations in the early 1850s, Peru remained
largely on the fringes of the rapidly industrializing states of the northern
hemisphere. There the textile manufacturer of Manchester, the iron
maker of the Ruhr, and the railroad entrepreneur of New York all de-
pended ultimately upon an expanding labor pool and an expanding
market. These were, in turn, knit together with increasing efficiency by
a rapidly developing transportation system based upon the utilization
of the remarkable steam engine. In 1850 in Peru there existed no rail-
roads, no iron foundries of scale, no mechanized textile mills, and very
few people with an urge to change the cast and character of the nation's
society and economy. Then in the 1840s a dramatic transformation oc-
curred. Compacted bird droppings, guano, that had accumulated for
centuries on islands off the Peruvian coast suddenly gained the attention
of farmers in those very countries of Europe and North America that
were currently in the vanguard of the industrial revolution. Between
1840 and 1847 the export of guano jumped from 6,125 tons to 100,000
tons; ten years later over 600,000 tons were being exported.1 By 1860
"guano had become one of the largest of all Latin American exports . . .
worth over $24,000,000." 2 Peru was being integrated as a major exporter
into the machinery that drove the developing economies of the indus-
trializing countries.

Guano itself was not an unknown ingredient. It has been in use for
hundreds of years in Peru to enrich the soil when European and Ameri-
can farmers discovered its remarkable potency in the 1830s and 1840s. 3
Rapid agricultural growth that underpinned the rise of the industrial
state placed a premium on these bird droppings rich in nitrogen that
were collected from the Chincha Islands off southern Peru. By the time
young Grace appeared in Callao, scores of European and American
ships were making regular calls at the islands to load the fertilizer.

William Grace had arrived in Peru at the age of nineteen with a
group of Irish immigrants who were slated to work on a sugar plantation
near Lima. This group of immigrants had been drive from Ireland by
famine and hard times like so many others of their countrymen in that
era. However, they failed to prosper in Peru and either succumbed to
disease or moved on within a year or two of their arrival.4 Young Grace
neither died nor moved on and soon found employment with a firm of
English ship chandlers named John Bryce & Company. Grace had left
Ireland earlier when thirteen, worked in New York for a short while,
returned to his home country and then landed in Peru with the group of
erstwhile colonizers. Why he stayed one can only surmise. Peru can be
heady and exotic for many foreigners, and Grace was certainly enchanted,

as would be other members of his family in succeeding years. One sus-
pects a good job exerted equal attraction to this ambitious young man,
and John Bryce & Co. was just then riding the crest of the mid-century
guano boom in its business of provisioning and refitting ships engaged
in the trade.

Early in his career, Grace showed a critical sense of timing and
opportunity that very seldom failed him for the next half century. Most
of the guano ships had to proceed to Callao after loading at the Chincha
Islands to revictual and refit for the voyage home. Grace proposed an
innovation to his bosses at John Bryce: why not moor a supply ship
permanently at the islands, pre-empting competitors and thus giving
ships a much quicker and more profitable turnaround time. In 1855
Grace set up the storeship with himself as storekeeper. Not only were
standard ships' stores dispensed canvas, tackles, tar, blocks, pitch, but
Grace acted as middleman for the fresh fruits, meats, and vegetables
that were imported from the port of Pisco for the fleet. When he
departed the Chincha Islands in 1862, Grace had made a sizeable profit
for himself and John Bryce, and had acquired a wife as well, the
daughter of an American ship captain on the guano trade.

During the decades of the sixties and seventies, Grace expanded his
interest in John Bryce. The arrival in Peru of his younger brother
Michael P. and a nephew James Eyre from Ireland, who were all em-
ployed by John Bryce, helped to transform that old firm so that by 1867
William and Michael had become partners with the two Bryce brothers.
The Bryces were eventually bought out entirely by the Graces, and in
1876 the firm, which originally had been taken over from Pablo Vivero
by his son-in-law John Bryce, became Grace Brothers & Company.

William had departed Peru in 1865 as a result if illness. He moved
to New York where he was to live the rest of his life and established
himself in 1866 in an office near Hanover Square next to his father-in-
law's (Captain George Gilchrest of Maine) ship chandler's business.
From here Grace began to trade with Peru. He chartered and acquired
minority interests in downeasters and sent them to South America
loaded with European and North American goods such as textiles, sew-
ing machines, glassware, lamps, tools and medicines.- From Peru Grace
imported guano and nitrates, a product for which Grace was the con-
signee in New York. Meanwhile, a brother of William's, John W., estab-
lished a branch office in 1873 in San Francisco to take advantage of the
brisk trade in lumber from Oregon destined for the construction of rail-
roads on the west coast of South America, and wheat which was shipped
to New York and then to markets in Europe. W. R. Grace & Company
had been formed in 1871 as a partnership with Michael and a young man
called Charles Flint to help take care of the expanding business. Flint
later split with the Graces and founded the United States Rubber
Company, but in the early 1870s his business acumen and his shipbuild-

ing father of Maine were both important attributes in the slowly expand-
ing commercial network being created by William. Especially important
was the Graces' role in the 1870s as the chief purveyors for Henry
Meiggs, the amazing Yankee railroad building entrepreneur who visu-
alized and commenced some truly bold projects before he died in 1877.
The War of the Pacific (1879-1883) shattered this euphoric period for
Peru, but it ushered in a new era for William Grace.

In 1880 he was elected the first foreign-born mayor of New York
in a turn from business to politics. He ran for mayor on the Democratic
ticket as a reformer supported by Tammany Hall, which for many years
had existed almost as a caricature of graft and corruption in city politics
and was trying to change its image. Grace's gravitation to politics was
naturally born of an instinct for power. In 1880 he had taken part in the
national Democratic Convention in Cincinnati. Furthermore he had
always cultivated friends among the Democrats of New York. Being
Catholic and Irish (although by now naturalized) certainly made him
sensitive to a growing percentage of New York's voters who themselves
were foreign-born and Catholic. The mayoralty campaign of 1880 was,
nonetheless, close, and an incident from his earlier presence in Peru
helped to get him elected. Republicans were making much of Grace's
origins (Irish), his long residence abroad (Peru), and drawing the con-
clusion for campaign purposes that Grace was thus unfit to hold an
American office. The first two claims were of course true. The conclu-
sion, however, backfired. In 1862 two Union cruisers had put into Callao
when news of the Union cause during the Civil War was particularly
distressing. No Peruvian institution would honor the drafts which their
paymaster, a Mr. Eldridge, offered in order to pay off the crews and buy
much needed supplies. Someone sent Eldridge to Grace who "leaned
back in his chair and said: 'I have faith in the Union and will give you all
the money you need.'"h That story helped to swing sentiment and as-
sisted Grace in winning the election, however apocryphal or true the
tale may have been.

Once in office he turned against Tammany Hall and instituted a
series of reforms that included reorganizing the street department to
clean up an unsanitary and filthy situation and reforming part of the tax
structure. During this term Grover Cleveland, then a reforming mayor
of Buffalo, was nominated for governor by the Democratic party. Grace
helped him in this endeavor and secured a friendship that propelled him
further into national circles as Cleveland moved closer to and finally
into the White House in 1885.

Grace ended his term in 1883 but was reelected again in 1885 when
Cleveland dramatically moved into the presidency. The race for the
chief executive had been particularly close in New York, and Grace's
most successful campaign for mayor (winning by more than 10,000
votes) was credited with aiding Cleveland in carrying the state in the

national election. Grace continued his opposition to Tammany, and his
reformist policies included balancing the budget and better organizing
the Police Department, while Michael Grace, then also in New York,
oversaw the business. By the mayor's second term it was clear that the
disastrous War of the Pacific had created grave problems for Peru and
Grace Brothers. Michael Grace returned to Peru in 1886 and William
returned to business which, in truth, he had never left entirely during
his public service.

The War of the Pacific had stripped Peru of its rich nitrate fields in
the south claimed and occupied by the victorious Chileans , had
increased the tremendous debt that Peruvians had already incurred over
the past decades to European creditors (debts secured by the rapidly
depleting guano resources and the lost nitrate fields), and had humiliated
the Peruvian nation. The most active financial crisis centered on about
$260,000,000 in bonds held by European (largely English) investors
which could not be serviced or redeemed. Until this debt was satisfactorily
arranged, Peru possessed no credit and little chance of recovering from
the war. The Grace family interests had been closely allied to the state
of the Peruvian economy every since William had landed at Callao at
mid-century, and thus it was not unnatural for Michael to take a deep
interest in the post-war situation, especially with reference to the debt.

Not only had the Graces lost substantial revenue from the eclipse of
the Peruvian guano and nitrate trades the former because of depletion
and the latter because of the loss of nitrate-rich territories to Chile
but the acquisiton of interests in the still uncompleted Central Railroad
of Peru to the potentially rich silver and copper mines of La Oroya and
Cerro de Pasco made Michael Grace particularly sensitive to the Peru-
vian plight. It was, after all, not only a Peruvian but also a Grace prob-
lem. In this situation Michael Grace led the negotiations for five years,
1885-1890, among the interested parties: the bondholders of London,
the Peruvian government and on behalf of his own concessions in the
uncompleted railroads and in the mining regions of central Peru. The
settlement finally reached, called the Grace-Donoughmore Contract,
forced both sides into some harsh compromises. The bondholders formed
themselves into the Peruvian Corporation and agreed to liquidate the
immense debt in favor of receiving the following main concessions:
control of the railroads of Peru for a period of sixty-six years and a gov-
ernment subvention of 80,000 a year based on customs revenue to
finance further construction of the railroads. The Corporation also
assumed the obligation of completing the Central Railroad to La Oroya.
Michael Grace himself benefitted from the arrangements in two ways:
through commissions; and by tying in his concessions on the Cerro de
Pasco mining property and the proposed railroad to that area which he
had acquired from Henry Meiggs' inheritors. While the complicated
financial maneuvers have never been fully unraveled, the Grace Con-

tract a controversial political subject in Peru as one might suspect-
removed a major obstacle in Peru's ability to generate foreign loans,
subsidies and, ultimately, good credit at all levels.7

Michael Grace had arrived in Peru at the age of nine, had been
educated in Peruvian schools, and had always been closer to the country
than his older brother. Nonetheless, William had supported Michael
fully during the negotiations that led to the settlement of the debt. Cer-
tainly there is no specific period to which one can allude as the formative
one in the association of Grace interests with Peruvian interests; how-
ever, the difficult negotiations undertaken by Michael Grace between
1885-1890 reinforced his personal and business commitments to that
country, and probably did more to "peruvianize" the Grace enterprises
than any other set of events in the nineteenth century.

As the Grace business slowly recovered in concert with the crippled
Peruvian economy, William Grace in New York expanded his activity
in shipping, and at the end of the century incorporated the Grace part-
nerships in Connecticut as W. R. Grace & Company. Trading had always
been at the heart of the Grace enterprises, and it was natural to include
shipping as a major interest. Grace had been chartering ships to haul
goods between Peru and North America as early as the 1870s and by the
1880s he had purchased some vessels and organized them into the
Merchants' Line. In 1898 Grace, along with a New York banker Levi P.
Morgan, bought the concession from the Nicaraguan government to
build and operate a trans-isthmian canal. The object, of course, was to
shorten the long voyage from North America's East Coast to South
America's West Coast and acquire a distinct advantage over European
competitors who still controlled the bulk of Peruvian trade at the turn
of the century. The Grace/Morgan interests were ultimately out-
maneuvered in Congress by the advocates of a canal across the isthmus
at Panama. Nonetheless the benefits to be acquired from such a canal
accrued to W. R. Grace & Co. and the United States as equally as if it
had been built at any other point on the isthmus. When the canal
opened for business in 1914, it was no meaningless coincidence that a
Grace-owned ship was the first commercial vessel to steam north through
this path of water. Grace Lines were organized in 1916, and the char-
acteristic green, black and white striped funnels atop Grace Lines' ships
became the most visible symbol of Grace in Peru and along the West
Coast of South America generally for the next half century.

The acquisition of a sugar estate near Trujillo in Northern Peru in
1883 presaged a new direction for the Grace brothers in that country.
The 5,800 acre Alzamora property named Cartavio became Grace
property in the settlement of a debt, and in 1891 Grace organized the
Cartavio Sugar Company to manage and operate this sizable sugar
plantation in the Chicama Valley. During the course of the next two or
three decades, most of the cane growing properties in the Valley were

consolidated into three major estates, one each owned by the Gilde-
meister family, the Larco family, and Grace. Production and efficiency
increased with consolidation, and Grace's investment (by default initially)
in this area furthered the company's identification with the Peruvian
economy.8

Grace expansion into the productive and industrial sectors was
hastened in 1904 through the acquisition of the Inca Cotton Mill and in
1914 through a part ownership in the Vitarte Mill. In 1927 Grace fur-
thered its presence in the textile industry by acquiring the La Victoria
Mill and assumed a majority position among Peruvian textile manufacturers.

At this point it might be of benefit to take stock briefly of Grace's
activities from the 1850s to the First World War and see how they have
been wedged into various theories social scientists invoke today to
explain the past. Very simply, two divergent theories have evolved over
the past several decades.4 One is the diffusionist, and the other is the
dependency explanation of modernization. The diffusionist views the
gradual extension of the benefits of modernization (manifested by indi-
cators ranging from complex formulae to determine the rise of real
wages to the number of flush toilets per capita) as an evolutionary pro-
cess radiating from the first areas to industrialize (Europe and North
America) in ever-widening circles that eventually ripple through the
farthest reaches of the developing world. The dependency theorist
views the retention and reinforcement of a colonial relationship between
the First and Third Worlds. This relationship inhibits the real spread of
benefits by chaining the under-developed areas (the periphery) into a
lockstep economy which only exists to serve the needs of the developed
world (the metropolis). The complexities and nuances associated with
each theory and its many branches can often leave the historian asking
himself the simple question, "but what happened to' the facts?"

Grace's activities from mid-nineteenth century to the early twentieth
century have been cast almost mechanically into the form preferred by
the theory one advocates, or "ism" one subscribes to. The sinister school
views Grace acts as representations of imperialism which sought markets
and monies ruthlessly at the expense of everything native (native industry,
native independence, native pride). The opposing school interprets the
era no less myopically by rigidly excluding any truths and facts that
weigh negatively on the scales. The role that Michael Grace played in
settling the Peruvian debt after the War of the Pacific well demonstrates
the problem. In one scenario, Grace is cast as the devil. He helps to
alienate great portions of the Peruvian patrimony (such as the railroads
and the mines) and collects handsome commissions and other compen-
sations that callously ignore the damage to the Peruvian nation. His
alter-ego, on the other hand, sacrifices his time and his energy in
helping the Peruvian government come to an essential understanding
with the bondholders, and in the process Grace demonstrates an undiluted

love of the patria Peru which has become his adopted country. Analy-
zing the influence of foreign investments abroad forms part of the larger
theme of modernization.10 In this respect, historical analysis free of
doctrinal restraints can be the most valid way to study and properly
interpret such incidents as the Grace contract. Michael Grace's behavior,
in the context of his time, was neither reprehensible nor free of criticism.
It represented an advance of capitalism with concurrent benefits to the
individual and the country. Until more of the facts are revealed, other
interpretations of the Grace contract appear distorted by prior concepts
of capital's role in the development of Peru."

W. R. Grace & Co. grew and prospered during the era of the First
World War. That cataclysmic drama in Europe proved fruitful for
United States enterprises abroad which prospered under the banner of
neutrality until 1917 and then as victorious and healthy competitors-
unencumbered by the effects of the war that ravaged the European con-
tinent and its population in the post-war era. Grace Lines grew rapidly
from 1916 into the decade of the 1920s, especially spurred on by short-
ages and high freight rates directly attributable to the war and its conse-
quences. The company expanded its operations in Peru in the manu-
facture and distribution of textiles and continued as the country's major
importer and exporter. The establishment of the International Machinery
Company (IMACO) in 1920 helped secure Grace's position in the impor-
tation and service of much of the hard and software that flowed into
Peru. IMACO was or became the sole distributor for such firms as
General Electric, Socony- Vacuum, Royal Typewriter, B. F. Goodrich,
and Bucyrus-Eire.12

Further expansion in the sugar business and an important new addi-
tion in the novel and rapidly developing field of air transportation were
made by the company during the Oncenio years (named after President
Augusto Leguia's eleven year tenure from 1919-1930). In 1927 the 6,900
acre Paramonga sugar plantation, located about 120 miles north of Lima
in the Pativilca Valley, was purchased. Ten years later it became the site
of one of the most original and ultimately successful industrial operations
ever sponsored in Latin America by a major United States corporation.

More romantic and equally lucrative as well was Grace's pioneer
efforts done in tandem with Pan American Airways to bring interna-
tional air service to Peru and other portions of the West Coast of South
America. The Germans, through their Condor Line, and the French in
Brazil had already begun operations in parts of Latin America when
Grace and Pan Am formed Pan American-Grace Airways (Panagra) in
1928 as a joint effort with each subscribing $500,000 and receiving a fifty
percent interest in the new company. By the middle 1930s Panagra was
operating two flights a week north and two south on Douglas craft from
South America to the United States (Buenos Aires, Montevideo, Santiago,
Lima, Guayaquil, Cristobal, and Miami) and utilizing refinished Ford

trimotors to haul cargoes within Peru to areas considered almost inac-
cessible before the advent of the airplane.13

The decade of the 1930s, however, severely upset the world order,
triggered momentous events in Peru and forced Grace to adjust to a
depression economy. Diminished profits caused by a shrinkage in trade
and severe drops in the prices of commodities world-wide including
sugar that Grace grew and exported from Peru catalyzed chemical
research within the company with the goal of upgrading some products
and perhaps producing some new ones to help revitalize Grace interests
and profits in Peru.14

Beginning in 1931 preliminary research in the small laboratory at
Hacienda Cartavio was undertaken to explore the various alternatives
for utilizing the by-products of the sugar making process. Rum under the
label Ron Cartavio began to be produced, but rum in itself was a well
known derivative from molasses. Several other possible avenues were
explored before settling on the promise of employing bagasse (the fiber
residue that remains after the juices have been ground out of the cane)
to make a corrugating medium (the fluted material that goes between
the liner board) for the manufacture of cardboard. Or, why not try to
make paper products from bagasse commercially? It is important to
emphasize that no new techniques as such were being invented. The
uniqueness of research was inherent in the combination of various pro-
cesses already known to the world of the sugar producer and the paper
maker.

In 1935 a small board and paper mill in Whippany, New Jersey was
leased by Grace to be used as a pilot plant. Bagasse was imported from
Cartavio and the experiments commenced. A successful batch of cor-
rugating medium was manufactured from the bagasse mixed with some
wood pulp, the traditional source of paper. This corrugating medium
was marketed in the New York area and the engineers and technicians
pioneering the process then received the approval of the company's
major officers to purchase a paper mill and install it at Paramonga. The
machinery was made to order for Grace by the German firm of Voit and
in 1937 and 1938 it was shipped from Bremen and Hamburg to Peru.
In 1939 the paper mill went on line and within a year Paramonga was
turning a profit based on this pioneering process.15 During the war years
another paper machine was purchased in the United States to expand
Paramonga's line of products. Heavy sacks of concrete, boxes for con-
sumer products, bags for groceries, and a host of other paper and card-
board items filtered rapidly into the Peruvian commercial system and
facilitated the modernization of the country.

The Second World War forced improvisation on a world wide scale
to make up for lost suppliers (witness the German manufacture of syn-
thetic oil), and Grace engineers were forced to innovate as well. Caustic
soda was necessary in the papermaking process, but it became quite

scarce during the war. The knotty problem was solved by the electrolysis
of salt, available in large quantities along the Peruvian coast, which pro-
duced caustic soda. Chlorine and muriatic acid were derived from this
process as well. By the 1960s these by-products were in turn being
broken down by high technology operations that yielded polyvinyl chlo-
ride, or PVC, a plastic basic to many diverse and modern industries. The
growing internal Peruvian market always absorbed the majority of Para-
monga's products, and these particular enterprises became bellweathers
for industrialized Peru.

A century after William Russell Grace had arrived in Peru, W. R.
Grace & Co. was described in the following years: "There is hardly a
Peruvian participating in the money economy of the country who does
not eat, wear, or use something processed, manufactured or imported
by Casa Grace."16 In 1953, W. R. Grace & Co. was the second largest
private employer in Peru with over 1 1,000 people working for the parent
company and its subsidiaries. Biscuits, textiles, sugar, paper, Panagra,
and myriads of other products and services were distributed by the old
trading company that still retained some of the original commercial
flavor imparted to it by its founder. Ninety-nine percent of its employees
in Peru were Peruvian and less than twenty percent of its payroll left
Peru, again perhaps in reflection of its long and intimate identification
with that country.

The purpose of this article was to present the barest overview of a
most remarkable company's association with a most remarkable country
during a dramatic century of rapid change and development some of
it exuberant and of tremendous benefit to the country, some of it tragic
and the agent of significant social and political problems. The longer
work slowly emerging from the research accomplished, as well as that
still to be done, will be more particular and interrelated with Peruvian
and United States history in general.

One theme that appears consistently when studying the presence of
Grace in the development of modern Peru is the lack of models political,
social, economic, abstract, or mechanistic that can be readily invoked
to explain the relationship. It is a complex country that has sought some
unique answers in response to the challenges of the modern world. The
almost symbiotic relationship that developed between Peru and Grace
in this era seems to imply that the concept of interdependency is as valid
as dependency in analyzing the modern history of Peru.

10

NOTES

1 Ernesto Yepes del Castillo, Peru, 1820-1920: un siglo de desarrollo capitalista
(Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 1971), p. 60; Jonathan V. Levin, The
Export Economies: Their Pattern of Development in Historical Perspective
(Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1960), p. 116.

2 Levin, Export Economies, p. 31.

3 W. M. Mathew, "Peru and the British Gudno Market, 1840-1870," Economic
History Review, 2nd ser., 23:1 (1970), 120 ff.; "Foreign Contractors and the
Peruvian Government at the Outset of the Guano Trade," Hispanic American
Historical Review, 52:4 (November, 1972fc 598-620, and; "A Primitive Export
Sector: Guano Production in Mid-Nineteenth Century Peru," Journal of Latin
American Studies, 9:1 (May, 1977), 35-57, has cornered the academic market on
this commodity. In all seriousness, the three articles surely must be the precursors
to the longer, coherent work on guano which students of nineteenth century
Peru and her relations with Europe and North America can hopefully anticipate
seeing in the future.

4 Many disparate sources exist for the early history of William Russell Grace
in Peru. See, for example, William S. Bollinger, "The Rise of United States In-
fluence in the Peruvian Economy, 1869-1921," (unpublished Master's Thesis,
UCLA, 1971), pp. 100 ff; J. Peter Grace, Jr., W. R. Grace (1832-1904) and the
Enterprises He Created (New York: Newcomen Society, 1953), p. 9 ff.; "Casa
Grace," Fortune 12:6 (December 1935), 158; and "Amazing Grace: The W. R.
Grace Corporation," North American Congress on Latin American (NACLA),
Latin America and Empire Report, 10:3, 2-3.

5 J. P. Grace, Jr., W. R. Grace and the Enterprises, 14.

6 "Casa Grace," Fortune, 12:6 (December, 1935), 158.

7 Rory Miller, "The Making of the Grace Contract: British Bondholders and the
Peruvian Government, 1885-1890," Journal of Latin American Studies, 8:1
(May, 1976), 73-100, is the best unraveler to date. See also Bollinger, pp. 128-136.

8 Peter F. Klaren, La formacion de las haciendas azucareras y los origenes del
Apra (Lima: Instituto de Estudios Peruanos, 1970), or the English version,
Modernization, Dislocation, and Aprismo: Origins of the Pentvian Aprista
Parly, 1870-1932 (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1973), describes the process
of consolidation well, but views this development as disruptive and negative.

9 C. Richard Bath and Dilmus D. James, "Dependency Analysis of Latin America:
Some Criticisms, Some Suggestions," Latin American Research Review, 11:3
(1976), 3-54, have written the sanest and most balanced review of dependency
literature to date. They posit the problems well, are rigorous in their critiques,
and even suggest some paths out of the labyrinth. See also Ronald H. Chilcote
and Joel C. Edelstein, eds., Latin America: The Struggle with Dependency and
Beyond (New York: John Wiley and Sons, 1974) for a provocative, albeit
slanted, interpretation of the dependency-diffusionist theories of modernization,
and David Ray, "The Dependency Model of Latin American Underdevelop-
ment," Journal of lnteramerican Studies, 15:1 (February, 1973), 4-20, for a well-
argued critique of the stereotyped oversimplifications which view all foreign
investments as "invariably exploitative and invariably detrimental to Latin Amer-
ican development."

10 Marvin D. Bernstein, ed., Foreign Investment in Latin America: Cases and
Attitudes (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1966), brought together a well-selected
group of essays that illustrate the problems of interpreting United States invest-
ments abroad.

11

11 My thanks to Barbara Tenebaum, Department of History, Vassar College,
whose comments on the original version of this article delivered as a paper at
the Southern Historical Association meeting, November 12, 1977, brought to my
attention many questions related to economic development in the nineteenth
and twentieth centuries that have to be answered in future research on Grace
and Peru.

12 Eugene W. Burgess and Frederick H. Harbison, United States Business Per-
formance Abroad: The Case Study of Casa Grace in Peru (National Planning
Association, 1954), p. 37.

11 "Casa Grace," Fortune, 12:6 (December, 1935), 164; Andrew B. Shea, Panagra:
Linking the Americas During 25 Years (New York: Newcomen Society, 1954);
"The Long Cold War of Panagra," Fortune, (June, 1952), 117 ff.

14 Robert Sobel, The Age of Giant Corporations: A Microeconomic History of
American Business, 1914-1970 (Westport, Conn.: Greenwood Press, 1972), p.
122, describes the retrenchment and technological advances that industries in
general made in the 1930s.

15 Burgess and Harbison, United States Business Performance, pp. 29-32.

16 Ibid., pp. 3-4.

12

OUR MAN IN HONDURAS:
WASHINGTON S. VALENTINE

By Kenneth V. Finney

For the most part, Honduran history has been written around the
careers of a group of larger-than-life individuals: such men as the Con-
quistador Hernan Cortes, the Liberator Francisco Morazan, and the
United Fruit Company Banana Baron Samuel Zemurray. Another name
that needs to be included on this list of Honduran "giants" is Washington
S. Valentine, whose active career in Honduras spanned the years 1880
to 1910.

Valentine was the son of a New York import-export merchant who
went to Honduras in 1880 to help manage his family's newly-begun silver
mine. Because Valentine knew next to nothing about mining, the Rosario
Mining Company's board of directors gave him the title of Secretary;
but he learned quickly and soon took charge of the company's works
perched on the mountainside above the village of San Juancito, ninety
miles north of Tegucigalpa, in the center of Honduras. Under Valentine's
careful guidance, Rosario developed into a lucrative mining venture
the "commanding height" of the backwater Honduran economy.1

As local representative of what quickly became the largest enter-
prise in the country, Valentine wielded considerable influence in Hon-
duras. To further consolidate his position, he forged close personal
relations with the small group of social elites in Tegucigalpa. He hosted
a steady round of well-attended parties, staged elaborately choreographed
excursions to the mines of San Juancito, and contributed generously to
worthy public projects.2 He clearly knew the value of goodwill gestures:
in 1887, for example, Valentine, while in the United States on vacation,
met sixteen young students, sons of the most prominent families in Hon-
duras, at the wharf in New York. For the next two days he led them in a
whirlwind tour of the city. Into those two days Valentine crowded a
supper at Martinelli's on Fifth Avenue, a party at Tony Pastoris", a
private champagne supper at the Hoffman House, a visit to the presses
of the New York World, and a stop at the Eden Mussee.1 "Si, Papa. Senor
Valentine es muy simpatico."

Valentine formed particularly close relations with Marcos Aurelio
Soto and Luis Bogran, presidents of Honduras during the 1880s and
1890s. The unequivocable success of Rosario, his mining company, pro-
vided highly visible, irrefutable vindication of these presidents' aggres-
sively developmentalist policies. Timely personal favors and a shower of
gifts did the rest.4 Valentine's "investments" in these two presidents paid
off in such benefits as generous tax concessions and presidential support
for the mining company whenever conflicts of interest broke out over
such scarce natural resources as water and timber.5

13

A particularly hard-fought land battle which erupted in 1888 illus-
trates the degree to which Valentine had insinuated himself into the
fabric of Honduran politics. The Rosario Mining Company had received
a land concession on which to build a new mill to process ore. Valentine
attempted to evict three long-time residents from homes located within
the boundaries of the concession. The threatened home owners took
him to court and, surprisingly, the lower, appelate, and supreme courts
all ruled against Valentine. Momentarily taken aback by this unusual
display of judicial independence, Valentine appealed to President Bogran.
Bogran obligingly over-turned the Supreme Court's decision by issuing
an executive fiat giving Valentine what he wanted. An official editorial
in the government newspaper noted that "The rights of mine owners
cannot, and should not, be subordinate to the dilatory and excessively
rigorous formalism of. . .court procedures."6 So much for due process!

Thus by using the personal touch to assure his mining enterprise a
smooth path, Valentine wrought two long-term transformations of the
Honduran political economy. In the first place, he accelerated and in-
tensified the dominance of the executive over other branches of govern-
ment. Secondly, he initiated a dependency-linked staple export economy
in Honduras that came to real fruition later during the heyday of the
Banana Republic!7

Valentine continued with Rosario until 1919, but as early as 1890,
he began widening his horizons. s His most ambitious endevor was
acquisition of the so-called Honduran Interoceanic Railroad as a base
from which to monopolize banana production in the country.9 Much
more than his earlier mining activity, Valentine's railroading career
thrust him into the forefront of Honduran-American relations.

In 1893 Valentine used his influence to lease a short stretch of
narrow gauge line already built from Puerto Cortes on the North Coast
of Honduras inland some fifty miles by British engineers at enormous
cost in the mid- 1800s. 10 For his rent he got a "poor old cripple toy loco-
motive", minus smoke stack and cow catcher, that coughed, wheezed,
and sputtered as it moved gingerly along rotten ties and rusty rails.
Portions of the line often sank into the ooze. Behind the engine trailed
a couple of miniature flat cars and a makeshift coach fashioned from an
abandoned box car.11

Unfortunately, in 1894 a bloody coup by self-proclaimed Liberals
wiped out Valentine's insider advantage.12 Nonetheless, because of his
prominent standing as manager of the country's foremost mining com-
pany, the new regime allowed Valentine to continue operating the rail-
road. But the Liberals insisted that he make come true the long-held
dream of a railroad from coast to coast. However. British bondholders
held a lien amounting to almost six million pounds sterling against the
railroad, and before Valentine could extend the railroad to the Pacific
Coast, he would have to settle with the bondholders.13

14

The bondholders bluntly rejected his first proposal to refund the
debt on a basis that would have scaled it down by three fourths.14 Smart-
ing but undaunted from this rebuff, Valentine induced a number of
American railroad magnates and financiers such as Cornelius Vander-
bilt, J. P. Morgan, and John Jacob Astor to join him in founding The
Honduras Syndicate.1' Valentine clearly intended to use this enormously
prestigious Honduras Syndicate to steamroll all opposition by sheer
magnitude of enterprise.

The cornerstone of the Syndicate venture was the Commercial
Bank of Honduras which Valentine chartered in 1897. This bank the
country's first not only proposed to handle Syndicate finances but was
also designated by charter to serve as fiscal agent of Honduras. As fiscal
agent, the bank received a special commission to settle the Honduran
debt. In short, Valentine could now face the bondholders assured of
official support: a very nice big "stick" to carry in the right hand. To
reassure the bondholders that Honduras would not immediately lapse
into default again, the Syndicate bank assumed joint management of the
country's custom houses, took over the coast guard to reduce smuggling,
and began operating the national mint.16

For several years, Valentine tried every trick in his bag to help the
Syndicate become established and forge ahead. His best efforts came to
naught. Exotic junkets aboard Astor's yacht to Honduras, media blitzs,
and intensive bargaining with the bondholders all proved counter-
productive. By the end of 1898, the Syndicate obviously had failed to
unravel the railroad Gordian Knot of debt. Valentine's frustrated sug-
gestion that Honduras cut the knot by repudiating the debt only
"shocked" capitalists on both sides of the Atlantic. Thereafter things
fell apart.17

By the turn of the century, Valentine realized the futility of attempt-
ing to secure the railroad by negotiation and enterprise. He did not,
however, relinquish his dreams for a railroad-banana monopoly; he
merely changed tactics. Thereafter, Valentine resorted to diplomatic
and legal threats. For instance, he once returned to Honduras aboard
an American gunboat to appear that he spoke for the U.S. Department
of State in Honduras. Taking advantage of this misrepresentation he
tried to bully Honduras with threats of American intervention if they did
not immediately award him clear title to the rail line.1*

Valentine's threats which undoubtedly appeared real enough to
the Hondurans given the general temper of American policy in the
Caribbean at the time put the Hondurans in an awkward position.
Events grew decidedly more precarious when the British bondholders
decided to wrest control of the railroad for themselves by foreclosing
on the mortgage.14 The bondholders prevailed upon British officials in
Central America to take up the cudgels for them.-1" Trapped between

15

Valentine's Big Stick and bondholders' cudgels, the Honduras govern-
ment stalled.-1

Postponement only multiplied difficulties. Yet a third party of
British and American capitalists formed the Squier Syndicate in New
York and mounted a real effort to gain control of the railroad. Fortu-
nately for Valentine, who continued to lease and operate the line, the
American minister in Guatemala blocked both the bondholders and
Squier efforts by defending what he mistakenly perceived to be Valen-
tine's "equity" in the line.22

Meanwhile, Honduras had undergone a hard-fought election, which
was followed as usual by a short civil war. The intensely nationalistic
Manuel Bonilla won both the election and the war.21 He then allowed
Valentine's lease to expire and for the next four years ran the railroad
as a government enterprise. 2J Valentine protested what he called the
"illegal" seizure of his railroad and filed a damage claim for more than
a million dollars against Honduras with the American Department of
State.2' Officials in Washington, temporarily exercising uncharacteristic
restraint, refused to become involved, and Valentine shortly withdrew
his claim. 2h

So might have ended Valentine's railroading career, except in 1907
another bloody civil war brought down the Nationalist regime of Manuel
Bonilla. President Taft and Secretary of State Knox felt moved to inter-
vene and re-establish peace. The desperate political and economic
straits of the lackluster American-imposed regime provided the ever-
vigilant Valentine with an opportunity to secure a thirty-year lease of the
railroad.27 Needless to say, he took it. Immediately the bondholders
trotted out the debt question again. This time the able and intelligent
British Minister to Guatemala, Lionel Carden, hammered out a sensible
and acceptable refunding scheme, acceptable, that is, to everyone
except American Dollar Diplomats. Loath to tolerate any revitalization
of British influence in Central America especially Honduras these
officials cast about for an American alternative. Valentine again alertly
grasping the situation, rejoined forces with J. P. Morgan and formulated
a counterproposal. Although considerably more onerous for the Hon-
durans than the British one, it did seem to have official American sup-
port, which was an important consideration.28

By this time, circumstances had occurred which were destined to
change the outcome of the rail question. Since Valentine had last tried
to dispose of the Honduras debt, a new force had affected the state's
political economics: the large-scale banana companies. The Valentine-
Morgan scheme to saddle Honduras with a Santo-Domingo style customs
receivership so preoccupied Samuel Zemurray, President of the Cuyamel
Fruit Company, that he financed a filibuster expedition from New
Orleans to thwart it. In the maelstrom that followed, the USS Tacoma
chased Zemurray 's yacht, the Hornet, around the Caribbean; derelict

16

Illinois Central railroad engineer Lee Christmas found his true vocation
as a hired gun in Central America; progressive Democrats in the U.S.
Senate led by Robert LaFollette derailed Knox's Grand Design for the
Caribbean by refusing to ratify a treaty incorporating the Morgan-
Valentine Plan; and worst of all the Honduran legislature also rejected
the treaty. Through the dust raised by frenetically-paced events, one
sees Valentine's star set and the rise of the Banana Barons.24

This brief survey of the highlights of Valentine's career underscores
the centrality of certain individuals in Caribbean affairs during the late
nineteenth and early twentieth centuries; this despite the Marxist in-
junction against bourgeois "dealling in personalities." At the same time,
however, Valentine's career presents certain problems of interpretation.
At least three distinct theses could be advanced. A Liberal explanation
would emphasize the diffusion of development made possible by Valen-
tine's entrepreneurial contribution to Honduran economic growth
especially his early mining activity. That more benefits did not trickle
down to Honduras, Liberals would attribute to structural or monetary
bottlenecks in the path of modernization. A second perspective, the
Radical interpretation, would characterize Valentine as an early practi-
tioner of American imperialism who laid the foundations of the estab-
lishment of underdevelopment in Honduras through the creation of
dependency linkages. Radicals would enthusiastically endorse the sobri-
quet "The Sucking Vampire of Honduras" given Valentine by Honduran
pundits.30 Regretably, these two perspectives inadequately illuminate
Valentine's career. Both reduce the human element to theoretically
necessary, but basically uninteresting, statistical ciphers. This sort of
reductionism is indefensible. What is required to capture the importance
and interrelations of both the parts and the whole is a perspective based
on an ecological model.

A Technological perspective, appropriately framed along ecological
lines, surpasses in explanatory power the overly materialist and reduc-
tionist Liberal and Radical perspectives. For as Jacques Ellul puts it in
his book. The Technological Society, "no social, human, or spiritual fact
is so important as the fact of technique in the modern world."31 Not only
is modern and contemporary man's world increasingly dominated by
mechanisms of all sorts, but one of the most basic values which shapes
the goals and procedures of Technological Man, as Victor Ferkiss has
labeled us, is a deep-seated faith in the efficacy of technology. Increas-
ingly both the "goods" and "bads" of life derive from the manipulations
wrought by our technological exurberance.32 In contrast, what we hesi-
tantly might call Traditional Man does not share this technological
fetish. Traditional Man, as the definition suggests, rejects ratiocinated
technology in favor of accustomed ways or acts spontaneously with
little premeditation.33

Space prohibits depicting a fully elaborated Technological per-

17

spective based on ecological principles. Suffice to say that far more than
possible using Liberal or Radical perspectives, Valentine's influence on
Honduras makes sense when studied from such a Technological per-
spective. Within the conceptual framework afforded by the opposition
of Technological to Traditional Man, Valentine emerges as an early
carrier of the virus of North American technological civilization spread-
ing contagion among the predominantly Traditional Hondurans. He
introduced a great many specific technologies such as the air drills he
installed in his mines and the telephones with which he linked San Juan-
cito and Tegucigalpa.34 This importation of hardware, while notable, is
overshadowed by the more basic role he played as a model for a new set
of values, attitudes, and behavior patterns what one theoretician
rather inelegantly described recently as "the transplantation of expecta-
tions produced by incumbency in technocratic roles in modernizing
societies."35 Valentine inaugurated a fully modern industry at the mines
above San Juancito. This endeavor helped forge strong legal and eco-
nomic techniques later used to set up the North Coast banana enclave.
He also did much to re-introduce Honduras into the mainstream of the
techniques modern high finance. Moreover, he taught the Hondurans
many a lesson on "socio-political" technology as he organized his miners
like a veteran Chicago wardheeler or mobilized all the human and
physical resources of Tegucigalpa to combat an epidemic of small pox.36
Most important of all, however, he inflected Hondurans with the spirit of
laissez innover.37 Not all Hondurans contracted "galloping technitis"
immediately, and other carriers of this "disease" followed in his footsteps.
But in the final analysis, it is better that Valentine be remembered as
one who spread technology rather than reducing him to a mere Cartesian
splinter in some Liberal or Radical theoretician's macro-model.38

NOTES

1 Kenneth H. Matheson, "History of Rosario Mine, Honduras, Central America,"
The Mines Magazine (June, 1961; July. 1961) 33-38, and 22-28 respectively: and
Kenneth V. Finney. "Precious Metal Mining and the Modernization of Honduras:
In Quest of El Dorado." (Ph.D. Diss., Tulane University. 1973). passim.

2 La Nacion (Tegucigalpa), December 16, 1887, p. 5; January 6, 1888, p. 2; Feb-
ruary 8, 1888, p. 2; La Repiiblica (Tegucigalpa), September 17, 1887, p. 1; Novem-
ber 5, 1887, p. 3; and Honduras Progress (Tegucigalpa), May 31, 1888, p. 3.

3 Rafael Heliodoro Valle, "Cubanos Patriotas en Central-America," Revista del
Archivo y Biblioteca Nacionales. 20 (October, 1941). 221-223: Louis Valentine
to Luis Bogran. Tegucigalpa, April 12, 1887. in Colleccion Luis Bogran (here-
after cited as CLB), Correspondencia de Tegucigalpa ( 1887). This collection of
papers is housed in the Archivo Nacional de Honduras. Tegucigalpa (hereafter
cited as ANH).

4 W. S. Valentine to Bogran, San Juancito, August 3, 1887, CLB, Corresponden-
cia de Tegucigalpa (1887).

18

s La Gaceta (Tegucigalpa), July 29, 1897, pp. 316-317. For tax concessions see
Finney, "Precious Metal Mining," pp. 334-347, 351-353. For resource competi-
tion see Kenneth V. Finney, "Rosario and the Election of 1887: The Political
Economy of Mining in Honduras," (forthcoming 1978?).

6 La Gaceta, September 26, 1888, p. 1.

7 Finney, "Precious Metal Mining," 414-425.

8 William A. Prendergast to Edna Valentine. December 7, 1944, New York and
Honduras Rosario Mining Company, Company Archive, Historical File.

9 Charles Abbey Brand, "The Background of Capitalistic Underdevelopment:
Honduras to 1913," (Ph.D. Diss., University of Pittsburgh, 1972). p. 149;
Kenneth V. Finney, "Washington S. Valentine: The Yankee Who 'Bought'
Honduras," (Un pub. Ms. 1975).

10 Charles L. Stansifer, "E. George Squier and the Honduras Interoceanic Rail-
road Project," Hispanic American Historical Review, 46 (February 1966), 1-27;
Gene S. Yeager, "The Honduran Foreign Debt, 1825-1953," (Ph.D. Diss..
Tulane University, 1975), p. 148; La Gaceta. October 24, 1893, p. 304.

" Albert E. Morlan, A Hoosier in Honduras (Indianapolis, 1897), pp. 64-65;
100-104.

12 Aro Sanso [ Ismael Mejia Deras], Policarpo Bonilla (Mexico, 1936); pp. 81-
267; Gustavo A. Castaneda S., El General Dominguez Vdsquez y su tiempo
(Tegucigalpa, 1934).

13 La Gaceta. October 27, 1894, p. 686; December 25, 1895, p. 661; | El Obser-
vador], El negocio Valentine (Tegucigalpa, 1911), 11-12.

14 Corporation of the Foreign Bondholders Protection Association, 23rd Annual
Report (1895), 180-186; Yeager, "Honduran Foreign Debt," 241.

15 El 5 de Julio (Tegucigalpa), February 1, 1896, p. 3; La Gaceta, April 28, 1897,
pp. 205-211; W. S. Valentine to Manuel Ugarte, June 28, 1897; Jacob R.
Shipherd to Policarpo Bonilla, January 11, 1897; copy of James Cooper to
Chauncey Depew, July 26, 1897; and W. S. Valentine to Policarpo Bonilla, July
9, 1897 all in Coleccion Policarpo Bonilla (hereafter cited as CPB) in ANH.

16 La Gaceta. April 28, 1897, pp. 205-211.

17 Finney, "The Yankee," passim; Pedro J. Bustillo, El gobierno y el sindicato
(n.p., 1898), p. 4.

18 | Leslie Coombs?], "Morgan-Honduras Loan. . .1898/1909," Tulane University,
Rare Book Cover, p. 6; W. E. Alger to Francis B. Loomis, Despatch 88, Novem-
ber 3, 1903, U.S. National Archives, Records of Department of State, Consular
Despatches, Puerto Cortes; Bondholder Report No. 26 (1898). p. 223.

" Diario de Honduras (Tegucigalpa), January 8, 1903, p. 1; Bondholder Report

No. 29 (1901-1902). pp. 208-210.

Bondholder Report No. 30(1902-1903), p. 201.

21 Bondholder Report No. 29 (1901-1902). pp. 208-210; United States Department
of Commerce, Bureau of Commerce, Railways of Central America and the
West Indies, by Rodney Long, Trade Promotion Series No. 5 (Washington. D.C.,
1925), p. 57. For a general assessment of these maneuvers see Yeager, "Hon-
duran Foreign Debt," 255-262, and Kenneth V. Finney, "Washington S. Valen-
tine and the Honduras Interoceanic Railroad," (forthcoming. 1978?).

22 Alfred W. Moe to Loomis, Desp. 84, February 24, 1904. U.S. National
Archives. Consular Despatches, Tegucigalpa; Bondholder Report No. 30 (1902-
1903). pp. 189, 198, 230; Yeager, "Honduran Foreign Debt," 258-259.

23 Lucas Paredes, Drama politica de Honduras (Mexico, 1958). 155-165; Finney,

19

"Honduras Interoceanic Railroad," 14; Alger to Loomis, Desp. 58. March 28,
1903, U.S. National Archives, Consular Despatches, Puerto Cortes.
M Bondholder Report No. 30 (1902-1903), 200.

25 John Hay to Leslie Coombs, Desp. 49, June 19, 1903, U.S. National Archives,
Diplomatic Instructions to Central America, XX; Coombs to Hay, Desp. 80,
July 10, 1903, ibid, Despatches from Ministers, Central America, XLIX; Finney,
"Honduras Interoceanic Railroad," pp. 15-16.

26 Angel Ugarte, Memorandum sobre los emprestitos de Honduras (Tegucigalpa.
1904); Yeager, "Honduran Foreign Debt," 256-263; Finney, "Honduras Inter-
oceanic Railroad," 15-16.

27 Jose Maria Moncada, Cosas de Centro America (Madrid, 1908), Hermann B.
Deutsche, The Incredible Yanqui; The Career of Lee Christmas (London, 1931).

28 Partial accounts often written by parties with vested interests can be
found in such sources as Juan E. Paredes, La contrata Morgan, sus antecedentes
(New Orleans, 1911) and Nestor Colindrez Zuhiga, Voto razonado sobre el em-
prestito Paredes-Knox (Tegucigalpa, 1911), but the clearest account is to be
found in Yeager, "Honduran Foreign Debt," 263-280.

29 Brand, "Honduras to 1913," 177-185; Yeager, "Honduran Foreign Debt," 281-
291; Deutsche, Lee Christmas.

30 Abraham F. Lowenthal, "United States Policy Toward Latin America: 'Liberal,'
'Radical,' and 'Bureaucratic' Perspectives," Latin American Research Review
8 (Fall, 1973), 3-26; Samuel Baily, The United States and the Development of
South America (New York, 1976), pp. 9-12.

31 Jacques Ellul, The Technological Society (New York, 1964), p. 3.

32 Victor Ferkiss, Technological Man (New York, 1969); A.J. Mishan, Tech-
nology and Growth. The Price We Pay (London, 1970).

33 Lewis Mumford makes the best case for this contrast in "Authorization and
Democratic Technics," Technology and Culture (New York, 1962), 50-59. For
his definitive treatment see his two volume The Myth of the Machine (New
York, 1967).

34 La Nacion, March 7, 1888, p. 3; Honduras Progress, May 10, 1888, p. 1; June
7, 1888, pp. 1-2.

35 Guillermo A. O'Donnell, Modernization and Bureaucratic-Authoritarianism
(Berkeley: University of California Press), 1975; p. 81.

36 Sanso, Policarpo Bonilla. 53; La Republica. July 4, 1891, pp. 1-3.

37 John McDermott, "Technology: The Opiate of the Intellectuals," New York
Review of Books (July 31, 1969), 25-37, develops this concept. The idea needs
much further dissemination than it has so far received.

38 The conceptual significance of Descartes' vortex theory (Cartesian splinter)
is discussed in Piero V. Mini, Philosophy and Economics (Gainesville, 1974),
pp. 18-19.

20

DIPLOMATIC DULLARD: THE CAREER

OF THOMAS SUMTER, JR. AND

DIPLOMATIC RELATIONS OF THE

UNITED STATES WITH THE

PORTUGUESE COURT IN BRAZIL,

1809-1821

By Phil Brian Johnson

"Mr. Madison has spoiled a. . .cotton planter and only made a
clumsy courtier of me." Thomas Sumter, Jr.

On the morning of November 29, 1807, an exhausted French army
commanded by Marshal Andoche Junot marched into Lisbon and
secured Portugal for Bonaparte's Continental System. Only hours pre-
vious a reluctant Dom Joao de Braganza, the Prince Regent of Portugal,
had boarded the Principe Real and set sail for Brazil which, finding itself
at the center of the Portuguese Empire, was to play temporary host to its
dispossessed sovereign for the next fourteen years. The United States
welcomed the fugitive Court to "our Western Hemisphere" and immedi-
ately appointed a Minister Plenipotentiary to the Portuguese Court in
Brazil. The new envoy was instructed to negotiate a commercial treaty
and collect all information pertinent to the commerce between the two
countries, submit any intelligence relative to the growing revolutionary
movements throughout Latin America, explain the position of the
United States on neutral rights, and finally, to promote an amicable rela-
tionship between the Braganza government and the United States.1

Thomas Sumter, Jr. was the man selected by the Department of
State for its first major diplomatic appointment to Latin America. He
was a dismal choice, inept, contentious, boorish, barely literate, and
only mildly interested in the post. The Minister's shortcomings were not
unknown to his superiors. He had served briefly, in 1802, as secretary of
legation in Paris. But after only a few weeks in this position he began
showering Minister Robert Livingston with a variety of complaints: he
was required to work too hard, his office was "scarcely habitable",
Livingston's personal servants neglected to tend his fire and sweep his
room, and he couldn't be bothered with keeping the Legation office
open regularly to the public. In a snit, he quit.2 With his French bride
in tow, Sumter left for London where he was employed for a few months
as private secretary to Minister James Monroe. Then, in the fall of 1803,
the couple returned to South Carolina and Sumter resumed the occupa-

21

tion of gentleman planter, with disastrous results. During a five year
stewardship he very nearly drove his father's cotton plantation into the
ground. In order to get Sumter off the land before the family was ruined,
his revolutionary war hero father, General Thomas Sumter, used his
influence within the Jeffersonian Republican party to secure a diplo-
matic post for his son. Brazil was it.

Minister Sumter's mission to Brazil was not particularly successful.
This was due to a number of factors which will be examined in this
paper, not the least of which was Sumter's bumptious and quarrelsome
nature. He argued with everybody other members of the diplomatic
community, his American subordinates, and on one occasion even with
members of the Braganza family with whom he engaged in a public feud
over a matter of court etiquette. When the Braganzas appeared on the
streets it was customary for people to remove their headgear and for
those on horseback, to dismount. On several occasions when the less
than toothsome Princess Carlota was being driven through the city in
her carriage the American minister refused to get down from his horse.
Considering Sumter's behavior to be belligerent and disrespectful, the
Princess ordered her guards to forcibly detach Sumter from his perch.
Sumter responded by drawing his pistols and threatening to fire if
touched. Shortly thereafter Prince Joao tactfully issued a decree allowing
foreign diplomats to remain on their horses in the royal presence.3

One cannot help but wonder why Washington would appoint and
retain for ten years such an incompetent individual. It would certainly
belie the importance that was officially attached to the mission, and it
could even be interpreted as a reflection of the United States' real dis-
regard and lack of economic interest in the soon to become Kingdom
of Brazil.

Minister Sumter spent a great deal of time during the first two years
of his residence in Rio de Janeiro following Secretary of State Robert
Smith's instruction to secure a commercial agreement with the Portu-
guese Court in Brazil. On several occasions when he approached Minis-
ter of Foreign Affairs Rodrigo de Souza e Coutinho, the Conde de
Linhares, on the subject of a trade treaty Sumter strongly emphasized
the benefits that would accrue to Brazil if the United States were to
provide an increased market for Brazilian sugar and coffee. But the
Portuguese ignored Sumter's blandishments and continued to refuse to
negotiate a treaty or even to grant to the United States the status of most
favored nation the latter having been promised verbally to Consul
Henry Hill in 1808. Sumter blamed his lack of success in acquiring com-
mercial concessions from the Portuguese on a lingering suspicion that
he and the country which he represented favored French projects for
promoting rebellion throughout Latin America, and also on the fact that
he had been unable to give the negotiations with the Court his full

22

attention due to the time and energy expended on quarrels with his
subordinates.4

During the War of 1812, commercial negotiations between the two
countries were more or less suspended as a result of the controversies
which arose over Luso-Brazilian violations of neutrality (although it is
interesting to note that United States' trade with Portugal itself increased
markedly throughout the war years). Following the war it was decided to
conduct any future negotiations in Washington. The Department of
State was cognizant of the Court's obvious reluctance to grant any
commercial privileges to the United States and realized that Sumter
after eight years was incapable of reaching an agreement with the
Portuguese.5

Sumter had further been instructed to furnish the Department of
State with information on Brazil's commercial resources and potential-
ities, which was perceived as a necessary prerequisite to the negotiation
of a treaty between the two powers. This he also failed to do. In 1819,
Secretary of State John Quincy Adams informed Sumter's successor to
Brazil, John Graham, that the

information possessed at this Department is so slight and im-
perfect, that it is not possible to found upon it any precise
instructions other than that of requesting your vigilant and un-
remitting attention to the object of collecting, digesting, and
reporting, such facts as may prove useful to the public service
and tend to facilitate the removal of inequalities injurious to
the Commerce of the United States. . . .h
This negligence is certainly an adverse reflection on Sumter's ability and
interest. It is also indicative of his disinclination to cooperate with and
utilize the capabilities of consular officials. But another impression
becomes equally clear: perhaps the United States was not overly anxious
to conclude a treaty with Brazil, as is evidenced by the Department of
State's haphazard correspondence with Sumter in which commercial
matters were only infrequently mentioned. Moreover, at this time the
understaffed and overworked Department of State was burdened with
European concerns far more pressing than the possibility of commercial
relations with an as yet unproven market, and with a country that had
proven to be less a friend than initially had been supposed. Furthermore,
any satisfactory commercial arrangement between the United States
and the Portuguese Court was rendered virtually impossible by the
diplomatic and commercial ascendancy of the English in Brazil.

Minister Sumter was also directed to furnish the Department of
State with intelligence relative to the growing revolutionary movements
throughout South America. This he did do. Sumter included in his dis-
patches lengthy statements detailing the activities of revolutionaries in
Buenos Aires, Chile, and Peru. He gathered most of his information
from United States' special agents who visited the troubled regions,

23

ship's officers, merchants, and from newspaper accounts and broad-
sides. In general, Sumter's dispatches were poorly written, confusing,
and with regard to his information on South America, contained few
evaluative judgments. Beyond a curt acknowledgement of their receipt,
the Department of State took little notice of Sumter's news gathering;
in the instructions issued to special agents and other United States
officials bound for South America, Sumter's reportage was virtually
ignored.

Neutral rights was the single most controversial issue which occupied
most of Sumter's efforts and which strained relations between the
United States and the Portuguese Court almost to the breaking point.
Throughout the War of 1812, the United States criticized the Braganza
government for its failure to maintain neutrality and the aid which the
Court extended to Great Britain. In the years immediately following the
war, however, Portugal rightly charged the United States with ignoring
its responsibilities as a neutral by not curbing the privateers which were
outfitted in American ports, and which, under the colors of the Uruguayan
rebel. General Jose Artigas, attacked the shipping of Portugal.

The War of 1812 was a minor battleground in the larger contest of
the Napoleonic Wars in which the interests of Portugal and the Brazilian
colony were tightly joined with those of England. The Peninsular phase
of the European war was being fought largely by the armies and navy of
England; if Prince Joao and his homesick consort, Carlota, ever hoped
to reoccupy their royal residence in Lisbon, it would be thanks to the
British force of arms which brought about the fall of France. By declar-
ing war on Great Britain the United States had, for all intents, allied
itself with France and, in the opinion of the Court, become nothing
more than an "instrument of France engaged by fear of her in a war
which would soon be abandoned from weakness and disunion."7

Quite naturally, then, Prince Joao and the majority of his ministers
actively favored the cause of Great Britain in the War of 1812, in sharp
contrast to their hostility towards the United States. Nor had Sumter
done anything to counteract this sentiment. Instead of pursuing amicable
relations between the two countries, he had, in fact, promoted the oppo-
site effect. Portugal's favorable attitude towards Great Britain was all
but guaranteed by the Strangford Treaty, the second of three treaties
signed in 1810. By the terms of this treaty, the two powers agreed to
defend each other in the event of hostile attack and to provide for
mutual defense. Moreover, it was stipulated that an unlimited number of
British warships might avail themselves of Brazil's ports, and that when
these vessels were employed for the "benefit and protection" of either
party, provisions would be provided at no charge."

In view of these considerations the only alternatives available to the
Rio government were belligerency or a policy of quasi-neutrality, either
of which would be advantageous to the Portuguese Empire and its

24

British ally, and offensive only to the poorly represented and commer-
cially insignificant republic of the north.

The Braganza government briefly considered declaring war on the
United States and entering the conflict on the side of its ally, England.
This possibility was demonstrated several days after news of the war
reached Rio, when Joao presented the British with a corvette, the Ben-
jamin, which was briefly employed as an armed cruiser in Brazilian
waters. Prince Joao decided against belligerency.however, due not to
the efforts of Sumter, but to the pressure exerted by Lord Strangford,
who "in a most decided manner" urged the Portuguese to declare their
neutrality, which the Court did on September 29, 1812.g

Before examining specific instances whereby Portugal violated her
neutrality, it is necessary to understand that, although at this time there
was no universally recognized international agreement regarding the
rights and obligations of neutrals, there were certain elemental standards
of conduct which a neutral nation was expected to observe. Presumably,
a neutral would abstain from supplying belligerents with the tools of war
in the form of ships, naval stores, munitions, and armed forces. Neutrals
were bound to prevent hostilities in their ports and territorial waters,
and to insure that their territory was not used as a base for belligerent
expeditions for for the recruiting of soldiers and sailors. Although a
neutral nation could grant asylum or temporary refuge to a belligerent
warship, prizes could not be disposed of in neutral ports nor could an
armed belligerent vessel be allowed to remain in a neutral harbor in-
definitely. Generally, a three-day maximum was considered acceptable
to most nations. If certain provisions of the Strangford Treaty had been
enforced, these rules would have been nullified. Moreover, for several
years previous to the treaty and the outbreak of the War of 1812, Portu-
gal's navy and troops had been fighting beside the English in Europe.
Therefore, the Portuguese declaration of neutrality, limited almost
exclusively to prohibitions forbidding the disposition of prizes in her
ports, becomes understandable and even sensible.

It is not surprising, then, that Portugal violated the rules of neutral
conduct, thereby assuring a deterioration in relations with the United
States. In order to arrive at some conclusions regarding the nature and
effect of Portugal's un-neutral conduct, it is necessary to examine a few
of the incidents which so agitated Sumter and the United States.

Portugal blatantly disregarded its neutral status and favored the
British cause in the matter of the impressment of American citizens, for
decades a preeminent issue in American foreign affairs. Throughout the
war it became the practice of shorthanded British warships operating in
Brazilian waters to dispatch press gangs into the cities to gather up
needed crew members. On one occasion a British admiral, with the full
cooperation of friendly Portuguese officials, seized four American citi-
zens being detained in a Brazilian prison and impressed them into the

25

service of England. The Portuguese Ministry of Foreign Affairs declined
to press any complaints on behalf of the American prisoners. Nor did
the Ministry make any attempt to seek redress from the British at any
time during the spring of 1813 when a total of fourteen United States
nationals were taken forcibly on board British men of war."' Despite his
frequent and oftimes bitter complaints, Sumter was unable to force the
Portuguese to curb the British practice of impressment, which he re-
garded as indefensible: "It is carrying the war against the United States
into the Capitol of a neutral Country, for the purpose of seizing Ameri-
cans to make them fight against their government What an example
to set before the world. . . ?""

Added to these outright violations of naval neutrality was the overt
aid granted England in the form of armed Portuguese convoys for
British merchantmen. Barely six months after the commencement of the
war, Captain Thomas Boyle of the Comet, an American privateer cruis-
ing off the Brazilian coast, reported an encounter with three heavily
laden British merchant vessels which were being convoyed by a Portuguese
man-of-war of thirty-two guns. The Comet gave chase to the four ships,
and upon overtaking the Portuguese warship, the latter requested a con-
ference with the American commander. Captain Boyle was informed
that the English merchantmen were under the protection of the Portu-
guese brig. Boyle ignored the threat and the two ships engaged in battle.
The faster, more maneuverable Comet succeeded in damaging and
driving off the Portuguese brig, but could not prevent it from herding
two of the damaged Britishers into safe "neutral" waters.12

In a variety of other ways Portugal violated the spirit of neutrality
and displayed official favoritism toward Great Britain and antipathy for
the United States. For example, officials of the province of Bahia com-
promised Portugal's neutrality by extending excessive protection to the
specie-carrying Bonne Cityonne, a British brig of twenty-eight guns. The
Bonne Cityonne was given permission to remain in the harbor of Bahia
for as long as the Hornet, under Captain Lawrence, cruised outside
territorial waters in wait for its prey. Despite protests by Consul Hill and
several defiant challenges delivered to the British commander by Law-
rence, the Bonne Cityonne refused to meet the Hornet "beyond the
neutral limits and the protection of Brazilian guns." The commander of
the small American force, William Bainbridge, advised Lawrence not to
rely upon the neutral protection of the port of Bahia in the event of the
arrival of a superior British force, which would likely "possess sufficient
influence to capture you even in port."11

It must be concluded that Portugal, for understandable reasons of
national interest, failed to uphold its neutrality in the face of British
aggression. However, neutrality is a two-way street: not only must it be
enforced by the neutral nation, it must be respected by the belligerent
powers. Great Britain was notoriously lax in this respect. But, in truth,

26

during the War of 1812 the United States was not altogether blameless.
Although the United States generally respected the neutrality of all
nations, there were instances during the War of 1812 when the champion
of neutral rights blatantly disregarded Portugal's neutrality. On several
occasions American privateers attacked and looted unarmed Portuguese
merchant vessels. In November 1812, the Revenge detained the Triumpho
do Mar, bound from Lisbon to New York, and removed the cargo. In the
same year a Brazilian schooner out of Para was similarly treated. In
these and other cases Washington disclaimed any responsibility and
advised Joseph Rademaker, the Portuguese charge in the United States,
to seek redress through due process in the courts of the land.14

More serious than the isolated attacks by privateers, was the rumor
that American ships had attacked Sierra Leone and inflicted heavy
damage. No evidence was presented which proved or disproved the
accusation. However, the charge circulated among the inhabitants and
officials of Rio, and was trumpeted about by those individuals who
wanted to believe it by virtue of their dislike of Sumter, antipathy
towards the United States, and sympathy for Great Britain.1'

Illegal recruiting procedures practiced by officials of the United
States was another source of irritation between the two countries. In
February, 1813, Jose Bernardes, a Portuguese sailor, was enticed into
enlisting in a certain Colonel Winder's infantry regiment by "the glitter-
ing show of money" and a prodigious quantity of rum. Despite Portu-
guese protestations, the sailor was kept closely confined in a Rendezvous
House in Philadelphia, and then, with "woeful lamentation," marched off
to Baltimore. Antonio Joao de Feitas was also cajoled or forced into the
American service, even though the recruiting party was knowledgeable
of his nationality and the contract which bound him to the Portuguese
merchant marine."1

The Portuguese Court was considerably less disturbed over the
violations of neutrality by the United States throughout the War of 1812
than it was over the disinclination of the American government during
the Rio de la Plata conflict to prevent American privateers from cruising
against the commerce of Portugal and the subsequent refusal to make
reparations. This reluctance on the part of the Madison administration
contributed greatly to a feeling of ill-will between the two countries
which persisted from some years after the end of Sumter's mission.
In 1816 hostilities erupted anew in the Rio de la Plata basin. The
present conflict, which eventually resulted in the establishment of the
independent state of Uruguay in 1828, was but a continuation of the
centuries old rivalry between Spain and Portugal for possession of the
strategic Banda Oriental. This rivalry was intensified with the transfer
of the Portuguese Court to Brazil. Until 1815, however, English inter-
vention had prevented Prince Joao from securing control over the
Banda Oriental. But in that year Lord Stangford was withdrawn from

27

Rio, which left the Braganza government momentarily free from English
domination to pursue its expansionist goals. However, by 1815 there
were two new claimants to the region: the revolutionary government of
Buenos Aires and the party of Jose Artigas, a native of the Banda
Oriental who was determined to make the province independent. In
1816 Brazil confronted Artigas with a land and water siege. Having no
naval force at his disposal (and no port for that matter). Artigas reacted
by commissioning privateers to prey on Portuguese commerce. The
majority of these commissions were granted to Americans, notably resi-
dents of Baltimore.17

When the Portuguese minister to Washington, Jose Correa da
Serra, learned that citizens of Baltimore were outfitting privateers, he
pleaded with the government of the United States to remain neutral and
to prevent the Baltimorean privateers from committing armed outrages
against the shipping of Portugal. It was to no avail, for as early as
December, 1816, an American privateer flying the colors of Artigas cap-
tured a Portuguese vessel off the coast of Madeira. Several months later
the Buenos Ayres Patriot, a Baltimore privateer commanded by one
J. W. Stephens, captured and ransacked the Marques of Pombal and the
St. John Protector. On October 18, 1818, Correa da Serra complained
that another Portuguese ship, the brig Joao Sexto, had been captured
by the American privateer Fortuna and was presently being fitted out
in Baltimore to attack Portuguese commerce. In December of the same
year the Portuguese minister informed Washington of "depradations
and unwarrantable outrages" which had been committed off the Brazilian
coast by another Baltimore privateer, the Vicuna (alias the General
Artigas).

In 1820 Minister Correa da Serra estimated that the activities of
American privateers had cost his country approximately sixty-five ves-
sels and eighty-one million dollars. In addition to the plundering of ships
in a time of peace between the two countries, there were, besides, "vio-
lations of territory by landing and plundering ashore, with shocking
circumstances." Correa da Serra admitted that the American govern-
ment did not officially countenance what amounted to piracy; never-
theless, these piratical acts were being committed by citizens of the
United States who had open recourse to the port of Baltimore where the
populace openly flaunted their support of Artigas by displaying "badges"
in their hats. Correa da Serra compared the privateers and their sup-
porters in Baltimore to a "wide extended and powerful tribe of Infidels
worse still than those of North Africa," for at least the North African
Infidels made prizes under the laws of their countries and only after a
declaration of war had been issued. But the American "Infidels" attacked
the commerce of a nation "friendly to the United States, against the will
of the government of the United States, and in spite of the laws of the
United States."18

28

Washington was not entirely heedless of Portugal's plight. On
March 3, 1817, Congress passed an act which clarified and strengthened
United States' neutrality laws. This act prohibited privateers from cruis-
ing under a commission granted by "any colony, district, or people,"
which was an obvious reference to the insurgent governments of Latin
America. The neutrality laws of the United States were further rein-
forced by legislation in 1819 and 1820. But the mere passage of laws was
not sufficient to impose neutrality on the citizens of the country. This
was due to a number of factors, "chief of which was the connivance at
violations on the part of the public officials of Baltimore, the privateers'
haven, where the federal judges, the collector of customs, the post-
master, the private attorneys, and the populace were culpable either
because of selfish reasons or incompetence."19 Once neutrality legis-
lation had been passed. President Madison professed to have done
everything he could to protect Portugal from the Baltimore privateers.
However, the disinclination of the United States to forcibly curb the
privateers caused the Portuguese Court to disregard many American
claims resulting from the War of 1812. Thus, in the opinion of Lawrence
Hill, a noted historian of United States-Brazilian diplomatic relations,
the neutrality question served in part to bring the two countries "almost
to the verge of actual hostility."20

Relations between the United States and the Kingdom of Brazil
were most seriously impaired and Minister Sumter, Jr.'s usefulness all
but ended by Washington's favorable attitude towards the rebellion
which broke out in 1817 in the northern province of Pernambuco, long a
center of republican-separatist intrigue. The Pernambucan rebels hoped
to establish a republic independent of the Brazilian monarchy. Their
plans were dependent upon the Court being too mired in the Rio de la
Plata adventure to do more than protest, and especially upon assistance
and perhaps even recognition from the United States. To secure the
latter the Provisional Government of Pernambuco dispatched to Wash-
ington one Antonio Goncalves da Cruz, who was instructed to present
the Pernambucan cause, obtain diplomatic recognition of the new
Republic, and secure credit for the purchase of war materiel. In return
for these favors Goncalves da Cruz was authorized to offer a generous
commercial agreement which was thought would appeal to the spirit of
the American people, all of whom, he believed, were ruled by senti-
ments of "republicanism and commercialism."

In Philadelphia Goncalves da Cruz met with Caesar Rodney, the
Department of State's unofficial representative, and the President of the
Bank of the United States, William Jones. In the name of Secretary of
State Richard Rush, Rodney agreed to the following concessions:
although the United States would not recognize the Republic of Pernam-
buco at that time, Pernambucan merchant ships and privateers (but not
prizes) could enter American ports; the United States would not respect

29

the Portuguese Court's "nominal blockage" of the Pernambucan coast;
and finally, the United States would recognize the belligerent status of
the Republic of Pernambuco and would therefore not impede the pur-
chase and shipment of war materiel.

Secretary of State Rush conferred personally with Goncalves da
Cruz in Washington on June 16, 1817. The Pernambucan representative
was told that "precise" recognition of his government was still not pos-
sible, but that the United States would do what it could to assist his
cause. Rush then asked Goncalves da Cruz to establish his formal resi-
dence in any other city but Washington, presumably to prevent further
deterioration in relations with King Joao's government. In response to
Goncalves da Cruz' suggestion that the United States maintain a naval
force off the Pernambucan coast in order to protect American com-
merce, the Secretary gave the Pernambucan the impression that the
United States would act forcibly if circumstances required it; and im-
pression that led Goncalves da Cruz to report to his superiors that there
was a real possibility of a confrontation between the United States and
the Portuguese Court which would all but insure the independence of
the Republic.

In Pernambuco itself the United States was represented by Consul
Joseph Ray, whose appointment was secured upon the recommenda-
tion of Goncalves da Cruz. Consul Ray openly involved himself in the
insurrection. He actively plotted with the rebels, and after the revolu-
tion was suppressed, harbored some of the leaders of the movement in
his house until they were forcibly taken by government authorities.
Although Ray's conduct was condemned by the Portuguese as "criminal
to the highest point," he was not imprisoned out of deference to the
United States.21

As the preceding has demonstrated, Minister Sumter was totally
incapable of fulfiling a good understanding and a harmonious relation-
ship between the United States and the Braganza government. This was
due to a number of circumstances, most importantly the difficulties en-
gendered by the mutual disregard of the rules of neutrality. Admittedly,
there was little that Sumter could have done about this or some other
problems. But he certainly did little to alleviate the uncertain relations
between the two countries by his aforementioned continual bickering
with fellow American officials and with members of the Luso-Brazilian
government, whose sensitivities he ruffled on more than one occasion.
In a pointed criticism of Sumter's conduct, Secretary of State John
Quincy Adams observed that

Our relations with Portugal and Brazil have not been well cul-
tivated. Their importance has not been duly estimated. The
Minister, who has been there these ten years, was not a fortu-
nate choice. His own temper is not happy. He has been repeatedly
involved in quarrels of personal punctilio, even with members

30

of the royal family. He is excessively argumentative, and spins
out everything into endless discussions without ever bringing
anything to a close.22

A less impartial observer, Henry Hill, also berated Sumter for his lack
of civility in dealings with the Portuguese government. In Hill's opinion,
Sumter had been occasionally treated with courtesy only because of the
Court's "respect of the government of the United States, the fear of it,
and the sincere desire to have its friendship but not from any respect
or fear of the minister | unless perhaps] originating from his [ long] and
awful letters, which frequently have never been read, and have often
remained unanswered."23

Minister Sumter's failure to establish some rapport with the Portu-
guese Court, and to accomplish any of the objectives of his mission,
caused Secretary of State Adams to note that "the state of our affairs
with Portuguese Government at Rio de Janeiro has been entangled in
such a snarl of mismanagement and neglect that | nothing can be done]
without a review of our political and commercial relations, both with
Brazil and Portugal, for the last ten years."24 Sumter himself recognized
the futility of his continued presence in Rio when he admitted that he
felt it advisable to "abstain as much as possible, and sometimes alto-
gether, from undertaking to propose anything to the Portuguese govern-
ment, in which either the interests or reputation of the United States are
concerned,. . .lest I should afford it new occasions for treating them with
neglect and disrespect."25 Indeed, by the year 1818, Sumter's influence
with the Portuguese Court had deteriorated to such an extent that when
he routinely submitted several consular commissions to the Portuguese
government for approval, the matter was completely ignored. Obviously,
by the 1818 Sumter was unwelcome in Brazil. In August of that year he
was recalled, which was not altogether contrary to the' Minister's wishes.
As early as 1816 he had requested that he be relieved of his position.

At the time of Sumter's departure from Brazil in mid 1819, relations
between the United States and the Portuguese Court, in the opinion of
John Quincy Adams, were marked with "so much ill blood. . .that it. . .
festered into all but open hostility." In order to reestablish harmony and
to renew commercial negotiations Adams secured the appointment of
John Graham a member of a previous Presidential Commission to
South America as minister to Brazil. 2h Graham set out for his post in
late summer of 1819 with the conviction that his efforts towards con-
ciliation would be useless. He was kept waiting several months after his
arrival in Rio before being received at Court. At length he became so
discouraged with the futility of his efforts that he recommended that the
United States mission in Brazil be reduced to the rank of charge. Gra-
ham returned to the United States after eight months in Rio.27

Shortly thereafter, in April, 1821, King Joao yielded to the demands
of the Portuguese Courts and returned to Portugal, leaving his son, Dom

31

Pedro, as regent of the Kingdom of Brazil. Graham's successor, charge
John Appleton, followed the Portuguese monarch to Lisbon, and un-
resolved disputes over neutral obligations were transferred to the realm
of strictly Portuguese-American affairs. Thus ended thirteen years of
unhappy relations between the United States and the Portuguese Court
in Brazil.

In tracing the relations of the United States with the Portuguese
Court in Brazil, it must be concluded that the United States failed to
cultivate harmonious relations with the Braganza government. This
circumstance was due in large part to the inexperience, incompetence,
and lack of tact of Thomas Sumter, Jr. But the very fact that the Depart-
ment of State knowingly appointed an individual so unqualified suggests
that the United States was not overly concerned with Brazil, and that the
post in Rio was regarded as unimportant, even expendable. This seeming
indifference was further evidenced both by the Department of State's
brief and infrequent communications with the Minister, and by the fact
that, in the years following his arrival in Rio, the matter of a commercial
treaty was treated with decreasing importance and officially little was
done to promote trade between the two countries. Moreover, even
though by 1816 Washington was fully aware that Sumter's usefulness in
Brazil had ended, three years passed before he was finally replaced.

In the larger Latin American context, the neglectful attitude of the
United States towards Brazil was not exceptional. During the early
decades of the nineteenth century, the United States was diplomatically
and commercially indifferent towards the whole of this region. This pos-
ture is explained by the fact that domestic and European affairs were
regarded as the major concerns of the United States, while Spain's
colonies and Brazil were relegated to a position of tertiary importance.
Although Latin America was generally viewed as a repository of enor-
mous riches and as a vast future market for American goods, little was
done to develop trade with the region; in fact, during the first quarter of
the nineteenth century, this trade never exceeded ten to twelve per cent
of our total foreign commerce. During the Napoleonic Wars the United
States failed to increase its trade with Latin America and challenge its
chief rival, England. This opportunity was lost because of restrictions on
foreign trade in the United States the most notable being Jefferson's
Embargo and our involvement in the War of 1812. Then too, the pos-
sibilities for development within the United' States were tremendous,
and this is where most excess capital was concentrated.

Popular sentiment in the United States favored aiding the Latin
American countries in their struggle for independence. However, the
official attitude, as expressed by Presidents Adams, Jefferson, and Madi-
son, was one of neutrality, a view which arose from the opinion that the

32

United States stood to benefit very little by extending military aid and
formal diplomatic recognition to Latin America. It should be remem-
bered that during the Latin American Wars of Independence the United
States was fully occupied in delicate negotiations with Spain for the
acquisition of the Floridas, and to have appeared less than neutral
towards Spain's rebellious colonies would have endangered these nego-
tiations. It was not until the final exchange of ratifications of the Adams-
Onis Treaty in 1821 that the United States could afford to take an active
interest in Latin America and recognize its independence.

It is not surprising, then, that a man such as Thomas Sumter, Jr.,
(the first United States representative to Latin America with the rank of
minister) was appointed to Brazil, or that the men who followed him
were of the same low caliber. Nor is it surprising in view of poor repre-
sentation in Brazil, the lack of interest displayed by the United States,
and the difficult issues which confronted the two countries that the
United States failed for decades to establish close relations with the Em-
pire of Brazil which won its independence from Portugal in 1822.

NOTES

1 Secretary of State Robert Smith to Sumter, August 1, 1809, Diplomatic In-
structions, All Countries, VII, National Archives. The Department of State
manuscripts cited herein are housed in the National Archives, Washington,
D.C., and are available on microfilm: Notes from the Portuguese Legation;
Notes to Foreign Legations; Diplomatic Instructions. All Countries; Despatches
From United States Ministers to Brazil; and Instructions to Consuls. Despatches
From United States Consuls in Rio de Janeiro, unavailable on microfilm, were
consulted at the National Archives.

: Robert Livingston to Thomas Jefferson, October 28, 1802, Jefferson Papers,
Vol. CXXVII (Folios 21900-21902). Library of Congress; also Anne King
Gregorie, Thomas Sumter (Columbia, S.C.: R. L. Bryan Company, 1931), p. 248.

3 Accounts of this incident may be found in Sumter to Secretary of State James
Monroe, September 29, 1815, Despatches From United States Ministers to
Brazil, I; also, Lawrence Hill, Diplomatic Relations Between the United States
and Brazil (Durham, N.C.: Duke University Press, 1932), pp. 7-8.

4 Sumter to Smith, September 3, 1810, January 11, 1811; and Sumter to Monroe,
September 24, 1812, Despatches From United States Ministers to Brazil, I.

5 Monroe to Sumter, June 10, 1816, Diplomatic Instructions, All Countries, VIII.

6 Secretary of State John Quincy Adams to John Graham, April 24, 1819, ibid.

7 William Spence Robertson, France and Latin American Independence (Balti-
more: John Hopkins Press, 1939), p. 22; also, Sumter to Monroe, October 1,
1812, Despatches From United States Ministers to Brazil, I.

N Great Britain, Foreign Office, British and Foreign State Papers (London:

James Ridgway and Sons, 1841-1956), I, 543-57.

' Sumter to Monroe, October 1, 1812, Despatches From United States Ministers

to Brazil, I. These note an intercepted letter from Lord Strangford to Lord

Castlereagh, September 30, 1812.

10 Sumter to the Conde de Linhares, January 3, 1812; Sumter to the Conde de

33

Galves May 17 and 13, 1813; the Conde de Galves to Sumter, May 22, 1813,
Brasil, Ministerio das Relacoes Exteriores, Arquivo Historico do Itamarati
(hereafter cited as MRE/AHdl), colecoes Especias (III): Casos com Estran-
geiros, Estados Unidos 1812-1813, Pasta 10, Lata 186, maco 1. See also,
Sumter to Monroe, May 9 and February 22, 1813, Despatches From United
States Ministers to Brazil, I.

" Sumter to the Conde de Aguiar, January 15, 1813, Despatches From United
States Ministers to Brazil, I.

12 James Barnes, Naval Actions of the War of 1812 (New York: Harper and
Brothers Publishers. 1896), pp. 239-240.

13 Barnes, Naval Actions, p. 113. See also, Albert Gleaves, James Gleaves, Com-
mander of the Chesapeake (New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 1904), pp. 115-116;
and H. A. S. Dearborn, The Life of William Bainhridge, Esq., of the United
States Navv, James Barnes (ed.), (Princeton, New Jersey: Princeton University
Press, 1931). p. 98.

14 Rademaker to Monroe, March 27, 1813, Notes From the Portuguese Lega-
tion, I.

15 Sumter to Monroe, February 22, 1813, Despatches From United States Min-
isters to Brazil. I.

[h Rademaker to Monroe, March 27, 1813, Notes From the Portuguese Lega-
tion, I.

17 See Hill, Diplomatic Relations. 16-19; John F. Cady, Foreign Intervention in
the Rio de la Plata, 1838-50 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press,
1929), pp. 2-9; William R. Manning, "An Early Diplomatic Controversy Between
the United States and Brazil." Hispanic American Historical Review. I (May,
1918), 126-128; and John Street, "Lord Strangford and the Rio de la Plata, 1808-
1815," Hispanic American Historical Review, 33 (November. 1953). 477-510.
IK Correa de Serra to Adams, March 8, October 15, December 11, 1818. and
March 17 and December 23, 1819, Notes From the Portuguese Legation, I.
14 Hill, Diplomatic Relations. 17; also, Monroe to Correa da Serra, December
27. 1816. March 14 and October 23, 1818, and April 22, 1819, Notes to Foreign
Legations, II.

20 Hill, Diplomatic Relations. 25.

21 Instructions of the Provisional Government of Pernambuco to Antonio Gon-
calves da Cruz, March 27, 1817; and Antonio Goncalves da Cruz to the Provi-
sional Government of Pernambuco, no date, MRE/AHdl, III colecoes Especias
(30); Documentacao Anterior a 1822, Capitania de Pernambuco (Revolucao de
Pernambuco), Pasta 5, Lata 195, maco 5; see also, Correa da Serra to Secretaries
of State Richard Rush and John Ouincy Adams, May 13, 1817 and October 13,
1818, Notes From the Portuguese Legation, I; Rush to Correa da Serra, May 22,
24, and 28, 1817, Notes to Foreign Legations, II; Rush to Sumter, July 18, 1817
and August 27, 1818, Diplomatic Instructions, All Countries, VIII.

22 Charles Francis Adams, Memoirs of John Quincv Adams comprising portions
of his Dian from 1795 to 1848 (Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott and Co.. 1874-
1877), IV, 340.

23 Sumter to Hill, November 4, 1818, Despatches From United States Consuls in
Rio de Janeiro, Part 1, Vol. I.

24 Adams to Graham. April 24, 1819, Diplomatic Instructions, All Countries.
VIII.

34

25 Sumter to Hill, November 4, 1818, Despatches From United States Consuls
in Rio de Janeiro, Part 1, Vol. I.

26 Adams, Memoirs of John Quincy Adams. IV, 339; also, Joseph Agan, The
Diplomatic Relations of the United States and Brazil (Paris: Jouve et Cie, Edi-
teurs, 1926), p. 119.

27 Agan, Diplomatic Relations, 120-122.

35

36

THE PERSONNEL APPROACH TO

UNITED STATES RELATIONS

WITH CHILE, 1823-1850

By T. Ray Shurbutt

A nineteen gun salute heralded his arrival in Valparaiso, a twenty-
two gun salvo accompanied his formal presentation of credentials in
Santiago, and Supreme Director Ramon Freire offered him a personal
honor guard and residence at Chilean governmental expense. Such
pageantry and deference seemed to embarrass and overwhelm charge
d'affaires Heman Allen, who arrived to commence formal relations in
April, 1824. With little understanding of his duties or knowledge of what
to expect in Chile, charge Allen like his successors soon discovered that
he had to rely on his own resources and opinions in making decisions
covering a whole spectrum of topics.1 And our state department's negli-
gent attitude toward Allen's repeated requests for definitive instructions
on specific problems was certainly in glaring contrast to the importance
the Chileans held for his position.

Allen's isolation is exemplified by the fact that he learned of Henry
Clay's appointment as Secretary of State through a newspaper, not an
official dispatch, even though Clay had already served for half a year.2
Yet the best indication of the need for better communication is found in
Allen's twenty-second dispatch written nineteen months after his glorious
arrival in Santiago, stating that since he had not received "any communi-
cation from his government. . . [he was] unable to determine whether
or not [his] conduct corresponded to its views, hoping however, that no
essential variation [had) intervened."3

Allen's mission was not unique in this feeling of isolation. During
this period each of the six charges who followed Allen complained of
identical sentiments of neglect. Samuel Larned's first substantive instruc-
tions reached him twenty-six months after his appointment, and these
instructions merely informed him that he had been transferred to Lima.4
In 1831, charge John Hamm categorically stated "here I am completely
isolated not a single American of intelligence and standing in the
whole city No one. . .can form any idea of the embarrassments [one]
has constantly to encounter in all his transactions with [this] Govern-
ment and people speaking nothing but a foreign language."5 And a year
later with still no news from Washington, Hamm complained, "Not a
single letter, the President's messages, or a Newspaper!! Most Astonish-
ing!! Do you imagine, my dear friend, that I am dead?"6 In July, 1837,
charge Richard Pollard sarcastically complained of his need for news by
stating, "By a stray paper which reached my hands. . .1 saw that Mr. Van

37

Buren had been chosen by the people President of the United States."7
John Pendleton candidly described his post as "the most remote position
in the whole line of Diplomatic service."8 While charge William Crump
was unwilling to openly complain or criticise the state department, he
did mention that although our relations with Chile were in their twenty-
third year the Santiago legation was still without an American flag.9 And
finally, Seth Barton who was willing to criticise anyone or anything at
any time informed Secretary of State James Buchanan in April, 1848,
that he had recently received several dispatches addressed to charge
Crump, dating from August, 1846, which had "crossed both oceans and
rounded Cape Horn four of five times" before arriving at last in
Valparaiso.10

Washington's neglect and lackadaisical attitude regarding these
charges' pleas for instructions becomes even more flagrant when one
reviews the important decisions they were called upon to make. They
negotiated and amended the commercial treaty with Chile, they sought
the release of illegally seized U.S. merchant vessels, they were called
upon to determine the American naval squadron's actions concerning
military blockades, and they negotiated indemnity claims worth hundreds
of thousands of dollars for U.S. citizens for property damages and
seizures dating from Chile's independence struggle. And without any
real aid from Washington, their own opinions and personalities frequently
proved to be determinants in our relations with Chile on these and other
matters.

The initial personality trait shown by charge Allen was his feeling of
superiority over Chilean officials. He constantly wrote of his disappoint-
ment over the lack of character and worthiness he found in Chile "a
rude and uneducated state, yet | requiring] nothing but the hand of
civilization to entitle them to the proud appellation of freemen."11 Cer-
tainly Allen considered himself this needed "hand of civilization," as he
determined to advise everyone from the Supreme Director, to judges, to
the congressional committee charged with drafting a new constitution
in 1825. 12 In all fairness to Allen, however, some guiding hand must have
seemed necessary, since during his first fourteen months in Santiago no
fewer than five cabinet shuffles occurred.13

Yet Allen's criticism of the Chilean government appears mild when
compared to his vitriolic condemnation of the Catholic Church's influence
in Chile. Allen was surprised that the Church was maintained as the
state religion, a position which he felt was untenable for a nation
pretending to be a republic. Allen referred to the Church as "an internal
enemy, |an] incubus which stifles growth."14 And as for the priesthood,
he disgustingly reported that in Santiago alone "there are no less than
eight hundred of these miserable beings. . . and a great portion of time
is devoted to their ridiculous ceremonies."15

The instability of the Chilean government meant that Allen made

38

no real progress on our citizens' claims cases he was charged with
negotiating. The frustrations caused by his lack of success, coupled with
lingering illnesses prompted him to move to Valparaiso during the last
two years of his mission, 1825-1827. Interestingly, however, the legation
secretary, Samuel Larned, remained in Santiago, and for all practical
purposes it was he who carried out our diplomacy during this time.
Larned was fluent in Spanish and was able to utilize his personal friend-
ship with Chilean officials to achieve influence and goals Allen never
could have dreamed. From 1825-1827, Secretary Larned by-passed
Allen and sent dispatches directly to Washington, recommending changes
in the approach concerning the claims cases and other matters. He con-
sidered Allen's voluminous interchange of notes with the Chilean foreign
ministry as "tardy" and "ineffectual," and he advised a more personal
approach including a separate convention in which Chile would at least
recognize the legality of claims cases.16

Larned knew that Allen had asked to be replaced, so with this in
mind it is easy to discern his motives in taking an active, though
unofficial, part in diplomacy. To bolster his credentials in asking for
Allen's job, Larned informed Secretary of State Clay that he had
recently published two articles in the Santiago papers defending U.S.
governmental and religious principles and institutions. These articles,
"Observations in Reply," were written to refute two others, "Memoria
Politica" and "Abeja Chilena," by Manual Egana, who condemned
North American institutions. Larned said he felt obligated, as a patriot,
to respond to Egana, "finding that no one ventured or thought proper
to come out in our defense."17

"Observations in Reply" was met with general praise by the leaders
of the growing liberal factions throughout Chile and was then circulated
in Buenos Aires, Peru, and Colombia. Gen. Francisco Pinto, Governor
of Coquimbo and a close friend of Larned, had copies of the article
distributed to all school boys so they could commit it to memory.18
Larned's reputation continued to gain status, and in the summer of 1826,
he was asked by Jose Ignacio Cienfuegos, then President of the Chilean
Congress, to serve as an observer-member of the committee charged
with framing a new constitution.19 Larned was far more than an observer.
He actually authored the "Constitutive Act" which Cienfuegos submitted
to Congress, only to be defeated by the conservatives who held a Con-
gressional majority.20

Another example of Larned's influence and reputation was evidenced
through his personal appeal to the Chilean Supreme Court for a review
of a lower court's decision which had condemned and confiscated the
U.S. schooner Chile for smuggling tobacco into the port of Talcahuanco,
in February, 1825. The crew of the Chile had unsuccessfully attempted
to hide their personal rations of cigars and tobacco when they entered
the port to buy supplies, though they made no effort to sell these mono-

39

poly items once ashore. The District Court of Concepcion had harshly
decreed that not only was the contraband tobacco to be seized, but the
court had also ordered the confiscation of the ship and its cargo of five
thousand seal skins. Larned's personal appeal to the Supreme Court
judges "who |were] all |his| personal friends," was effective and the ship
and cargo were restored.21

When Allen took homeward passage on board the French merchant-
man Charles Adolphus, on September 25, 1827, Larned could finally
begin functioning in an official capacity.22 He spent the next two years
in intensive negotiations for the establishment of a commercial treaty.
Neither Allen nor Larned had been instructed to initiate these discussions,
but after Foreign Minister Carlos Rodriquez broached the issue, Larned
proceeded with all deliberate haste.23 On several occasions during 1826,
minister Rodriquez had sought Larned's advice concerning Chile's com-
mercial ventures, and in return for this aid Larned had been assured that
U.S. commerce would be granted the status of "most favored nation"
when the two countries formalized a trade agreement.24 Larned con-
sidered these assurances of utmost importance since Mexico, Buenos
Aires, and Peru were conferring with Chile for the establishment of
treaties which contained stipulations granting trade privileges to Spanish
American nations.25 Also, Larned hoped to use his influence to gain
Chile's acceptance of a special convention attached to our treaty
through which Chile would officially recognize the legality of U.S.
claims cases. This convention would not, however, be viewed as a
necessity.26

Although Rodriquez decided that formal negotiations should be
conducted in Washington, not Santiago, Larned forwarded to Secretary
Clay a completed proposal of thirty-six articles which included blank
spaces for signatures and dates. It should be noted that Larned's pro-
posal also included the principle of "most favored nation" (Art, 2&3)
and a special provision guaranteeing freedom of worship for the citizens
of the two countries residing within each other's boundaries (Art. 15). 27
On June 7, 1829, Larned received his first dispatches from Clay. But
rather than granting him the extended negotiating powers he had re-
quested, Larned was astonished to discover he had been transferred to
Lima as our first charge to Peru. While accepting his new post, he can-
didly informed Clay that he preferred to remain in Chile where his in-
fluence would enable him to render a more valuable service to his coun-
try.28 Larned soon learned that Martin Van Buren was the new Secretary
of State in the newly inaugurated Jackson administration, and so he
immediately appealed to Van Buren for permission to remain in Chile.
Swearing his loyalty to the new administration, Larned assured Van
Buren that he had never affiliated with any other political party or even
"made use of, on a single occasion, the electoral franchise."29

Both his reasoning and vows of political loyalty failed to modify

40

Van Buren's directive, and Larned officially took leave of the Chilean
government on October 15, 1829. 30 During these last few months,
Larned unsuccessfully tried to gain Chile's agreement to pay the indemni-
ties sought in the Macedonian, Warrior, and Garret ships' claims cases.
It is clear from this correspondence that Larned had become despondent
and cynical over his transfer to Peru. His letters to his friend Rodriquez
are laced with innuendos and loosely veiled threats of military action,
since all other diplomatic avenues had failed to terminate these protracted
cases. But why should Chile rush to resolve these claims when she knew
that there was nothing to lose in waiting to treat with Larned's successor,
whom they correctly reasoned would know little of these matters?31
And apparently the American State Department felt no inclination to
proceed with haste either. Charge John Hamm was not appointed until
May, 1830,32 did not depart for his post until January, 1831, 33 and did
not present his credentials in Santiago until May 26, 1831, nineteen
months after Larned's departure.34

The two and a half year mission of John Hamm coincided with the
beginning of political stability for Chile. The inauguration of Joaquin
Prieto on September 18, 1831, witnessed the passage of the Chilean
republic from infancy to adolescence, although certainly no real maturity
was instantaneous. Hamm's efforts centered on two major subjects-
claims cases (including the addition of the Trusty, Franklin, and Good
Return claims) and his attempts to negotiate modifications to our
pending commercial treaty. Hamm, like Larned, felt that the claims
cases should be treated by affixing them to the commercial treaty in a
special convention, and he repeatedly sought additional instructions on
the subject. Of course, none came, and since the brilliant Andres Bello
was appointed as "Chilean Plenipotentiary" for these discussions, Hamm
certainly needed all the help he could muster.35 Their conferences made
rapid progress, and Bello and Hamm signed a preliminary agreement on
May 16, 1832. Article Two stated that Chile would grant the U.S. the
status of "most favored nation," except where Spanish American coun-
tries were concerned. Hamm felt that this concession would be temporary
and necessary in order to gain Chile's eventual acceptance of U.S.
claims cases.36

The Chilean Congress ratified the treaty with several modifications
in October, 1832, and Hamm forwarded it to Washington where review
would be required before Hamm could agree to the changes. In this dis-
patch to Secretary of State Edward Livingston, Hamm emphasized that
provisions such as Article Eleven, permitting Protestant burials in
Catholic graveyards, should not be considered lightly. No, indeed, the
Catholic hierarchy of that "bigoted country" had strongly opposed this
concession, but enlightened thinkers "viewed | it ] ... as the entering-
wedge for the attainment of other desirable objects of both civil and
religious nature."37 There was an obvious gratification for Hamm in this

41

"victory" over Catholicism, for in a private letter to a friend he states,
"I found this wild beast in my road shortly after I started, and I was fully
determined to meet and give him battle."38

Hamm waited thirteen months for instructions covering the Chilean
modifications to the treaty. But when dispatches finally arrived, the
treaty wasn't even mentioned. There was nothing more in these dis-
patches than a few forms, a request for an inventory of the legation's
holdings, and a mild reprimand of Hamm for not using the correct size
paper for his dispatches.39 Washington's views on the treaty finally ar-
rived in September, 1833, and Hamm spent the remaining two months of
his mission conferring with Bello and gaining final approval from the
Chilean Congress.40 When Hamm set sail for America on board the
Lady Adams on November 27, he was accompanied by Manuel Carvallo
who had been sent to formalize the treaty and open a legation in
Washington.41

Consistent with our State Department's procedures, there was a
lapse of seventeen months between Hamm's departure and the arrival of
our new charge, Richard Pollard. Pollard's chief instructions were to
continue pressing for a settlement in our claims cases and to attempt to
amend the new commercial treaty so that U.S. commerce would gain
equal status with Spanish American goods.42 U.S. Minister Plenipoten-
tiary to Madrid, John Van Ness, had succeeded in getting Spain to open
talks with her former colonies seeking formal recognition, and Pollard
was optimistic that Van Ness' assistance would pave the way for the
attainment of his goals.43 In his efforts to modify the treaty, Pollard de-
clared that since Spain was no longer a common threat, the new Spanish
American republics' preferential treatment was not really necessary.
Then, too, Chile should not forget that our Monroe Doctrine under-
scored her safety and "said to all Europe stand aloof thou shall not aid
in replacing those manacles of slavery upon these heroic people who
have broken them asunder."44

Pollard's logic and rhetoric were politely received, yet proved in-
effectual. Besides, Chile could not occupy herself with such minor
subjects when there was the growing threat of war surfacing on the
horizon. Gen. Andres Santa Crus's Bolivian Confederation had become
increasingly anti-Chilean, and as war became imminent Pollard adopted
the correct position of strict neutrality. Chile imposed an embargo on all
neutral ships scheduled to leave her ports for Peru in August, 1836, and
the U.S. merchantman Garafilia was detained for three weeks, suffering
considerable damage to her perishable cargo. Pollard sought reparations
under Article Five of our commercial treaty.45 But it seemed that every
new argument for reparations offered by Pollard was successfully coun-
tered by Foreign Minister Diego Portales. Then Pollard discovered that
Bello was the real author of these scholarly replies, and an enraged
Pollard felt he had been duped. He became convinced that Chile had

42

become anti-American, so he reciprocated by becoming anti-Bello, anti-
Portales, and anti-Prieto to the point of actually hoping that a revolution
would occur and cleanse Chile of her aristocratic and popish leaders.46

His not-so-diplomatic attitude manifested itself in a haughtily worded
letter to Portales, which categorically accused Chile of precipitating the
war, and he suggested that President Prieto should formally apologize
for meddling in Peru's domestic affairs.47 When Portales was assassinated
in Valparaiso in June, 1837, during an attempted mutiny, Pollard com-
mitted the tactless faux pas of not sending a letter of condolence over
the nation's loss.48

Chile was victorious in defeating Santa Cruz in April, 1839, and
Prieto's conservative control of the country was greatly enhanced.
Pollard expected U.S. prestige to grow, since it had remained neutral
while English and French war ships had blatantly ignored Chile's block-
ading efforts along the Peuvian coast and escorted merchantmen through
their inadequate patrols. Pollard's expectations were unfounded. At a
banquet celebrating Chile's independence, attended by all Santiago's
diplomatic corps, Pollard ever on the watch for reasons to substantiate
his growing paranoia discovered that a British admiral was seated next
to President Prieto, while he had been delegated to a lesser seating posi-
tion. After suffering through the first course and being unable to abide
this slight any longer, he curtly left his seat, walked to Prieto's table, and
"turning indignantly went out of the room."49 The banquet hosts offered
their apologies, but faux pas Pollard never forgave them this slight
against him and the honor of the U.S.50

From that point until the end of his mission in June, 1842, Pollard
carried on voluminous correspondence with a special commission which
Foreign Minister Manuel Renjifo appointed to resolve the intricacies of
the Macedonian claim, amounting to $142,000. Pollard's tenacity achieved
a compromise settlement at $104,000, but then he received instructions
indicating that the Macedonian's owners were also seeking reparations
of $70,400 from a second seizure of their ship.51 Renjifo had been noti-
fied that Pollard's replacement, John Pendleton, would soon arrive in
Santiago, so he felt no compulsion to seek a definitive solution with
Pollard to this second claim. After all, didn't a new charge mean that
Chile's charade of delays, counter claims, and discoveries of "new evi-
dence" could begin anew? But had Renjifo foreseen the volatile demeanor
of charge Pendleton, he would have rushed to sign agreements with
Pollard to settle all outstanding differences between the two countries.

During late May and early June, 1842, Pollard met with Pendleton
in Valparaiso, where the latter was able to gain valuable knowledge
about the claims cases and prejudiced insights concerning the person-
alities of the Chilean officials.52 Pendleton decided to adopt the strata-
gem of non-compromise coupled with open references to U.S. naval
power, and within six months Chile agreed to begin immediate payment

43

on the Macedonian's first claim.53 Quite self-satisfied, Pendleton then
began correspondence dealing with the Macedonian's second claim,
confident that by reasserting a militant tone Chile would acquiesce to
his demands. His January 9, 1844 letter openly accused Chile of diversion
and procrastination in this matter measures which he described as
hardly consistent with the "Perfect Justice" promised by President
Manuel Bulnes. This letter ended with a threat of military recourse if
Chile suggested further delays in the settlement.54

Foreign Minister Ramon Luis Yrarrazaval replied to Pendleton's
letter by stating that he considered the letter personally slanderous and
totally void of the dignity associated with diplomatic intercourse. Further-
more, if Pendleton persisted in that tactless tone, Yrarrazaval's depart-
ment would reject all future correspondence with him.55 Undaunted
and self-righteous as ever, Pendleton informed Yrarrazaval that the
incompetence of Chile's translator was to blame for the minister's mis-
interpretation of his tone. Then Pendleton demanded an immediate
apology.56 One hundred days later, he received a fifty-seven page reply
from Yrarrazaval, again reiterating Chile's intransigence on the matter
and informing Pendleton that he had addressed a letter to Washington
in protest of Pendleton's conduct.57 Secretary of State John C. Calhoun
apparently did not share Yrarrazaval's assessment of Pendleton's actions,
and there is no record of any departmental censure of Pendleton after
he ended his mission in June, 1844. However, his replacement, William
Crump, was extremely cordial in his relations with Chilean officials,
even though in substance he accomplished little else.58

There was a year's gap between Pendleton's departure and Crump's
arrival in Santiago in June, 1845. While not unusual, this suspension in
direct relations appears especially unfortunate when one remembers
that the middle and late 1840's witnessed a general anti-American senti-
ment in Chile and throughout Latin America. Had Crump arrived
sooner, his tactful manner and patience could have helped counter
Chile's fears of U.S. imperialism, emanating from actions against Mexico
over the Texas controversy. Pendleton's mission had, of course, only
served to intensify this anti-American image.59 In his dealings with the
Macedonian's second claim and other claims cases. Crump's position
was always one of firmness tempered with patience. Foreign Minister
Manuel Montt seemed as anxious as Crump to resolve these issues, and
in late 1846, Manuel Carvallo was again sent as minister to Washington
with specific instructions to facilitate a settlement. Carvallo praised
Crump's professional attributes and lobbied against anyone of Pendleton's
nature being chosen to follow Crump.60

Characteristically, it was Foreign Minister Camilo Vial, not the
State Department, who informed Crump that he had been replaced.61
Vial was apprehensive over Carvallo's report concerning the new appoint-
ment of Col. Seth Barton as charge. His appointment had not gone un-

44

challenged in Congress, and Washington gossip circles heaved with
rumors over his arrogance and witless urbanity.62 It seems perfect irony
that Barton arrived in Valparaiso on Christmas morning, 1847, on board
the British steamer Chile Barton proved to be the "Christmas present"
that could even turn a Catholic nation against this holiest of days.63 His
two year mission was filled with constant bickering, unfounded accusa-
tions of personal slander, violent clashes with Chile's Catholic hierarchy,
and even an episode in which his carriage horses were placed under
arrest by the Santiago police.

Barton did succeed, however, in modifying the commercial treaty
concerning the "most favored nation" principle. Since the signing of the
1833 treaty, Chile had negotiated several similar treaties with her sister
republics, whose products were given preferred treatment over U.S.
goods. All this was quite correct, of course, but Barton discovered that
Chile's 1845 treaty with Spain granted Spanish imports equality with
those of all nations, including Spanish America. Barton demanded that
U.S. and Spanish imports be placed on equal footing that of "most
favored nation."64 Vial delayed action on Barton's demands nine months,
and then he ordered Carvallo to enact Article Thirty-one of our treaty
which automatically terminated the agreement at the end of one year.
The treaty expired on January 20, 1850, and no new commercial nego-
tiations were undertaken until 1852. 65

In September, 1848, Barton began a courtship with the aristocratic
Isabel Asta-Buruaga, a romance that quickly became one of the promi-
nent topics of conversation among Santiago's social elite. When Barton,
a divorced Protestant, announced his intention to marry Isabel, their
engagement was transformed into a battlefield for Chile's liberals trying
to diminish the Church's influence. Archbishop Rafael Valentin rose to
meet this liberal challenge and used the full weight of his primateship to
oppose the marriage.66 Valentin refused to grant a dispensation for
Isabel on the grounds that a "North American" had told him that Barton
had a wife in New Orleans.67 Even Barton's sworn disposition to the
contrary failed to change the archbishop's mind, and an enraged Barton
soon surmised that it had been "a sad mistake to have looked for Chris-
tian justice at his Reverence's hands."68 Isabel's love for Barton was
stronger than the archbishop's threats of perdition, and on December
28, 1848, they were married in the U.S. legation by the chaplain of the
U.S.S. Razee Independence. A few friends, Isabel's irreconcilable family,
and several members of the diplomatic corps attended the ceremony.69

Since none of the invited Chilean officials attended the wedding,
citing "grave impediments" to excuse their absences, Barton interpreted
their actions as evidence of their disapproval.70 Archbishop Valentin
publicly proclaimed the marriage illegal, accused Barton of perjury and
bigamy, and referred to Isabel as one who had lost her virtue and was in
danger of losing her soul. Furious, Barton demanded an apology from

45

Valentin and indicted minister Vial for refusing to guarantee the protec-
tion due foreign envoys.71

It seemed to Barton that everyone had turned against him, and his
actions during his remaining five months in Chile resemble those of a
madman viciously striking out at innumerable foes real and imagined.
Exemplary of his sad mental state was the fact that when a Santiago
policeman caught Barton's runaway carriage horses and placed them in
the city stables to await ownership identification. Barton launched an
official protest against the police's usurpation of jurisdiction over Amer-
ican property. He refused to accept the horses' return without an official
apology from Vial.72 Only Isabel gave him warmth and comfort during
this trying time she announced her pregnancy and as they boarded
the U.S.S. Dale on May 26, 1849, to begin their stormy voyage around
Cape Horn, Chilean authorities surely breathed sighs of relief.73

While unique in several ways, Barton's mission exemplified how
personality coupled with feelings of isolation from Washington influenced
U.S. diplomacy during our first generation of relations with Chile.

NOTES

1 Heman Allen to John Q. Adams, April 29, 1824, Dispatches from U.S. Min-
isters to Chile. 1823-1906. Vol. 1, (General Records of the Department of State.
Washington, National Archives). Referred to subsequently as Dispatches. Allen
actually considered his post as little more than a sinecure, as indicated by his
letter of acceptance in which he requested permission to retain his position of
District Marshal of Vermont. Ibid. Allen to Adams, February 15, 1823.

2 Ibid.. Allen to Henry Clay, September 1, 1825.

3 Ibid.. Allen to Clay, November 5, 1825.

4 Ibid., Vol. Ill, Samuel Larned to Clay, June 9, 1829.

5 Ibid.. John Hamm to Martin Van Buren, July 20, 1831.

6 Ibid., Hamm to "My Dear Friend," May 31, 1832.

7 Ibid. Vol. V, Richard Pollard to John Forsyth, July 12, 1837.

8 Ibid.. Vol. VI, John Pendleton to Abel P. Upsher, October 30, 1843.

9 Ibid.. William Crump to James Buchanan, March 18, 1846. For eight years the
legation did not have an official seal. Ibid.. Vol. Ill, Hamm to Van Buren, June
20, 1831.

10 Ibid.. Vol. VII, Seth Barton to Buchanan, April 25, 1848.

11 Ibid. Vol. I, Allen to Adams, April 29, 1824.

12 Ibid.. Allen to Adams, July 19, 1824. Allen had stated earlier that he would
decline to comment on any subject other than those specifically dealing with
United States relations with Chile. Ibid.. May 26, 1824.

13 Ibid., June 24, 1825. Shortly before Allen left Chile he sarcastically mentioned
that during his mission he had corresponded with nine different foreign ministers.
Ibid, Vol. II, Allen to Clay, May 14, 1827.

14 Ibid. Vol. I, Allen to Adams, May 26, 1824.

46

15 Ibid., Allen to Adams, April 29, 1824. Allen's quote is yet another indication
of his lack of understanding concerning Chilean cultural traditions. Catholicism
has of course remained strong, as the renowned Gabriela Mistral stated, "You
will understand us only if you remember always that Chile is Catholic. Even
Chileans who are not Catholics are Catholic of the soul." Erna Fergusson, Chile
(New York, 1943), p. 27.
15 Ibid.. Lamed to Clay, October 12, 1825.

17 Ibid.. Larned to Clay, November 5, 1825.

18 Ibid.. Larned to Clay, March 16, 1826.

19 Ibid.. Vol. II, Jose Ignacio Cienfuegos to Larned, July 12, 1826.

20 Ibid.. Francisco Pinto to Larned, September 17, 1826. Pinto referred to
Larned as "mi guerido amigo." Ibid.. Larned to Clay, November 10, 1826.

21 Ibid.. Larned to Clay, August 25, 1826.

22 Ibid., Allen to Clay, September 19, 1827. Confirmation of Larned's promotion
did not reach him until April 14, 1827. Ibid.. Larned to Clay, April 19, 1827.
Larned's official credentials did not arrive in Santiago until October, 1828. Ibid.,
Vol. IV, Larned to Clay, November 9, 1828.

23 Ibid. Vol. Ill, Larned to Clay, April 11, 1828.

24 Ibid., Vol. II, Larned to Clay, November 1, 1827.

25 Ibid.

26 Ibid. Vol. Ill, Larned to Clay, May 10, 1828.

27 Ibid. Larned to Clay, January 23, 1829.

28 Ibid., Larned to Van Buren, June 12, 1829. Larned thought that Washington
wanted to have only one charge for the Pacific coast.

29 Ibid. Larned to Van Buren, July 8, 1829.

30 Ibid. Larned to Van Buren, October 20, 1829.

31 Ibid.. Larned to Carlos Rodriquez, October 10, 1829.

32 Ibid, Hamm to Van Buren, June 9, 1830.

33 Ibid.. Hamm to Van Buren, December 17, 1830. Hamm's first embarkation,
on board the Gov. Clinton, was aborted because of a storm, necessitating his
securing passage on the Don Quixote. How appropriate! Ibid.. Hamm to Van
Buren, January 2, 1831.

34 Ibid., Hamm to Van Buren, June 20, 1831.

35 Ibid.

36 Ibid., Hamm to Edward Livingston, May 20, 1832.

37 Dispatches. Hamm to Livingston, October 5, 1832.

38 Ibid. Hamm to "My Dear Friend," May 30, 1832.

39 Ibid., Hamm to Livingston, July 12, 1833.

40 Ibid., Hamm to Livingston, September 22, 1833.

41 Ibid., Hamm to Livingston, November 23, 1833.

42 William R. Sherman, The Diplomatic and Commercial Relations of the
United States and Chile. 1820-1914 (Boston, 1926), pp. 31-32.

43 Manuel Carvallo to John Forsyth, November 15, 1834, Notes from the
Chilean Legation. 181 1-1906. Vol. I, (General Records of the Department of
State. Washington, National Archives.) Referred to subsequently as Notes.

44 Dispatches, Vol. IV, Pollard to Joaquin Tocornal, April 15, 1835.

45 Ibid, Pollard to Forsyth, August 17, 1836.

47

46 Ibid., Pollard to Forsyth, December 27, 1836.

47 Ibid., Vol. V, Pollard to Forsyth, February 12, 1837.

48 Ibid., Pollard to Forsyth, July 12, 1837.

49 Ibid., Pollard to Forsyth, September 29, 1839.

50 Ibid., Manuel Renjifo to Pollard, September 30, 1839.

51 Ibid., Pollard to Forsyth, July 9, 1840.

52 Ibid., Pendleton to Daniel Webster, June 19, 1842.

53 Dispatches, Pendleton to Webster, December 4, 1842.

54 Ibid., Vol. VI, Pendleton to Ramon Yrarrazaval, January 9, 1844.

55 Ibid., Yrarrazaval to Pendleton, February 2, 1844.

56 Ibid., Pendleton to Yrarrazaval, February 5, 1844.

57 Notes, Vol. I, Yrarrazaval to Abel P. Upshur, June 12, 1844.

58 Sherman, Relations with Chile, 45-47. Pendleton was appointed as U.S.
Charge d* Affaires to Buenos Aires in 1851. Dumas Malone, editor. Dictionary
of American Biography (New York, 1930), XIV, 422.

59 Dispatches, Vol. VI, Crump to John C. Calhoun, June 3, 1845.

60 Diego Barros Arana, Un decenio de la historia de Chile (1841-1851). (Santiago
de Chile, 1906), I, 554. For sixteen months Buchanan did not respond to Car-
vallo's request for a conference on the Macedonian debacle. Notes, Vol. I, Car-
vallo to Buchanan, March 28, 1848.

61 Dispatches, Vol. VI, Crump to Buchanan, October 18, 1847.

62 Barros Arana, Un decenio, 553-554.

63 Dispatches. Vol. VI, Barton to Buchanan, December 30. 1847.

64 Ibid., Barton to Buchanan, April 25, 1848.

65 Henry Clay Evans, Jr.. Chile and Its Relations with the United States
(Durham, N.C.. 1927), p. 74.

66 Antonio Iniquez Vicuna. Historia del periodo revolucionario en Chile, 1848-
51 (Santiago de Chile, 1905). pp. 238-241.

67 Barros Arana, Un decenio. 557.

68 Dispatches, Vol. VII, Barton to Camilo Vial. April 18, 1849.

69 Ihiquez Vicuna, Periodo revolucionario. 249.

70 Dispatches. Vol. VII, Barton to Vial, December 28, 1848.

71 Ibid., Barton to Vial, april 18. 1849.

72 Ibid, Barton to John M. Clayton, November 30. 1849.

73 Ibid.. Barton to Clayton. May 26, 1849.

48

THE PLATT AMENDMENT AND
DYSFUNCTIONAL POLITICS IN CUBA:
THE ELECTORAL CRISES OF 1916-1917

By Louis A. Perez, Jr.

Electoral politics in Plattist Cuba set into relief the anomalous fea-
tures of a political system straining to meet the requirements of legitimiz-
ing agencies abroad and the needs of diverse constitutencies at home.
The quadrennial quest for the Presidential Palace in particular, during
which American policymakers and Cuban politicos made the most
intensive demands on the political order, tended to heighten the contra-
dictions endemic to the national system. Between 1916 and 1917, some
of the more notable anomalies of the Plattist system acquired an insti-
tutional quality in Cuban politics.

In mid-1915, President Mario G. Menocal shattered national calm
with an announcement stating his intention to seek another term. Presi-
dential re-election had long been a source of intense national contro-
versy. The Cuban Constituent Assembly in 1901 reluctantly approved in
principle and only after hours of acrimonious debate the juridical
validity of re-election.1 In the arena of practical politics, however,
distant from the debates on constitutional theory, re-election served to
exacerbate political controversy and intensify partisan struggles. Re-
electionism became quickly associated with government fraud, coercion,
and violence. Indeed, for those in office, incumbency offered monopoly
access to the vital instruments of State to promote re-election; the elec-
toral agei. !?s, the courts, and the armed forces, applied to the pursuit
of partisan objectives, conferred on the incumbent advantages well
beyond the reach of his challenger.2 A constitutionally legitimate end
involved often unconstitutional means.

The passions aroused by re-electionism, however, reflected some-
thing considerably more than an outcry of injured constitutional sensi-
bilities. Monopolization of national office by one party or faction threat-
ened to block for others access to the sinecures of State. Insofar as the
State served as the major source of employment,3 elections institution-
alized among political contenders a process by which all participants
shared, more or less equally, a guaranteed access to government.

The forms of conventional electoral competition disguised the ur-
gent non-political issues of national elections. Cuban politics early
acquired a particular distributive quality. With so much of national
wealth in the hands of foreigners, national office guaranteed the victorious
constituency access to the levers of resource and benefit allocation in
the only enterprise wholly Cuban government. For the members of the

49

generation of '95, many of whom had devoted the better part of their
adulthood to the disinterested pursuit of Cuban independence, republican
politics served as the means of acquiring and expanding personal eco-
nomic power. Re-election designs, in which incumbent access to the
machinery of State virtually assured a second term, violated the informal
intra-elite understanding by threatening to withdraw from circulation
the sources of economic well-being. By virtue of the resources available
to the chief executive seeking another term, elections involving the
incumbent offered the opposition little more than the opportunity to
participate in and thereby lend legitimacy to a ritualized sanction of
presidential imposicion. If in the end constitutional means failed to dis-
lodge incumbent authorities according to prescribed electoral methods,
the nature of the stakes required the opposition, alternatively, to resort
to force.

After 1905-1906, a resort to arms to protest re-election fraud no
longer represented merely a hypothetical response to a theoretical prob-
lem. The re-election of Tomas Estrada Palma, the result, the Liberals
charged, of widespread government fraud and abuse, had plunged Cuba
into civil war in 1906. 4 Only United States intervention in response to
Estrada's appeal for assistance had saved the beleaguered Moderate
Government from falling to insurgent Liberal armies.

Subsequent inquiry into the conduct of elections by the United
States upheld Liberal charges of electoral irregularities.5 Elections two
years later, supervised by the American Provisional Government, swept
Liberals into national office, vindicating further in the eyes of Party
leaders the efficacy of the decision to rebel in 1906. Armed protest, even
if unconsummated by the American intervention, had nonetheless re-
stored to the electoral system the balance jeopardized by re-electionism.

President Menocal's decision in 1915 to seek another term, there-
fore, struck Cuba with the impact of a thunderbolt. Leaders of both
parties received news of Menocal's plans with dismay. Many in the
president's own party reacted adversely to re-nominating Menocal for a
second term.6 Insofar as re-nomination functioned within the party
structure in much the same fashion as re-election in the national system,
a second term for the incumbent promised to confine public office to
the menocalista faction of the Conservative Party. Liberals, for their
part, approached the election with greater misgivings than their Conser-
vative rivals. As the party victimized by re-electionist abuses in 1905, the
prospect of again campaigning against an incumbent caused Liberals to
view Menocal's candidacy with considerable alarm.

Beyond domestic political considerations, both Conservatives and
Liberals approached national elections in 1916 fully sensitive to the dip-
lomatic context of Cuban politics. The conditions imposed on Cuban
independence at the end of the American military occupation in 1902
had effectively subjected Cuban sovereignty to United States supervision.

50

The government of Cuba, Article III of the Piatt Amendment stipulated,
"consents that the United States may exercise the right to intervene for
the preservation of Cuban independence, the maintenance of a govern-
ment adequate for the protection of life, property, and individual
liberty."7

In principle the Piatt Amendment tended to invest American
support effectively in constituted authorities. The United States commit-
ment to constituted government conferred on incumbent authorities
considerable advantage in the arena of national politics. Specifically, the
Piatt Amendment, as the understood basis of United States Cuban
policy, encouraged outright an incumbent party, assured of American
diplomatic support, to contrive re-election through illegal if ostensibly
constitutional methods. Woodrow Wilson's Latin American policy, in
condemning as a matter of principle all changes of government occurring
outside prescribed parliamentary norms, heightened the advantage of
incumbency. The renewed emphasis on constitutionality offered Conser-
vatives ideal conditions under which to seek another term. Conservative
leaders, as well as the old Moderate Party before them, understood the
Piatt Amendment to commit American support to the de jure govern-
ment against all internal challenges.8 Incumbent politicos, monopolizing
the constitutional approaches to office and invested with American
support as the duly constituted authorities, could proceed with re-
electionist designs and defy the opposition to take up arms in protest.
American policy offered the opposition no sanctioned alternative to
"constitutional" unsurpation of power other than passive acquiescence;
preoccupied with stability rather than the quality of constitutionality,
Washington took little policy cognizance of "constitutional" usurpation
by incumbent authorities. Indeed, the decision by Menocal to seek re-
election may have been inspired by his assumption that Wilson's policy
all but fc lally guaranteed the incumbent a second term.9

If in principle the Piatt Amendment and Wilsonian policy encour-
aged Conservative incumbents to hazard re-election, in practice Ameri-
can diplomacy offered the Liberal opposition sufficient precedents
around which to organize an anti-re-election electoral strategy based on
a resort to arms. Two compelling factors moved the threat of revolution
to a position of central importance in the Liberal election campaign.
First, the only leverage available to the Liberal opposition with which to
persuade the incumbent administration to restrain partisan excesses lay
in raising the spectre of revolution protesting fraud and coercion at the
polls. In this sense, the invocation of revolution served notice on
national authorities that an illegal imposition of a second term would
not go unchallenged. Secondly, and perhaps ultimately of greater signifi-
cance, the very construct of United States Cuban policy had demon-
strated to the Liberals the efficacy of the revolutionary response to the
constitutional usurpation of power. The successful resort to arms in

51

1906 had established a compelling precedent in Cuban politics. By
raising the spectre of revolution, Liberals effectively converted the
conduct of elections from a purely national process to a proceeding
impinging directly on Cuban-American treaty relations. In effect. Liberal
strategy appealed directly to Washington and generated pressure on the
State Department to assume some responsibility for honest elections.
If, in fact, the consequences of a disputed election threatened "life,
property and individual liberty," as the Liberals announced in advance,
then the very conduct of elections passed under the purview of the Piatt
Amendment.10 The Liberals sought to mobilize, from extra-national
sources, pressure on national authorities to conduct honest elections-
elections they were confident of winning if properly conducted."

Menocal's campaign confirmed the Liberals' worst fears. Pro-govern-
ment military interventors displaced civilian officials not entirely com-
mitted to the Conservative cause. Government authorities increased
harassment of opposition candidates and Liberal electors; violence,
shootings, and, occasionally mysterious murders increased as election
day neared.12

The administration's re-election efforts, however, failed to neutralize
the preponderance of Liberal voters. Within hours of the closing of the
polls, Liberal presidential candidate Alfredo Zayas began to move
steadily ahead of his Conservative opponent. On November 2, a day
after the election, preliminary returns indicated a Liberal sweep of four
provinces, assuring Zayas of the presidency. Facing the prospect of his
defeat at the polls, Menocal intervened directly in the tabulation
process.13 Telegraph and telephone communication between local elec-
tion precincts and the Central Electoral Board ceased operations in-
explicably. Election returns in the custody of government offices were
altered.14 In violation of the Electoral Code, returns reaching Havana
passed through the highly politicized Department of Governacion before
reaching the Central Electoral Board. When the Central Board protested,
returns from the provinces ceased flowing to Havana altogether.15

The interruption of returns plunged the island into a political crisis.
Amidst charges and counter-charges of fraud and trickery, outraged
Liberals moved the island closer toward civil war.

National tensions eased somewhat in mid-November when both
parties agreed to submit the disputed election to the adjudication of
appropriate electoral and judicial agencies. In the last week of Decem-
ber, the Central Board ruled in favor of the Liberal Party. The electoral
tribunal awarded the provinces of Havana and Camaguey to the Liberals;
the Conservatives received Pinar del Rio and Matanzas. The Central
Board also scheduled new partial elections for February 14 and February
20 in disputed precincts to resolve the disposition of Las Villas and
Oriente. Victory in either province guaranteed Zayas the presidency.
The electoral tribunal, lastly, awarded the Liberals a majority of 1,164

52

votes in Las Villas. Only six precincts, representing a maximum number
of some 1,500 votes remained in dispute. With neither party claiming
preponderant strength in the disputed districts, the Board's ruling
seemed to ensure a Liberal victory.

The decision of the Central Electoral Board, subsequently upheld
in January by the Supreme Court, ended all reasonable likelihood the
administration would secure a second term at the polls. Unless the
government overcame the deficit in Las Villas, an unlikely development,
the American Minister reported, "the decision of the court as to Santa
Clara assures a national Liberal victory." 16

Within days of the Supreme Court decision, government authorities
resumed the anti-Liberal campaign. Havana authorized the distribution
of considerable quantities of arms and ammunition among Conservative
partisans in precincts scheduled for partial elections.17 In Las Villas,
Havana unabashedly assigned pro-government army offices to serve as
Military Supervisors.18 Officials with pro-government sympathies as-
sumed control of precinct posts and telegraph offices.19

On February 1, 1917, Liberal Party leaders convened in Havana to
exchange impressions of the political situation. No one within the
Liberal Directorate harbored illusions about Conservative intentions for
the upcoming partial elections. The issue before the Liberal chieftains in
early February, rather, consisted entirely of party strategy in the face
of almost certain government fraud and coercion at the polls. One fac-
tion of the party, represented by Alfredo Zayas, proposed appealing to
the United States to supervise the partial elections. Former president
Jose Miguel Gomez headed another faction opposing the project.20 To
invite American intermeddling in Cuban political affairs, miguelistas
contended, opened the party to charges of collaborating with foreigners
to compromise national sovereignty. More to the point and the central
issue to pursue supervision publicly without success would cause the
Liberal Party lasting damage nationally without satisfactorily resolving
the immediate question of partial elections. In a compromise settlement,
party leaders agreed to seek American assistance publicly only after
having received in advance a private commitment from Washington to
supervise elections. In early February, Zayas related privately the
purport of the party compromise to the American Minister, asking the
Legation to transmit the Liberal request to the State Department.21

At some point during Liberal deliberations in early February, more-
over, party leaders also completed arrangements for an alternative
course of action. Plans for the long threatened Liberal uprising were
consummated. Only a disagreement over timing between the miguelista
sector, advocating a strike before the partial elections, and the Zayas
faction, arguing for a postponement until after February 14, separated
the party leadership. Liberal chieftains did agree, however, on a plot
organized around a far-flung conspiracy with leaders of the army. The

53

plan consisted of a swift seizure of military installations in Havana
seconded by army take-overs in provincial capitals.23

In early February the conspiracy remained only a well-organized
alternative to unsatisfactory policy responses from Washington. Through
the first week of February, 1917, Liberal authorities continued to search
in Washington for a solution to the political impasse. By February 10,
more than a week had passed without response since Zayas had
appealed privately to the Legation for supervision. With partial elections
only four days off, Washington's silence offered Liberals little hope of
United States surveillance of government conduct of the balloting.
During February 9-10, moreover, government authorities had uncovered
the most exposed roots of the Liberal military conspiracy in Havana.
After the arrest of key officers in Camp Columbia and La Cabana, the
Liberal plot in the capital collapsed. Facing the prospect of the nation-
wide conspiracy unraveling by disclosures in Havana, and despairing of
American supervision, the Liberal leadership moved against the government.

Within forty-eight hours, the Liberals established mastery over the
two eastern provinces of Oriente and Camagiiey and partial control over
Las Villas; insurgent bands operated throughout the national territory. A
quarter of the army had flocked immediately to Liberal banners. In all,
some 30,000 men had taken up arms to support the Liberal protest.24

Almost immediately an uneasy truce settled between both armed
camps. Both Liberals and Conservatives turned to Washington for the
crucial margin of support in the Cuban contest. The Liberal decision to
remain under arms after the still-born coup in Havana stemmed not so
much from an expectation of defeating the menocalistas in the field as it
did on the anticipation of a favorable American policy response. Given
the binding nature of Cuban-American treaty relations, particularly
United States responsibility for political stability on the island, the insur-
gent leadership reasoned that the spectre of civil war in Cuba perforce
involved the United States. Out of this treaty commitment, the Liberals
expected to obtain minimally a favorable mediation of the dispute. If all
else failed, a prolonged insurgency designed specifically to activate the
intervention clause of the Piatt Amendment, offered still another alter-
native method of overturning the Conservative government.

Two days after the ill-fated coup in Havana, the Liberal Directorate
reissued in the United States its original demand for honest elections.
The willingness to revive original objectives did not result entirely from
defeat. On the contrary, it stemmed from an appreciation of actual suc-
cesses, more specifically, the movement's potential. Entrenched securely
in the eastern province, districts of considerable American investment,
the Liberals offered to trade-off peace and continued war-time prosperity
for honest elections.

Menocal, for his part, avoided admitting as Estrada Palma had in
1906 the need for American military assistance. On the contrary,

54

Havana repeatedly assured Washington it possessed the capacity to
suppress the revolt expeditiously, with minimum loss to foreign interests,
and without American armed assistance. Menocal carefully refrained
from asking Washington for anything more than "moral support" and
"benevolent neutrality."25 However bleak the future of his administration
may have appeared in mid-February, and, indeed, at one point, few in
Havana expected the Conservative government to survive the Liberal
challenge, Menocal recalled only too well the fate of the Estrada govern-
ment and never admitted that events in Cuba had developed beyond the
control of authorities in the capital.

Unwilling to intervene militarily in Cuba in February, 1917, Wash-
ington sought diplomatically to bolster the badly shaken Menocal govern-
ment. The course of the revolt in the first seventy-two hours had left
Havana seriously weakened and highly vulnerable to the gathering insur-
gent momentum. Having lost immediately almost half the island to
insurgent forces, Menocal's ability to survive the Liberal challenge rested
entirely on his capacity to contain any further erosion of his support in
the western provinces. In mid-February, many supporters in pro-govern-
ment ranks included persons awaiting only a more propitious moment to
defect to the rebel forces. The swift suppression of the conspiracy in
Havana had allowed many committed but uncompromised pro-Liberal
officers to remain in the armed forces undetected. Although several
members of the Liberal congressional delegation had joined the Party
leadership immediately in the field, many more had delayed making a
final commitment to arms pending the outcome of early fighting; a defec-
tion of any magnitude threatened to deprive Congress of a quorum and
cripple national legislative processes.

Washington hoped through diplomatic support to aggregate for the
beleaguered Conservatives the strength they lacked nationally. An expres-
sion of American support of Menocal was vital on several counts. Most
immediately, such a statement would serve to disabuse the insurgent
Liberals of the prevailing supposition that, as in 1906, Washington
planned to intervene militarily to resolve the dispute. No other single
belief was as vital to Liberal strategy as the expectation of American
intervention. The decision to remain in the field well after the failure of
the coup rested almost wholly on Liberal hopes of United States inter-
vention. Equally important, once the army received assurances that the
United States would not abandon Conservatives, thereby foreclosing any
possibility as had happened to the armed forces in 1906 that the pro-
government activities of the military in the course of the campaign would
be subject to the scrutiny of American investigators and the reprisal of a
subsequent Liberal regime, army leaders had little inclination to defect to
what seemed a cause diplomatically foredoomed to disappointment.

The State Department stepped directly into the Cuban crisis. In a
series of dramatic moves, Washington chose to publicize selected diplo-

55

matic notes as the means through which to outline its position in regard to
the Cuban political crisis. In a series of public notes transmitted to Cuba
through the Legation, the United States mounted a major effort to estab-
lish the Conservatives on firm ground nationally. In principle, Secretary
of State Robert Lansing sought to reiterate Washington's opposition to all
government founded on force and revolution.26 More specifically, the
State Department condemned the Cuban insurrection directly. On Febru-
ary 13, Lansing expressed "the greatest apprehension" over the news of
the revolt in Cuba.27 In a second note five days later, the State Depart-
ment reiterated in some detail its support of the Menocal government
and repeated its view of the insurgency. Denouncing the revolt as
"Lawless and unconstitutional," Washington pledged to "give careful
consideration to its future attitude towards those persons connected with
and concerned in" the Liberal uprising.28

The American notes immediately had a far-reaching effect. Many
Liberals who earlier had delayed their decision to join the Party leadership
in the field now abandoned altogether plans to support the movement.
Publicity of American support of Menocal, moreover, contributed to
arresting the deterioration of the government's position nationally. A
considerable number of insurgent chieftains in the field, convinced now
that the American position ended the movement's only hope of success,
surrendered to government authorities. Other Liberal leaders weighed
personal political aspirations in the future against reprisals to the partici-
pants; for given the nature of the United States controls over the Cuban
national system, few political leaders in the field, thinking into the future,
could receive such a warning without pausing to re-examine the wisdom
of their position in 1917. Many yielded to the future. Two days later,
members of the Liberal congressional delegation caucused and declared
themselves "pacifists."29 In perhaps the most demoralizing defection of
all, presidential candidate Zayas disassociated himself from the rebel
leadership and surrendered to authorities.

By late February, American policy had contained the political threat
to the Menocal government. Publication of the February 13 note, the
Legation reported two days later, had had a "beneficial effect in abating
(the] ardor of [ the] revolutionary party."30 With the publication of the
second note on February 18, the Legation expressed confidence that
Havana could "completely dominate" the political situation in a matter
of weeks.31

The electoral events of 1916 and the insurrection of 1917 further
institutionalized the presence of the United States in island politics. The
insertion of the Piatt Amendment onto the center stage of Cuban
national processes, together with a developing understanding in Cuba of
American policy introduced an unsettling influence into the island. The
institutionalized presence of the spectre of intervention often made
intervention inevitable. Indeed, intervention was as much a cause of

56

instability as it was the result. A political culture emerged in Cuba, organ-
ized around Havana's understanding of the requirements of American
policy in which national authorities were held accountable to legitimizing
agencies abroad. Under the Piatt Amendment, Washington emerged as
the center of Cuban politics; increasingly, the Cuban political drama was
played for the benefit of an American audience.

The American presence loomed over the polity, seized by all power
contenders seeking advantage over national rivals. Fierce internal rival-
ries and intra-elite struggles for national hegemony provided the bases for
the collaboration between Cuba and the United States; political rivals in
search of advantage served as active and faithful collaborators of the
interventionist power. Insofar as the United States served as the focal
point around which Cubans organized a political universe, American
policy came to be something of a pawn pushed by all power contenders.
United States intervention became a threat wielded more frequently
and with greater skill by Cuban politicos against one another than a
diplomatic device employed by Americans in pursuit of policy objective.

A distinct logic came to characterize the reciprocal behavior of
Cubans and Americans. Cubans accepted not only the reality of United
States hegemony but legitimized American pre-eminence through com-
plicity and cooperation and, whenever possible and expedient, manipu-
lated American pre-eminence to their advantage. Cuban collaboration
was at once the necessary cause and the inevitable effect of United States
hegemony; the interventors and the intervened together underwrote the
viability of the client state.

NOTES

1 "Record of Sessions of the Constitutional Convention of the Island of Cuba,"
(7 vols.. Unpublished Manuscript, Bureau of Insular Affairs Library, National
Archives, Washington, D.C., 1901), III. Cf. Julio Villoldo, "Las reelecciones,"
Cuba Contempordnea, (Marzo, 1916), 237-252.

2 Jose Manuel Cortina, La reeleccion presidenciaULa Habana, 1916), pp. 36, 41.

3 Mario Guiral Moreno. "El problema de la burocracia en Cuba," Cuba Contem-
pordnea. 2 ( Agosto, 1913), 257-267 and Miguel de Carrion, "El desenvolvimiento
social de Cuba en los ultimos veinte atios," Cuba Contempordnea, 27 (Septi-
embre, 1921).

4 Enrique Collazo, La revolucion de agosto de 1906 (La Habana, 1907), pp. 12-13.

5 See William Howard Taft and Robert Bacon, "Cuban Pacification: Report of
William H. Taft, Secretary of State, and Robert Bacon, Assistant Secretary of
State, of "What Was Done Under the Instructions of the President in Restoring
Peace in Cuba," Appendix E, Report of the Secretary of War. 1906. 59th Con-
gress, 2nd Session, House Document No. 2, Series 5105 (Washington, D.C., 1906).

6 For the menocalista position on re-election see Recardo Dolz y Arango, El
proceso electoral de 1916 (La Habana, 1917), pp. 5-7.

7 United States Congress, Statutes at Large (1903-1905) (Washington, D.C.,
1905), p. 2249.

57

8 See Enrique Jose Varona, De la colonia a la Republica (La Habana, 1919), pp.
214-215.

9 In acknowledging United States support after the outbreak of the Liberal revolt
in February, 1917, Menocal revealed his understanding of American policy:
"President Wilson's attitude has been no less gratifying, because his well-known
policy during the last four years with respect to Governments which are the
product of revolutions had led us to expect what it would be in this particular
case." New York Times (February 22, 1917), 9.

10 Orestes Ferrara, "Las elecciones de Cuba y el gobierno de Washington," La
Reforma Social. 18 (Octubre, 1920), 125-131.

11 George Bayliss, American Consular Agent, Antilla, to Frederick Herron,
October9, 1916, File (1916) 710, Miscellaneous Correspondence, American Con-
sulate, Santiago de Cuba, Records of the Foreign Service Posts of the Department
of State, Record Group 84, National Archives, Washington, D.C.

12 "La guerrita de febrero de 1917," Boletin del Arehivo Nacional (Havana), 61
(Enero-Diciembre de 1962), 208-212.

13 One Cuban historian suggests that the Administration's decision to intervene
in the tabulation process occurred only after Menocal was reasonably certain
that Wilson would win re-election in the United States. See Rafael Rodriguez
Altunaga, El General Emilio Nunez (La Habana, 1958), pp. 214-215.

14 For a detailed chronicle of election irregularities see "Brief Synopsis of Cuba's
Present Internal Politics," October, 1919, File 1249, Material on Cuba, Enoch H.
Crowder Papers, Western Historical Manuscript Collection, University of Mis-
souri, Columbia, Missouri.

15 Alfredo Zayas, "A Statement on the Elections in Cuba, Held November 1,
1916," 837.00/1253, Department of State, General Records, Record Group 59,
National Archives, Washington, D.C. (Hereinafter cited as DS/NA, RG 59).
Returns tabulated up to and including November 2 gave Conservatives 184,680
votes to the Liberals' 188,994. "La guerrita de febrero de 1917," p. 207. William E.
Gonzales to Secretary of State, November 21 , 1916, 837.00/1047, DS/NA, RG 59.

16 William E. Gonzales to Secretary of State, January 22, 1917, 837.00/1056,
DS/NA, RG 59. Days after the Supreme Court decision, Minister William E. Gon-
zales found Menocal "bitter against the Supreme Court," having a "mental atti-
tude" leading the American envoy to fear that the Conservative President could
not be restrained from using every means possible to overcome the Liberal major-
ity in Las Villas. "This means," Gonzales wrote, "employment of force, killing of
Liberal managers at the polls and declaration of palpably fictitious results." Ibid.

17 P. Merrill Griffith to Secretary of State, January 29, 1917, 837.00/1061, DS/NA,
RG 59.

18 H. K. Hewitt, Commanding Officer, "USS Eagle," to Secretary of the Navy,
837.00/1270, DS/NA, RG 59.

19 Leon Primelles, Cronica cubana. 19 15- 19 18 (La Habana, 1955), p. 239. P. Mer-
rill Griffith to Secretary of State, January 29, 1917, 837.00/1061, DS/NA, RG 59.

20 Primelles, Cronica cubana. 19 IS- 19 18. 243.

21 William E. Gonzales to Frank L. Polk, February 4, 1919, Drawer 77, File 243,
Frank L. Polk Papers, Sterling Memorial Library, Yale University, New Haven,
Connecticut.

22 Carlos Guas, "?Quien ordeno el levantamiento de febrero?" El Mundo (junio
17, 1919), 16.

23 Horacio Ferrer, Con el rifle at hombro (La Habana, 1950), p. 221.

24 Ibid. p. 246.

58

25 See Mario G. Menocal to Woodrow Wilson, March 5, 1917, Series 2, Box 158,
Woodrow Wilson Papers, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Washington,
D.C., and William E. Gonzales to Secretary of State, Department of State, For-
eign Relations of the United States: /9/7(Washington, D.C., 1928), p. 355 (Here-
inafter cited as FRUS).

26 Robert Lansing to William G. McAdoo, February 17, 1917, Vol. 24. Robert
Lansing Papers, Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, Washington, D.C.

27 Robert Lansing to William E. Gonzales, February 13, 1917, FRUS, p. 356.

28 Robert Lansing to William E. Gonzales, February 18, 1917. FRUS. p. 363.

29 "La guerrita de febrero de 1917," 232.

30 William E. Gonzales to Robert Lansing, February 15, 1917, 837.00/1085,
DS/NA, RG 59.

31 James L. Rodgers, Consul General, to Secretary of State, February 19, 1917,
837.00/1107. DS/NA, RG 59.

59

60

UNITED STATES INVOLVEMENT IN

PANAMANIAN POLITICS DURING

TAFT'S ADMINISTRATION

By Frank Gerome

After Panama's independence in 1903, political unrest developed
with each election as competing factions jockeyed for power; at times the
turbulence resulted in violence which threatened to endanger the con-
struction of the Panama Canal and U.S. interests there. Political candi-
dates and their parties often turned to the United States for assistance.1
This occurred in the elections of 1908 when the leaders of both the Con-
servative and Liberal parties requested U.S. supervision of the elections.
William Howard Taft, as Secretary of War under President Roosevelt,
was involved in this effort before embarking on his own presidential cam-
paign. On the eve of the elections in Panama, supporters of the incumbent
administration complained bitterly of U.S. interference and boycotted
the polls; consequently, Jose Domingo de Obaldia won, but in his
inaugural address he denied having requested U.S. aid.2 After Taft be-
came President, both he and Secretary of State, Philander Knox, were
well aware of the difficulty of attempting to influence political develop-
ments and maintaining peace and stability in Panama, but with the con-
struction of the canal approaching its final stages that goal remained the
administration's primary objective in Latin America.3

Opposition to Obaldia's administration erupted in early 1910 as
Panama prepared to elect deputies to the National Assembly. Carlos A.
Mendoza, the second "designado" (one of the three vice-presidents) and
Belissario Porras, a popular Liberal figure and the minister to Costa Rica,
led the attack.4 Obaldia hoped to remain in office and argued that only
he could hold a Conservative-Liberal coalition together and prevent the
election of these "dangerous liberals."5 Political expectations for the
opposition changed abruptly when Obaldia suffered a heart attack6 and
died on March 1 ; thus, Mendoza succeeded to the Presidency to complete
the two years remaining of the deceased president's term.

The U.S. Charge d'affaires, George T. Weitzel, expressed deep con-
cern because executive power had passed to the liberal branch of the
coalition party. Weitzel also questioned the legality of Mendoza's succes-
sion because he had taken the oath of office before the President of the
Supreme Court rather than the President of the National Assembly as
provided in the Panamanian Constitution.7 Several days after Mendoza
assumed office, Weitzel sent reports predicting a grim future for U.S.-
Panamanian relations and declared that the new President, a mulatto,
had a "racial inability" to refrain from abusing power. Weitzel warned

61

that Mendoza would quickly be able to strengthen his political support,
gain control of the National Assembly and, once elected, prove "extremely
unsatisfactory" to the better classes of Panamanians and "decidedly ob-
jectionable" to Americans. Mendoza's popularity, he noted, was based on
the assumption that he would protect Panamanians against the Yankees.8

Throughout the spring and summer of 1910 conservative opposition
to Mendoza increased. Publicly, many argued that he was not constitu-
tionally able to run for President since he already occupied that office.9
But a greater source of fear and tension not discussed so openly were
the racial factors which Weitzel had noted. The U.S. Minister, R. S. Rey-
nolds Hitt, also commented on this and predicted that if the United States
took no action, Mendoza would be elected.10 He also pointed out that all
political groups in Panama were aware that the wishes of the United
States must be observed and that no leader or party would be strong
enough to resist them. Aware of this, Mendoza appealed directly to Presi-
dent Taft and informed him that conditions in Panama were peaceful and
that elections would take place fairly and honestly."

When the National Assembly elections occurred on July 1, Liberal
delegates won a substantial majority which assured Mendoza's election
in September.12 This prompted the newly appointed U.S. Charge d'affaires,
R. O. Marsh, to launch a vigorous campaign to persuade Washington to
bloc Mendoza's election. That could be prevented he declared, if the
United States simply suggested that such procedures were unconstitu-
tional and that Article 136 of Panama's constitution recognized the right
of U.S. intervention to establish order. He too expressed concern about
Mendoza's popularity with blacks who were "ignorant, and irresponsible,
unable to meet the serious obligations of citizenship in a Republic."13
Both Marsh and Hitt pointed out that all Caucasians in Panama (foreigners
as well as natives) hesitated to have social contacts with Mendoza and his
wife because of their race (she was a full-bloodied black). Hitt explained
that many Panamanians believed this hampered business transactions
and diminished the reputation of Panama abroad, and were anxious that
their nation be considered a "white man's country and not a nigger
country." Mendoza's election, he added, would have a negative effect on
U.S. activities through Central America where the white power structure
would assume that American influence meant the encouragement of
Negroes in office; they would more vigorously combat the influence of
the United States.

On August 5, 1910, Marsh reported that he had just had a long con-
ference with Col. Goethals who also agreed that the interests of the canal
project, American influence, and of Panama all demand that Mendoza
should not be reelected; he again urged officials in Washington to pre-
vent that from happening.14

As the time for the election approached and officials in Washington
failed to comply with the suggestions emanating from the legation in

62

Panama, Marsh intensified his attack on Mendoza; he compared him to
a potential Zelaya or Cabrera and warned that he was a "grave menace to
Panama and American influence." Marsh added that Mendoza led an
immoral private life which was evident by his open support of two mis-
tresses and numerous illegitimate children.15

Naturally, rumors that the United States opposed Mendoza's election
quickly spread throughout Panama. This prompted the Acting President
to send a representative to discuss this with Marsh who told him that
Mendoza said he would comply if Marsh refrained from issuing a public
protest against him or opposing his appointment as Secretary of Interior
and Finance, a position he had held previously. "I replied that I thought
this would be highly satisfactorily," explained Marsh, "and have arranged
a conference between Mendoza, Col. Goethals, and myself for tomorrow
afternoon." If his actions were approved, he added, "Mendoza would
resign and bloodshed in Panama would be avoided." I6 Throughout these
maneuvers, Mendoza was uncertain whether or not Marsh's attitude
toward him reflected the opinion of the Department of State but his
doubts were removed when Huntington Wilson, the Assistant Secretary,
informed Marsh on August 24 that he concurred with his views and in-
structed him to notify Mendoza of this. The effect was immediate; Men-
doza withdrew as a candidate which left the National Assembly with two
leading contenders: Samuel Lewis who was pro-American and had
Marsh's enthusiastic support and Belissario Porras who, according to
Marsh, meant more trouble for the United States. Then Marsh exerted
further pressure to influence political developments by urging Mendoza
to pledge his support to Lewis.'7 This latter action provoked Huntington
Wilson who believed Marsh had exceeded his instructions; he repri-
manded him for his excessive meddling in Panamanian politics and in-
structed him as follows:

The Department fully appreciates your good work in a difficult
situation but you must not nullify it by sowing the seeds of hos-
tility on the part of Mendoza's following or antagonizing Porras
who is quite likely to be President two years hence if not now,
who, when lately in Washington seemed not unfriendly and who,
with skillful handling should be made thoroughly friendly to the
United States.18

Marsh was disturbed and pointed out that the Department had mis-
understood his actions which did not include unnecessary interference
in local politics. He explained that he had been overworked in recent
weeks, that he had kept in constant touch with Col. Goethals, and that
the blacks were responsible for the rumors which criticized him and cir-
culated widely in Panama. He added that U.S. business interests there
had been "subjected to constant persecution" during the pastyear and
believed that the present Liberal control of the government should be
weakened or the business interests would be forced to appeal directly to

63

Washington for assistance. The Charge also mentioned that canal zone
authorities were disturbed and that many people,' including the "respect-
able element" of Panama, believed that Mendoza's election would pre-
cipitate American occupation. In an effort to soothe Marsh's feelings,
Huntington Wilson assured him that while his actions were generally
approved, the Department simply hoped that both he and Goethals
would "exercise the greatest tact, conciliation and circumspection. . . ,"19
President Taft was completely unaware of the controversy Marsh
had created in Panama. On September 7 when Huntington Wilson asked
him to approve the Charge's actions and announce that they reflected the
U.S. official view, Taft responded: "I am wholly uninformed as to the
Panama matter. What is it that Marsh has been doing down there and
under whose direction has he been acting?"20 The following day, Hunt-
ington Wilson sent him a summary of politcal conditions there along with
the Department's pertinent dispatches. Then, on the same day, he in-
formed Marsh that the United States had no preferences among the
candidates in Panama's election.21 His sudden neutrality was undoubt-
edly prompted by Taft's belief that Marsh's involvement had seriously
aggravated Panama's political problems and increased hostility toward
the United States. Taft had recently received a letter signed by twenty-
one delegates of the Panamanian National Assembly who complained of
Marsh's actions and stated that the Charge had informed newspapermen
that the United States would occupy and annex Panama unless the dele-
gates selected the "right" candidates \i.e., Lewis] to succeed Mendoza.22
Naturally this provoked an uproar in Panama. After reading some of the
dispatches from Panama, Taft concluded that Marsh had been "over-
zealous" and that the Charge had "grossly misrepresented" the attitude
of the United States.23 Taft firmly believed that the United States should
not become involved in influencing the selection of the candidate or
party in Panama's election and was certainly not threatening annexation.24
He finally concluded that Marsh was "utterly unfit to represent us there"
and revealed his thoughts on U.S. influence and Panamanian politics in
a letter to Huntington Wilson:

( Marsh ] evidently thinks that it is his business to elect some par-
ticular person and he accepts every story and every criticism of a
liberal that can be suggested and would give the impression that
chaos is to follow the election of any liberal. We have such control
in Panama that no Government elected by them will feel a desire
to antagonize the American Government. I am particularly anx-
ious to avoid the charge of undue meddling because of its effect
in Central America and South America. The tone of Marsh's
dispatches shows that he is fresh and insubordinate.25
Marsh was soon recalled and a new minister, Thomas C. Dawson, was
temporarily assigned to Panama. Meanwhile, the National Assembly had

64

unanimously elected Pablo Arosemena first Vice President to succeed
Mendoza when his term expired at the end of the month.26

In his inaugural address of October 5, 1910, Arosemena spoke of the
unusual ties between Panama and the United States and announced that
under no circumstances would he be a candidate for re-election in 1912. 27

Taft visited Panama in November 1910 to inspect the progress of the
canal. Unfortunately his four day tour of the Isthmus renewed rumors
of annexation despite his repeated denials.28 He was encouraged with the
progress he saw and predicted the canal would open earlier than the
anticipated date of January I, 1915. He expressed hope that political
unrest would not flare up again and create disturbances which might
threaten that progress.29

But the parade of rival Panamanian political factions coming to
Washington, attempting to cultivate support for the 1912 presidential
elections, was soon under way and there were signs that tranquility there
would be difficult to achieve.30 On June 2, 1911 Carlos Arosemena, the
nephew of the President, was in Washington and declared that his uncle
had "reluctantly consented" to be a candidate for re-election and hoped
for U.S. support.31 Taft explained that while the United States had inter-
fered in 1908 to help guarantee a fair election, there would be no effort
to influence the selection of any particular person as President in the
forthcoming election. He told Arosemena that the U.S. would have no
objection to the re-election of his uncle but would not indicate a
preference.32

With the canal nearing completion and partisan politics gearing up
again, the State Department attempted to strengthen and improve the
effectiveness of the U.S. legation in Panama by appointing an experienced
diplomat, H. Percival Dodge, as minister.33 Shortly after Dodge arrived
in Panama, Ricardo Arias and Santiago de la Guardia began the familiar
game of cultivating his support.34 Both men were disappointed when
Dodge explained that the United States would not endorse any candidate.
The new minister expressed surprise that so much attention and specula-
tion focused on the presidential elections "notwithstanding their compar-
ative remoteness."35

Political tensions in Panama erupted into open violence and street
fighting in December 1911. The disturbance involved approximately one
thousand participants and caused some observers to believe that the
nation was on the verge of revolution. Dodge was especially concerned
that the violence would escalate and injure or kill U.S. citizens.36 The
unrest provided Arosemena with an opportunity to intensify his efforts
to obtain U.S. intervention in order to prevent a possible Liberal victory.
The Panamanian Attorney General urged Taft to intervene ". . . in favor
of this country to which both you and Mr. Roosevelt have given life."37

Arosemena began to dismiss office-holders whose loyalty to him was
questioned. Political removals were most evident in the police force

65

which soon became filled with supporters of the administration. Accord-
ing to Dodge, Arosemena and his party, Union Patriotica, had a narrow
base of support; he predicted that if the elections were honestly conducted,
the Liberal Party's candidate would be overwhelmingly elected.38 On
February 12, 1912, the Liberal Party held its convention and selected
Belissario Porras for its presidential candidate.

In Washington, Minister Arias intensified his efforts to persuade the
administration to indicate a preference toward Pedro Diaz, the newly
designated candidate of Union Patriotica which formed a coalition of
Conservatives and Liberals who had earlier supported Pablo Arosemena.
Obviously annoyed, the Assistant Secretary of State declared: "[Arias] is
asking for another interview and it is my intention to tell him once and for
all that this Government sees no occasion at present which would justify
it in expressing itself on the subject. . . " Taft also refused to alter his
position. His secretary noted: "He does not wish to interfere in Panama
as he feels they must work out their own salvation."39 In response to a
letter Arias had written requesting U.S. assistance, Taft explained:
It is more responsibility than we can afford to assume. What we
would do would be misunderstood, and we must see whether
matters can work themselves out for the benefit of the people of
Panama without our intervention. Of course I can conceived that
the time might come when we must intervene, as we have done
before, but nothing has yet been brought to may attention indi-
cating a case which would justify action on our part.40
The President's attitude changed in May when the electoral contest
became increasingly bitter and violence erupted again between Porristas
and the followers of Union Patriotica. By the time the Panamanian gov-
ernment and both political parties had requested U.S. intervention to
supervise the elections. The Liberals were fully aware that it was their
only hope of a possible victory. Minister Dodge recommended U.S. sup-
ervision as "the only way of avoiding serious disturbances and securing
fair elections." When Huntington Wilson informed Taft of this volatile
atmosphere in Panama and urged that the U.S. supervise the elections,
the President quickly agreed to undertake that responsibility again.41
Dodge was appointed Chairman of the supervisory committee which
included representatives of the Panamanian government and both political
parties. During the committee's initial meeting at the American legation
he made clear that the United States had no preference among the can-
didatesthe sole purpose of the supervision was to guarantee that the
constitution was observed and that law and order prevailed. The com-
mittee agreed to extend the voter registration period from May 15 to the
31st and immediately began to direct that process. The Panama Star and
Herald praised the committee's effective work during the registration
period and predicted that the elections would occur "without coercion,
fraud, or disorder."42

66

But there were many who did not share this optimism and complaints
were brought to the attention of the supervisors even before election day.
Porristas declared that registration lists had been "doctored" and police
brutality was widespread. There were also rumors that the Panamanian
government resented the presence of the supervisors and intended to
provoke disturbances in order to bring about U.S. military occupation
which might prevent Porras' election. Rumors of assassination plots cir-
culated widely.43

When Liberal candidates won by a large majority in the municipal
elections of June 30, Diaz supporters blamed the supervisors and regis-
tered protests in ten election districts.44 Porristas pointed out the admin-
istration's efforts to prevent them from voting by widespread intimidation
and arrests of their leaders. In many districts, the supervisors noted the
lack of cooperation by the police and other local authorities.45 When the
supervisors had urged local officials to disarm policemen on the day of
the election, the Panamanian government became deeply disturbed.
Minister Arias discussed this at a conference at the White House and
declared that such action was humiliating and created the impression
that the supervisors favored the Porristas. He also stated that Porristas
had padded the registration lists which would be used in both municipal
and national elections. William T. S. Doyle, a key member of the State
Department's Latin American Division who attended the conference,
suggested that the impartiality of the supervisors had been demonstrated
by the fact that both Panamanian political parties had complaints.46

After the Liberal's victory in the municipal elections, which Arias
claimed was won by fraud, he repeatedly visited the State Department in
an effort to gain U.S. support for a plan to postpone the national
elections. Huntington Wilson was unsympathetic and believed that Dodge
and the supervisors had conducted themselves with impartiality; he in-
formed Arias that a postponement of the election was illegal.47 Arias
complained that just a few months earlier, Diaz' election looked virtually
certain because of the enthusiasm with which he had been received
during his electoral campaign. He declared: "All this unhappily has been
destroyed by the actions of Minister Dodge."48 It was impossible to
please everyone.

Faced with defeat and after reaching the conclusion that it was not in
their interest to have a fair election, followers of Union Patriotica with-
drew their candidate and urged their supporters to abstain from voting.
Consequently, the elections occurred with few disturbances and Belis-
sario Porras won overwhelmingly. Dodge reported that they were the
fairest the nation had ever experienced. The Panama Morning Journal
praised the impartiality and effective work of the minister and the super-
visory committee and claimed that the majority of Panamanians shared
these views. The Panama Star and Herald concurred and argued that the

67

substantial Liberal victory indicated that the election had not been
fraudulent.49

In contrast to these reports, bitter resentment toward the U.S. super-
vision of the elections and Americans in general erupted on the night of
July 4th in the Cocoa Grove section of Panama. Several hundred U.S.
soliders celebrating the holiday there clashed with Panamanian police
who killed one and wounded nineteen others. In an effort to place the
blame for the tragedy, accusations poured forth from various quarters.
Some argued that drunken U.S. soliders initiated the incident. Others
claimed it was caused by the over-reaction of the Panamanian police.
Members of Union Patriotica argued that the soliders and the U.S. gov-
ernment were responsible because of the "unfair" election supervision
which had inflamed the population. Porristas pointed out that the police
were angry with Americans and resented the intereference of the super-
visors; they viewed the outbursts as another incident instigated by Union
Patriotica whose aim was to force the U.S. to intervene and annual the
elections. The controversy surrounding the Cocoa Grove disturbance
created addmitional tensions and diplomatic problems between the two
nations during the remaining months of Taft's administration and con-
tinued into the succeeding one.50

In response to the anti-American sentiment which prevailed in
Panama toward the end of Taft's administration, a New York Times edi-
torial made the following observation:

. . . they fret under a peace and prosperity at once alien and
compulsory. Who wouldn't. Of course, they are unwise to let their
irritation betray them into hopeless resistance, but there is
nothing peculiar in their ingratitude \sic\ for unwanted favors;
that is not Panamese [sic] or Central American; it is only human.51
Taft's experience with Panama revealed some of the problems of attempt-
ing to influence political developments in Panama; it would be virtually
impossible to do without incurring hostility and resentment.

Belissario Porras, of course, was grateful for the American super-
vision which enabled him to win the election; he informed Dodge that he
would appoint a minister for Foreign Affairs who would be a "special
friend" of the United States and that with American assistance, he in-
tended to enact sweeping reforms in the police force.52 His inauguration
occurred on October 1, 1912; a month later Taft became a lame-duck
President and prepared to turn over the frustrating responsibilities of
maintaining "peace" in Panama and the opening of the canal to a new
administration.

68

NOTES

1 See G. A. Mellander, The United States in Panamanian Politics: The Intriguing
Years (The Interstate Printers & Publishers, Danville, 111., 1971) for an account of
U.S. involvement in Panamanian politics from 1903 through the 1908 elections.
See also William McCain, The U.S. and the Republic of Panama (Durham: Duke
University Press, 1937); and the memorandum prepared by U.S. Minister to
Panama, R.S.R. Hitt, August 12, 1910, 819.00/297. U.S. Department of State,
Records of the Department of State Relating to the Internal Affairs of Panama,
1910-1929, Microcopy No. 607. Unless otherwise noted, documents in this study
are from these records and are hereafter cited solely by the decimal number.

2 George T. Weitzel, U.S. Charge d'Affaires, to SecState, October 2, 1908,
847/152; Mellander, The United States in Panamanian Politics 185-186.

3 See Taft's address to Congress, U.S. Foreign Relations. 1912, p. xii; and Secre-
tary Knox's commencement address at the University of Pennsylvania, June 15,
1910, entitled "The Spirit and Purpose of American Diplomacy," Knox Papers,
Manuscript Division, Library of Congress, Box #4; and his address before the
New York State Bar Association on January 19, 1912, "The Monroe Doctrine and
Some Incidental Obligations in the Zone of the Caribbean." A good general
account of the administration's Latin American policy is contained in Walter V.
and Marie V. Scholes, The Foreign Policies of the Taft Administration (Univer-
sity of Missouri Press, 1970).

4 Weitzel to SecState, February 28, 1910, 819.00/228; and March 19, 1910,
819.00/233. Weitzel reported that Porras was an active candidate for the Presi-
dency and that Porras had told one of his friends that the reason he was going to
visit Washington was not to settle the Costa Rican boundary dispute but to reveal
to officials there that he was a Caucasian and not a Negro as many generally
believed. Weitzel stated that Samuel Lewis, a member of the conservative branch
of the Coalition Party was probably the best qualified for the presidency but had
little support; the Attorney General, Santiago de la Guardia, was another able
candidate but he was not popular with the voters.

5 Ibid.

6 Weitzel to SecState, March 4, 1910, 819.00/25; March 19, 1910, 819.00/233;
Thomas Dawson, Division of Latin American Affairs, memorandum to Francis
M. Huntington Wilson, Assistant Secretary of State, March 4, 1910, 819.00/225.

8 Weitzel to SecState, March 3, 1910, 819.00/230. Weitzel observed: "At present
it suits him [Mendoza's) purpose to appear retiring and conciliatory until he can
get his bearings after the sudden shock which has made him Chief Executive, and
estimate the force of sentiment for and against him both in Panama and the
United States."

9 La Palabra, May 21, 1910. This paper, whose Director was Eduardo Chiari,
claimed that Mendoza was using funds from the national treasury to travel and
campaign throughout the country. Ricardo Arias and Santiago de la Guardia
were among the prominent conservative leaders. See also dispatch of R. S. Rey-
nolds Hitt to Secretary of State, June 11, 1910, 819.00/236.

10 Hitt to SecState, June 11, 1910, 819.00/236.

11 Mendoza to Taft, June 14, 1910, enclosed in Charles D. Norton, Secretary to
the President to Knox, July 2, 1910, 819.00/242; Taft to Mendoza, July 20, 1910,
enclosed in Alvey A. Adee, Acting Secretary of State, to Marsh, August 2, 1910,
819.00/242.

12 Marsh to SecState, July 28, 1910, 819.00/240. The Liberal Party won 20 of the

69

28 seats in the National Assembly. Supporters of the Conservative Party, led by
Ricardo Arias and Santiago de la Guardia, abstained from voting.

13 Marsh to SecState, July 28, 1910, 819.00/240; August 10, 1910, 819.00/247. The
Charge reported that Negroes regarded the racial issue as the most important
question in the forthcoming elections. Articles in El Duende (August 7, 1910), a
Negro paper, emphasized racial equality and urged Negroes to unite in supporting
Mendoza against the white population. "This appeal to racial equality and Negro
solidarity," Marsh noted, "is already having an unfortunate effect on the country
as evidenced by a recent great increase in petty conflicts between the two races."
And Hitt's Memorandum of August 12, 1910, 819.00/297.

14 Marsh to SecState, August 5, 1910, 819.00/241. De la Guardia explained to
Secretary Knox that Mendoza was violating the constitution by engaging in the
practice of continuismo; de la Guardia requested U.S. intervention to prevent
Mendoza's election or by not recognizing him if elected. De la Guardia to Knox,
August 4, 1910, 819.00/244.

15 Marsh to SecState, August 15, 1910, 819.00/253; and August 17, 1910, 819.00/248.

16 Marsh to SecState, August 20, 1910, 819.00/251; and Marsh to Huntington Wil-
son, the Assistant Secretary of State, August 22, 1910.

17 Marsh to SecState, August 26, 1910, 819.00/255 and /256; August 29, 1910,
819.00/258; August 30, 1910, 819.00/259.

18 Huntington Wilson to Marsh, September 1, 1910, 819.00/259.

19 Marsh to SecState, September 2, 1910, 819.00/265; Huntington Wilson to
American Legation, September 3, 1910, 819.00/265.

20 Huntington Wilson to Taft (in Beverly, Mass.) and Taft to Huntington Wilson,
September 7, 1910, 819.00/275.

21 Huntington Wilson to Taft, September 8, 1910, 819.00/284A; Huntington Wil-
son to AmLegation, Panama, September 8, 1910, 819.00/268A.

22 Letter from twenty-one members of the Panamanian National Assembly to
Taft, September 9, 1910, 819.00/271. Marsh's enthusiasm for Lewis was well-
known. He viewed Lewis as the best man to help establish comparatively honest
governmental reforms and to uphold U.S. prestige. Marsh wrote: ". . . if such inti-
mation [of support] is given by the Washington authorities as was given two years
ago, he can still be elected." Marsh to SecState, September 9, 1910, 819.00/270;
and September 10, 1910, 819.00/272. On September 12th Marsh wrote: "If it is
necessary for your dignity to publicly reprimand or discharge me for bungling or
discretion I will take my medicine quietly but for the prestige of the Department
and to prevent untold persecution and insult to Americans in Panama which will
inevitably follow a Liberal victory under present conditions I implore my Govern-
ment to insist on the election of Lewis." (819.00/274)

23 Taft to Huntington Wilson, September 9, 1910, 819.00/285; and September 10,
1910, 819.00/283. Taft believed that part of the problem in Panama was due to
Marsh's "fussy meddling and loquacity."

24 Ibid

25 Taft to Huntington Wilson, September 12, 1910, 819.00/281.

26 Taft to Mendoza, September 12, 1910, 819.00/279A; Marsh to SecState, Sep-
tember 14, 1910, 819.00/284; Huntington Wilson to Taft, September 7, 1910,
8 19.00/277 A; and The New York Times, September 14, 1910.

27 Dawson to SecState, October 5, 1910, 819.00/307; The Panama Star and
Herald, October 6, 1910.

28 The New York Times, November 4 and 17, 1910; the U.S. Minister in Costa
Rica reported that rumors of annexation circulated throughout Central America.

70

U.S. Minister, San Jose, Costa Rica to SecState, November 10, 1910, 819.00/317.

29 The New York Times, November 24, 1910. Taft also hoped to squelch the argu-
ments of those who still claimed that a sea level canal was more feasible and
cheaper to build than a system of locks. He declared that his visit confirmed the
wise judgement of the engineers.

30 Santiago de la Guardia and Ricardo Arias were especially active in their efforts
to gain support from U.S. officials in Panama and Washington. See report of
William Whiting Andrews, U.S. Charge d'affaires, May 17, 1911, 819.00/327.
Whiting declared that he hoped their mission to the U.S. accomplished nothing
because ". . . it is evidently intended to entangle the U.S. in partisan politics here."
The visit of these men to Washington prompted leaders of the Liberal Party to
register a protest with the American Legation in Panama. Andrews to SecState,
June 7, 1911 ,819.00/335. Secretary Knox was confident that whoever was elected
in Panama would respect treaty obligations with the United States. Knox to
Andrews, July 11, 1911, 819.00/335.

31 Taft to Knox, June 2 and 13, 191 1, 819.00/331 and 333. Huntington Wilson be-
lieved that Arosemena was not constitutionally able to run for re-election and
after Arosemena's conference with President Taft, wrote to Secretary Knox:
". . . our old friend Carlos is again stepping over the Department to try to use the
U.S. for his family's interests." Huntington Wilson to Knox, June 20, 1911,
819.00/333.

32 Taft to Knox, June 13, 1911, 819.00/333; Knox to Andrews, July 11, 1911,
819.00/335.

33 Alvey A. Adee to Dodge, October 27, 1911, 123 D66 /93a, Personnel Records,
U.S. Department of State Decimal File, 1910-1929; Dodge to SecState, Novem-
ber 19, 1911, 123 D66 /92, National Archives.

34 Dodge to SecState, November 17, 1911, 819.00/347 and December 6, 1911,
819.00/349.

35 Dodge to SecState, December 29, 1911, 819.00/352.

36 Dodge to SecState, December 12, 1911,819.00/350; and TheNew York Times,
December 21 and 22, 1911.

37 De la Guardia to Taft, December 27, 191 1, 819.00/361. He predicted that the
nation would be ruined if it fell into the hands of the Liberals with their "barbaric
passions" and pleaded that "all minds would recover calm by a simple word
from your authorized lips." State Department Memorandum, January 2, 1912,
819.00/352 and January 11, 1912, 819.00/355.

38 Dodge to SecState, January 9 and January 25, 1912, Knox Papers, Box #33,
Manuscript Division, Library of Congress. "I hesitate to believe," Dodge observed,
"that President Arosemena's election is necessary to preserve Panama from ruin."

39 Huntington Wilson to Taft, March 21, 1912, 819.00/386a; Charles D. Hilles,
Secretary to President Taft, to Secretary Knox, March 22, 1912, 819.00/380; and
Henry L. Stimson, Secretary of War to Ricardo Arias, April 4, 1912, 819.00/397.

40 Arias asked Taft to ". . . help us correct our political imperfections " Arias

to Taft, April 15, 1912, 819.00/397; Taft to Arias, April 18, 1912, 819.00/377.

41 Dodge to SecState, March 18, 1912, 819.00/382; Dodge to SecState, April 25,
1912, 819.00/387; /391; May 3, 1912, 819.00/389; and May 9, 1912, 819.00/393;
Memorandum of the Latin American Division, May 7, 1912, 819.00/401; Hunt-
ington Wilson to Taft, May 10, 1912, 819.00/396; and Huntington Wilson to
AmLegation, Panama, May 13, 1912, 819.00/393; The New York Times, May 4
and 5, 1912. Porras' elements appeared to have control of the registration boards
of various municipalities while Union Patriotica had the support of the govern-

71

ment which was in control of the officials and police units in the districts and
provinces.

42 A total of 228 supervisors for the various districts were drawn as follows: 50
from the Isthmian Canal Commission; 50 from the Marine Battalion; and 128
from the U.S. 10th Infantry Regiment. Dodge to SecState, May 18 and 20, 1912,
819.00/400 and /405; Dodge to SecState, June 25, 1912, 819.00/422; and The
Panama Star and Herald, June 16, 1912.

43 Dodge to SecState, June 25, 1912, 819.00/422. During the municipal elections
on June 30th some supervisors complained of problems with the local police in
their districts. One supervisor at Los Santos stated that police officials circulated
throughout the district intimidating the people from voting. Numerous other
examples of police interference were cited. Dodge to SecState, July 1, 1912,
819.00/427.

44 Dodge to SecState, July 1 and 2, 1912, 819.00/427 and 418.

45 Dodge to SecState, July 1, 1912, 819.00/427.

46 For a summary of the White House Conference with Arias, Taft, Knox, and
Doyle, see the latter's Memorandum of July 1, 1912, 819.00/420.

47 Huntington Wilson, Memorandum to Latin American Division, July 8, 1912,
819.00/425; and Huntington Wilson to Taft, July 8, 1912, 819.00/424.

48 Ricardo Arias to Taft, July 9, 1912,819.00/428; Doyle's Memorandum, July 11,
1912, 819.00/431; and Knox to AmLegation, Panama, July 11, 1912, 819.00/428.

49 The Panama Star and Herald, July 14, 1912; Panama MorningJournal, July 14,
1912; Dodge to SecState, July 14, 1912, 819.00/429 and /430; July 20, 1912,
819.00/434.

50 The Panama Starand Herald, July 16, 1912; The New York Times, July 6and8,
1912; McCain, The U.S. and the Republic of Panama, pp. 81-82.

51 The New York Times, July 8, 1912. The editorial reflected some interesting
attitudes: "That this hostility should exist, as it certainly does, in spite of pretty
sentiments so often expressed in the diplomatic circles of both the great and the
little Republic, is from one point of view a proof of stupidity and ingratitude on
the part of the Isthmian people. Not only do they owe the establishment of their
government to the United States, but they are well aware that it would not last a
week if they were left to defend themselves from angry Columbia, unreconciled
to the loss of her most valuable national asset. They know tot) that the United
States has given them prosperity as well as political safety, and that the amazing
improvement in their conditions came from the same source."

52 Dodge to SecState, July 27, 1912, 819.00/438; W. W. Andrews, Charge
d'affaires ad interim, to SecState, October 8, 1912, 819.00/454.

72

JOHN WESLEY BUTLER AND THE
MEXICAN REVOLUTION, 1910-1911

By Richard Millett

From the time of his arrival in Mexico in 1873 until his death in 1918
the Reverend Dr. John Wesley Butler played a major role in the estab-
lishment and development of Methodism in Mexico. His father, William
Butler, was the first director of the work of the Methodist Episcopal
Church in Mexico, so from his earliest years in the Republic John
Wesley Butler had intimate connections with the leaders of that nation's
tiny Protestant community as well as an established place within Mexico
City's American colony. When John, himself, became director of Meth-
odist Episcopal work in Mexico he expanded these contacts and estab-
lished new ones in both Mexico and the United States. By 1910, on the
eve of the Mexican Revolution, he was one of the best known, and
undoubtedly most knowledgeable, members of the American community.

Butler's activities in Mexico were not confined to preaching or to
routine matters of administration. Under his direction Methodists oper-
ated some of the best primary, secondary and vocational schools in
Mexico. He also strove to expand Methodist publication activities
within the Republic and to publicize the work of the mission in the
United States. In furtherance of this latter goal he authored several
books including History of the Methodist Episcopal Church in Mexico. '
It was not in Butler's published works, however, but in his voluminous
and detailed correspondence in which he left us his most valuable con-
tributions to an understanding of revolutionary Mexico. Butler's position
within the Methodist church and his long residence in Mexico gave him
considerable influence within the American community while his church
work led him to travel constantly throughout the central area of Mexico
and brought him into contact with Mexicans representing all varieties of
social classes. His correspondence reflects this broad experience as well
as providing insights into the attitudes and problems of American resi-
dents in Mexico during the violent years of the Revolution.

Living in Mexico City, John Wesley Butler shared the impression of
most of the capital's inhabitants that the initial uprisings in favor of
Madero were of little significance. On December 28, 1910, he wrote a
minister in Nebraska that "The disturbance is nothing like what it is
represented in the American papers, indeed I am expecting that the gov-
ernment troops will soon be surrounding the rebels up in the state of
Chihuahua and will give the whole movement its death blow."2 A
month later, however, he took the uprisings much more seriously. Writ-
ing to the Methodist offices in New York he observed:

73

While I still have a strong conviction that the government is
master of the situation I am obliged to admit that matters look
more serious today than at any time in the past. The revolu-
tionists in the state of Chihuahua seem to be taking advanced
ground and it evidently means one of two things. Either that
they determined to risk all in the hope that if they could take
Juarez and Chihuahua they might induce many who up to date
have vacilated about joining them and thus acquire new strength
or that their present move means that they have such strength
as the public knows nothing of and that the present move is a
signal for uprisings in other parts of the country. ... As I said in
a previous letter, I think it would be well if the office would
keep us supplied with remittances two or three months in ad-
vance, with the understanding that we would only cash monthly.
This would protect us in case the mails are disturbed. Some of
our people are getting very uneasy.3

As director of Methodist work in Mexico, Butler felt keenly his
responsibility for the safety of both American missionaries and national
workers. The annual conference of the Methodist Church in Mexico
was scheduled to meet in Orizaba, but by early February, 1911, the
wisdom of a gathering that far from the national capital became increas-
ingly questionable. Writing to an American missionary in Puebla, Butler
noted that:

It seems to be quite impossible here to obtain reliable news
concerning the revolution. The rumors today, however, are
very disquieting. 1 do not know what it may mean that the wires
of the Veracruz Railroad were cut yesterday near Orizaba nor
the reason why four rurales were killed near your city. ... I
do not wish to disturb unduly your people, but it may be best
for us to anticipate a little what we would do in case of some
serious trouble. ... If it should become necessary for us to act
it might be necessary to do so very quickly. In case of distur-
bance it would be so much easier for us to meet in the capital
probably and easier to get back from the capital, than to meet
in and return from a place like Orizaba which depends entirely
upon one line of railway. Then, should serious trouble break
our own church has been with them. Pascual Orosco [sic], the
railway, we might have the conference on our hands there for
a week or ten days beyond the necessary time.4
As revolutionary disturbances continued to spread, Butler became
increasingly concerned. Throughout February he continued to express
his faith in the ultimate triumph of the forces of President Porfirio Diaz,
but by March 1, 1911, this conviction was becoming quite shaky. He
informed the New York office that:

74

I should also say to you that the political situation today looks
graver than it has for any time since the beginning of the revo-
lutionary movement. We have been hoping that Mr. Limantour
and General Reyes would come back from Europe to help sup-
port the present administration, but at the present moment there
is no reliable information about either of them coming in the
near future. In the meantime, the unrest is certainly spreading
and today there is a rumor of a persistent character that the
National Railway is likely to be interrupted very soon. As you
already know, of the three lines coming into Mexico, two of
them have been out of commission for several days, for as soon
as the government troops make repairs in one place the revolu-
tionaries appear in another to burn or blow up bridges. . . .
I am also informed that the officers of the National Railway
have arranged to send their people out by Veracruz where
they take steamer to New York in case the threatened inter-
ruption takes place. As these people are in very close touch
with the government I fear this means something serious. ... I
will keep you informed just as fully as I can, though mails will
be uncertain and longer in transition if we are obliged to send
via Veracruz. In addition to this, it is persistently reported
that there is a large band of insurgents in the State of Veracruz
and if the government should fail to make the move we have
all been looking for in the line of conciliation, the Veracruz
Railway may also be cut and possibly we may be without any
communication with you for some time.5

Reports of the disturbances in Mexico led many Methodists in the
United States to write anxiously to Butler, expressing concern over his
safety and seeking additional information as to the actual state of affairs.
In his replies, Butler repeatedly expressed his unhappiness with exag-
gerated accounts of uprisings published in the North American press
and continued to support the government of General Diaz. He recog-
nized, however, some of the faults in the existing administration. In
March, 1911, Reverend Claudius Spencer of Kansas City sent a long list
of questions regarding the causes and probable outcome of the revolu-
tion, promising that he would keep confidential the source of any in-
formation he might receive. Emphasizing the need for such confidentiality,
Butler replied in a long and detailed letter which revealed some under-
standing of the actual sources of discontent within Mexico, but which
also illustrated both his strong support for the existing administration
and his deep hostility to Roman Catholicism. In listing the causes of the
revolution, Butler placed some blame upon ambitious politicians and
concern over the advanced age (80) of President Diaz. The major prob-
lem, however, he believed lay in the actions of state governors whom
Diaz had kept in power and who had become "quite corrupt." These

75

governors had, in turn, appointed "arbitrary and hard masters as Jefes
Politicos" and these local officials "have oppressed the poor, wrung
taxes unmercifully out of the people, forced many against their will into
the army and committed other abuses." General Diaz was blamed for
"having stood by some of these fellows too long," but Butler noted that
several of the governors had been or were about to be removed, an
action which he hoped would eliminate much of the cause for the
revolt.6

The Reverend Mr. Spencer was concerned about the possibility of
American intervention in Mexico, a fear based in part upon President
Taft's decision to strengthen Army forces along the border. Butler de-
fended the President's actions, writing Spencer that:

The presence of a large American force along the frontier will
be a great help to the administration; filibustering will cease as
also the passing of arms and ammunition across the Rio Grande.
In addition to that fact, there is no doubt that the presence of
Uncle Sam's forces so near the Mexican territory is a pretty
good tonic for the Mexican government. ... Of course, yellow
papers here and in the United States are trying to make a great
deal out of the presence of our Army in Texas; indeed many of
them would be glad to force the hand of Taft as they did of
McKinley to bring about war, but I believe the understanding
between the two Governments is very clear and the relations
most friendly and that there will be no war between the two
countries.7

Spencer was also concerned about the affect of the revolution on
Methodist work in Mexico. In responding to this concern, Butler's anti-
Catholic attitudes became quite apparent. He wrote:

I do not thus far see that our work be in any way affected by
the outcome. Thus far our people and our properties have
been unmolested. A few protestants here and there among the
insurgents have been singled out by the clerical papers who
have been inclined to make some capital out of their presence
with the insurgents, but as far as I know no one connected with
our own church has been with them. Pascual Orosco (sic), the
principal General of the rebel army in the State of Chihuahua,
is a protestant and was baptized in the Congregational Church
in the capital of that state. . . .

In case there should be a complete change in administration
I do not think the administration would be unfavorable to our
work. I believe the Roman hierarchy would be glad to see
Mexico annexed to the United States. I do not believe that the
rank and file of the clergy in this country share this wish, but
the hierarchy knows right well that their church could have

76

greater freedom under the laws of the United States than they
now enjoy under the laws of Mexico, but this would be a ca-
lamity for our people at home and our work here.8
As March progressed and faith in the Diaz administration's ability
to control the situation declined, fears over possible American inter-
vention became a prime concern of Butler's Writing to New York in
March 27 he declared:

The most serious problem we now face is the possibility of
American intervention. I sincerely hope and am inclined to
believe that this is not coming. I know a great many people
here believe that we will have it shortly. I rather incline to think
that the American Government will find some quiet and per-
haps secret way to assist the government out of their present
dilemma. However, intervention is, of course, among the pos-
sibilities, but it would be a bad thing for us and our work. . . .
The Superintendent of the Baptist Mission called to see me to
talk about the matter and advisability of the Americans in his
mission retiring from the country at once. Soon after one of
the leading Presbyterian missionaries called to discuss the
situation.

With all the light I have now, the thought of American mis-
sionaries going to the States for safety does not seem to me to
be right and unless I were advised most emphatically by the
authorities or the representatives of the American Government
to do so I should not think of it for one moment. The place of
duty may not always seem to be the place of safety, but in this
case it certainly is the place I should choose. However, I do not
wish my personal feelings to stand in the way of the safety of
American missionaries in our field. Including those of both
societies and the children, there are 42 of us in the field.

Now you know, as well as I, that Bishop Cranston is a diplomat
and a statesman, who is well known and highly esteemed at
headquarters. Could not you and he call upon President Taft
and protest against American intervention. I happen to know
that not only our own missionaries, but the missionaries of
several Evangelical churches in this country to the number of
about two hundred think that intervention is the worst thing
that could possibly happen. In case the President is not inclined
to listen to this protest perhaps you or the Bishop could learn
from him whether such intervention is to occur and how soon.
Then I would like that the office instruct me as to what advice
I should give to the missionaries who might desire to seek a
place of safety North of the Rio Grande. . . .9
Without waiting for the results of his appeal for church pressure

77

against intervention, Butler sought out an interview with the American
Ambassador, Henry Lane Wilson, in an effort to learn for himself
whether or not intervention was imminent. Both the Ambassador and a
special State Department envoy, then in Mexico, emphatically denied
that there would be any intervention, a response which left the Meth-
odist leader feeling "considerably relieved."10

This sense of relief did not last long. Disburbances began to spread
into the central valley of Mexico where much of the Methodist work was
located. The capital became a hotbed of conflicting rumors leading
Butler to note that "it is difficult to get at the truth. The government in-
sists that the situation is improving, but still the war goes on."" By the
end of March, small bands of rebels had actually appeared within the
boundaries of the Federal District, increasing the missionaries anxieties.
Butler estimated that the government had dispatched so many of its
troops to other parts of the nation that there were only about two
thousand troops in the Federal District. This was at a time when support
for Madero within the capital was growing visibly. Another upsetting
circumstance was the persistence of rumors that the light and water
supply might soon be cut off. Butler took all possible precautions to
prepare for any contingency, but admitted that he did feel considerable
anxiety, partly because "there is a great deal of anti-American feeling
and should the present administration fall suddenly and riot run lose in
this town there might be attempts of violence against foreigners and
especially Americans. Thousands of ignorant people cannot understand
Uncle Sam's explanation for the presence of his troops in Texas. Herein
lies the chief danger for Americans residing in Mexico."12

The opening of peace negotiations on April 19, between the Gov-
ernment and the forces of Francisco Madero, came as most welcome
news to Mexico City's American community. Butler expressed great
hope for the negotiations and the restoration of peace, which, he
declared, "cannot come too soon for any of us," but he remained
anxious about conditions in outlying areas. The city of Puebla, where
one of the largest Methodist schools was located was an object of special
concern as rebel forces had attacked a town only thirty miles away. As
a precaution he instructed the missionaries in that city to "have the
American flag ready to hoist over both our buildings in that city if any-
thing like an attack is made."13

While the peace negotiations produced a temporary truce in the
State of Chihuahua they evidently had little influence of revolutionary
activities in other areas. In many areas Methodist work was disrupted
and at times the lives of individual ministers were actually placed in
danger as Butler graphically described in an April 28th letter:

While negotiations for peace are going on up in the North-
west, disturbances in other parts of the country seem to be
spreading. This is particularly true in the states of Guerrero and

78

Puebla and in the latter state our workers are being annoyed
considerably. Brother Aguilar, our pastor in Acatlan, has had
to leave his appointment and come into the city of Puebla as
his circuit is in the hands of the rebels. . . .The case of Brother
Espinosa is, however, more serious. He is our pastor in Chietla
of the Puebla District. On the 18th of this month the insurrectos
entered his town and early in the morning some of the leaders
made their way to his house and arrested him. They obliged
him to go over to the chapel and open the door. When they
had him inside they wanted him to confess where he had hidden
his arms and ammunition. When he persisted that he had
neither then they demanded of him a loan of one thousand
dollars which, of course, he did not have. Then they tied his
hands behind him and marched him out of the town for the
purpose as they said of shooting him unless he paid over the
money. Two of the brothers who had been notified came to see
what was going on and were also arrested and tied up with
Brother Espinosa. As they marched the three men toward the
edge of town they were met by the mayor, who is a protestant,
and who at once collected from the brethren 52 1 which they
gave to the chief of the insurrectos who finally consented to
let our pastors and the two brothers go free with orders that
they could not again open the chapel until they had received
permission from the revolutionary forces. . . . Brother Espinosa
has moved over to Matamoros to remain until things quiet down.14
While peace negotiations dragged on in the North, the government's
position steadily deteriorated in other areas. By early May the capital,
itself, seemed in danger of attack. A May 6th letter to.New York head-
quarters reflected the growing precariousness of the Government's
military position:

. . .rebel forces are reported on three sides of Mexico City and
at distances varying from fifteen to forty miles, though it is said
that yesterday a small detachment of these came to the very
outskirts of the city. We had two riots inside the city which
were readily handled by the police. It was said that the Presi-
dent's house was stoned. . . .

Puebla is probably in a more critical condition even than we
are. Five thousand rebels are scattered around the hills within
two days march of the city. Guanajuato is also considerably
alarmed. . . . Orizaba seems quiet but for the strike on the large
mills. Should the disaffected workmen join hands with the
rebels things might become serious there. . . .

Now all this means, of course, a certain amount of danger for
our people, but nothing like the danger which will beset us if
the American Government decides on intervention. Then any

79

American, whether missionary or merchant, might be the victim
of a patrotic or religious fanatic. . .

I am quite confident that all our workers are acting prudently
and bravely under the present ordeal and I think they will do
so even should the situation become more acute. I have yet to
meet the first one who is inclined to 'show the white feather'
though all recognize the danger of the situation.

The missionaries of the other boards, with few exceptions, I
think feel very much as we do. We have had several confer-
ences here at our headquarters and we are to have another at
five o'clock this evening. This, like the others, is called by re-
quest of the Superintendent of the Baptist work, who seems
more uneasy than any of the rest and is inclined to advise us
all to leave the country.15

The breakdown of peace negotiations and the fall of Ciudad Juarez
to revolutionary forces dashed the last hopes of those who wished to see
Diaz retain power. By May 13th, Butler was reporting that Mexico City,
itself, seemed on the verge of revolution:

The situation here in the city of Mexico . . . continues with
even keener tension, if possible. All bar rooms and grocery
stores where liquor is sold were ordered closed at two o'clock
today, and they are so to remain until Monday. Police force
has been doubled throughout the city and an immense reserve
force is on hand in all police headquarters, ready to be called
on. In some of the older parts of the city soldiers are keeping
watch on some of the churches and public buildings. It is also
said that in a few cases rapid fire guns have been lifted to the
top of the buildings and placed in position for action. I do not
think this is so much from an expected attack from outside as
the fear that the working men may go on strike today and
make trouble.

Communication is entirely cut off from Oaxaca and has been
for about a week. Anticipating this trouble, I sent some emer-
gency funds to the Superintendent of that District which I hope
will be enough to keep them from suffering for a couple of
weeks. . . .

The foreign Ambassadors and Ministers have been in con-
sultation and it is said that on representation to the Mexican
Government they have had arms and ammunition put within
their reach for such foreigners as may wish to protect their
lives and property in case of an extreme emergency. I think,
however, that it is not true that President Diaz advised for-
eigners to arm themselves, but the Ambassadors did ask the
Minister of Foreign Relations if the government would give

80

them arms and ammunition in case of need, to which he an-
swered affirmatively.

When we rebuilt the front of our mission house fifteen
years ago we left off some of the iron chains and bolts, which
seemed to be relics of the middle ages. Hence, this week we
are having some extra bars made by which we can secure our
front doors and windows from being broken open in case of
a mob.

The Hidalgo Railway, which goes out into the heart of our

Eastern District, was cut day before yesterday and travel now

is impossible beyond Tulancingo except on horseback and of

course under present conditions this would not be very safe.16

The last days of Diaz regime proved more emotionally trying than

physically dangerous for John Wesley Butler. Reports of fighting, rioting

and interrupted communications came in from all parts of Mexico. The

mining city of Pachuca, capital of the state of Hidalgo and the site of one

of the largest Methodist schools, was a source of particular concern.

Rioting had broken out there on the 15th of May. The following noon

Butler received a telegram from the missionaries there stating, "We are

all right after a terrible night. Several windows broken."17 Once peace

was finally restored Butler hurried to Pachuca to survey the damage in

person. His account of events in that city is an excellent illustration of

the government's state of collapse in mid-May, 1911:

No North Atlantic liner ever came out of a hurricane looking
worse than Pachua looks today. Hardly a building in the center
of the town escaped without some injury. Of course the looting
was done by a mob and not by the insurgents. The miners
heard that two thousand rebels were approaching the city so
they filled up on liquor and started in to have a time of their
own. A distressing fact connected with the whole business is
that some of the wealthiest families in the city joined the mob
and participated in the looting. . . . The next day 150 insurgents
entered and restored order. It is amusing that 150 men could
capture a city of forty thousand and strike terror throughout
the entire state and cause it to spread even to the national
capital, but the small band seems to have had some very brave
men in it. They marched the governor to the telegraph office
and compelled him to send a message to the Federal Govern-
ment that two thousand rebels had captured the place and
would soon march on the City of Mexico. This telegram . . .
led the government to fear greatly for the national capital. They
at once sent out a few miles into the country and destroyed
the three railroads running from Pachuca here and it is simply
amazing to know after all there were but 150 men, less than 100

81

of whom were mounted. The young man who led the band is
only 22 years of age. When he started out two months ago
from his home in the mountains he took the title of captain, a
month later when he captured Tulancingo he received from the
Madero camp a commision as colonel, on capturing Pachuca,
the capital of the state, two weeks later he was made general.
From all I can learn this is about the size of most of the insur-
gent camps throughout the country and the wonder of their
many successes is only explained by the fact that the people
of the country sympathized with the revolutionary movement.18
A provision peace treaty was finally signed on May 21 and four days
later President Diaz formally resigned, turning over power to a provi-
sional administration headed by Foreign Minister Francisco Leon de la
Barra. Madero had agreed to this arrangement by which de la Barra
would govern until after new elections were held in October. Madero
was seen as a virtual certainty to win these elections and assume the
presidency in November. While welcoming the end of hostilities, Butler
was, from the first, somewhat skeptical of Madero's ability to replace
Diaz, observing that "Madero is quite an orator and seems to have a
magnetic personality, but whether he has enough backbone and other
governing qualities for the job remains to be seen."19

The Methodist leader had refrained from personal complaints
during the trying days which preceeded the resignation of Diaz, but with
peace apparently restored, at least for the moment, he confessed that
"the strain is very wearing. This constant writing and telegraphing and
otherwise trying to look after the interests of those in trying positions is
not conducive to the best kind of health." There were satisfactions
which evidently made this strain worthwhile for Butler proudly observed
that "none of our missionaries have wished to leave their posts," and
rather smugly added "the Superintendent of the Baptist Mission and all
his family left the country nearly two weeks ago and he tried to get some
of the rest of us to go with him. Some of the Presbyterians have also
gone."20

While rejoicing in the restoration of peace, which he likened to "the
passing of a terrible storm with all its clouds and the coming forth of the
glorious sun," Butler continued to express regret for the fate of Diaz,
writing on May 26 that "notwithstanding his mistakes, he is the greatest
man our country has produced in our day. He will be more highly
esteemed a year hence than he is now. His great mistake was in allowing
himself to continue in office last year.21 When Diaz left for Europe a few
days later, the Methodists sent him a telegram thanking him for "the
many courtesies he extended to us and our mission during his long
reign" and "assuring him of our prayers for a safe journey."22

Expectations of a peaceful transition period between the Diaz and
Madero administrations did not last long. By June 3 Butler was complain-

82

ing that "the cientificos are bolting Madero's program. Indeed, they
never have been in sympathy with it. These same cientificos are the men
who would not allow President Diaz to resign last year when he wanted
to. It is a very serious question as to whether Madero will be strong
enough or not to put down factional disturbances and to lead on to
harmony and prosperity."23

Dr. Butler's doubts about the prospects for Madero's success came
as much from his belief in the immense tasks facing the new leader as
they did from any reservations he might have had concerning his
abilities and policies. For his own part, the American missionary was
convinced that the revolution had opened up great opportunities for the
protestants and constantly urged his fellow Methodists to strengthen
their support of work in Mexico. He wrote one Methodist Bishop that:
The armed revolution is over, but the revolution must now go
on and consumate its work along all lines for the good of the
people. Madero is the hero today and if he maintains himself
properly until next October, he will doubtless be elected
President. Predatory bands found here and there throughout
the country must be dispersed. The great mass of Mexican
voters must be instructed in the privileges and responsibilities
of suffrage. Contending factions must be reconciled or at least
taught to respect each other. A thousand and one things must
be done in the next three months in this country. We hope
for the best, but poor Mexico needs above everything else an
open Bible, an untrammeled pulpit and free schools. The revo-
lution has brought to us a supreme opportunity, such an oppor-
tunity as the present Protestant Christianity has not seen in
this country for sixty years. Had the church at home been
alive to the opportunity after disestablishment of the war of
reform, half of the Republic might have been under Protestant
influence today. But now the door is opening again and we must
do something to greatly strengthen our work.24
By the end of June Butler's hopes of Madero's success has increased
considerably. He praised him as "a decided Liberal with strong tenden-
cies toward Protestantism" and added "I am assured his wife shares the
same views." He was further encouraged by the expressed optimism of
most of the businessmen with whom he came in contact.25 A few weeks
later, however, this optimism had given way to renewed anxiety as
armed clashes occurred in several parts of the nation. He warned New
York that:

... we are getting dangerously close to a state of anarchy
throughout the country. . . Yesterday in Tlaxcala, just this side
of Puebla, the disturbances were so serious that a reception
which had been offered Mr. Madero on his way to Puebla had
to be called off and his train was halted and put under guard

83

some miles this side of its destination. Trouble is also reported
in Oaxaca and other states. The facts seem to be that the
Maderist forces are constantly clashing with the regular army
and there seems to be at the moment no one who has sufficient
influence to keep things quiet. Mr. Madero has his hands more
than full and has yet to prove he is master of the situation.
Perhaps one of the most serious evidences of the situation is
that a secret meeting of six or eight of the revolutionary leaders
was held in this city night before last. It was an all night session
and these leaders have presented to Mr. Madero the claim that
he has gone back on the principles which led to the triumph of
the revolution and they further say that if he does not retrace
his steps by shaking off a certain clique of advisors which are
surrounding him and which they claim belong to the Diaz ad-
ministration or to the followers of Reyes and call to his aid
those who sacrificed fortune and risked life to make the revo-
lution a success that they will again take the field. News of this
meeting has not yet gotten into the papers, but my information
is reliable.26

July 31 witnessed a major outbreak of violence in the mining town
of El Oro. The miners had rioted, all foreigners had hurriedly left the
town by special train and federal troops had been dispatched to restore
order, which they did by killing eleven of the miners and wounding
thirty. The immediate cause of this outbreak was attributed to the work
of a German anarchist. The root causes of the troubles, however, went
far beyond this and Butler warned that "many leaders of the late revolu-
tion went about the country preaching to the people that the natives were
entitled to the same conditions as foreigners in the mines, on the rail-
roads, etc., and these fellows have made a lot of trouble that it will take
a long while to get over and we may never get over it."27

By the end of August a measure of tranquillity had been restored
which Butler believed would endure until after the elections. What
would follow Madero's inauguration, however, was in his view "impossible
to predict." The most positive aspect of the situation he felt was that the
revolution had "set people thinking and reading." The Reform laws of
the Juarez period had been reprieved and freedom of the press and of
public speech were being emphasized. All of this gave the Methodists "a
golden opportunity to circulate the Bible, to scatter religious literature
and to plant evangelical congregations everywhere."28

The Methodist leader was further encouraged by the results of the
state elections held in the summer. Of special interest was the election
of a son of former President Benito Juarez as Governor of the state of
Oaxaca, one of the centers of Methodist work. Butler was overjoyed
that Juarez received 175,000 votes while "the conservative candidate for
whom the Archbishop put forth special effort received only about three

84

thousand votes."29 Meeting with the "governor's right-hand man" Butler
emphasized the Methodist's desire to "see that every last man and
woman in the state received a good liberal education." The governor's
aide seemed highly appreciative of such efforts and even attended one
of the services which Dr. Butler conducted during a trip to Oaxaca,
leading the American missionary to predict that the new state admin-
istration would "put a stop to the persecutions which our people have
been suffering from local authorities and with God's blessing we will be
able to secure glorious victories."30

The presidential elections in October went off quietly, producing
an overwhelming victory for Madero and his vice-presidential candidate,
Jose Maria Pino Suarez. They were inaugurated the following month. In
several letters, written late in 1911, Butler summed up his views of the
problems and prospects facing the new administration. From the Meth-
odist point of view, he found the outlook relatively bright, characterizing
the Madero administration as "very favorable to us" and adding that it
was largely made up of "genuine liberals who believe in the law of
reform and want to see us succeed."31 Political prospects, however,
were much less certain. The continued resistance of Emiliano Zapata
and his followers in the South was a major obstacle, but in Butler's view
"a still worse feature of the situation is that here and there over the
country are small groups of men claiming to be Zapatistas, but whom in
reality seem to be nothing more than banditti."32 Dealing with these
would be one of the major tasks facing the new administration.

Internal political opposition and relations with the United States
were also formidable problems for Madero 's administration. Butler's views
in these areas were summed up in a letter written November 25, 1911:
. . . Madero has been elected and inaugurated as President and
very naturally he ought to have a fair chance to show what he
can do. I think this is the attitude of the American government . . .
Madero has a most difficult task before him. The remnants of
the old regime and the country are very slow to give any aid.
The followers of General Reyes are putting as many obstacles
in the way as they possibly can. I am still of the opinion, however,
that Reyes' followers are not very numerous. I am inclined to
think that the most serious difficulty which Madero has to
handle is that created by his own dissatisfied followers. There
seem to be a large number of those who were with him in the
recent revolution who are not satisfied and herein lies the most
serious danger to the peace of the country. I fear that some of
these will not hesitate to stir up strife, even at the risk of
American intervention. We hope and pray that Mr. Taft will be
as wise and firm now as in the past and if so it will help settle
our problems here.33
With the inauguration of Madero the first phase of the Mexican

85

revolution came to an end, but, as predicted, Mexico's problems were
still far from resolved. Opposition from conservatives and from some of
Madero's own original supporters, conflicts with Zapata, social and eco-
nomic strife, and the ever present spectre of United States intervention
would keep Mexico in violent turmoil for the rest of the decade. For
John Wesley Butler and his fellow Methodists the future held even more
danger and destruction than they had witnessed to date. Butler continued
to faithfully record these events, to lobby against intervention and to
strive to protect the missionaries and national workers within his juris-
diction until his death in 1918. Thanks in good part to his leadership, the
Methodist Church emerged from the revolution as one of the most
influential segments of Mexican Protestantism, a position it has main-
tained up to the present.

NOTES

1 John Wesley Butler, Histoiy of the Methodist Episcopal Church in Mexico
(New York: Methodist Book Concern, 1918).

2 John Wesley Butler to Reverend C. R. Beebe, University Place, December 28,
1910, Archives of the Methodist Episcopal Church of Mexico, Mexico City.
Hereafter cited as M. A.

3 Butler to Dr. H. Stuntz, Methodist Headquarters, New York, February 1. 191 1,
M. A.

4 Butler to Brother Bassett, Puebla, Mexico, February 7, 1911, M. A.

5 Butler to Stuntz, March 1, 1911, M. A.

6 Butler to Reverend Claudius Spencer, Kansas City, Missouri, March 15, 191 1,
M. A.

7 Ibid.

8 Ibid.

9 Butler to Stuntz, March 27, 1911, M. A.

10 Butler to Stuntz, March 28, 1911, M. A.

11 Butler to Stuntz, April 1, 1911, M. A.

12 Ibid.

13 Butler to Stuntz, April 19, 1911, M. A.

14 Butler to Stuntz, April 28, 1911, M. A.

15 Butler to Stuntz, May 6, 1911, M. A.

16 Butler to Stuntz, May 13, 191 1, M. A.

17 Quoted in Butler to Stuntz, May 16, 191 1, M. A.

18 Butler to Stuntz, June 2, 1911, M. A.

19 Butler to Dr. MacRossie, May 24, 1911, M. A.

20 Ibid.

21 Butler to Stuntz, May 26, 1911, M. A.

22 Butler to Stuntz, May 31, 191 1, M. A.

23 Butler to Stuntz, June 3, 1911, M. A.

86

24 Butler to Bishop J. E. Robinson, June 22, 1911, M. A.

25 Butler to Mr. F. A. Boyd, June 27, 1911, M. A.

26 Butler to Stuntz, July 13, 1911, M. A.

27 Butler to Stuntz, August 4, 1911, M. A.

28 Butler to Reverend D. I. Pierson, New York, August 29, 1911, M. A.

29 Butler to Stuntz, September 12, 1911, M. A.

30 Ibid.

31 Butler to Stuntz, November 9, 1911, M. A.

32 Butler to Stuntz, November 3, 1911, M. A.

33 Butler to Stuntz, November 25, 1911, M. A.

87

88

CARLETON BEALS ON THE AMBIGUITIES

OF REVOLUTIONARY CHANGE IN

MEXICO AND PERU*

By John A. Britton

A neglected aspect of the history of inter-American relations is the
work of United States journalists in Latin America in the early twentieth
century. Latin America's proximity to the United States and the growth
of hemispheric economic and political ties helped to bring journalists
south of the Rio Grande for first hand study. As a freelance reporter,
Carleton Beals lived in Mexico through much of the 1920s and 1930s,
and also traveled extensively in Latin America including Peru. His
writing on Mexico and Peru was a prominent part of the contribution of
the first generation of experts on twentieth century Latin America from
the United States. Widely known as an outspoken anti-imperialist and a
supporter of revolutionary -movements, Beals gained less attention for
his critical and, at times, negative analysis of revolutionary change. A
substantial portion of this paper is devoted to this often ignored part
of Beals' thinking.

Much of Beals' writing has relevance to the more recent work of
social scientists and historians, particularly on the topic of social change
in rural areas. Of course, Beals did not use the terminology developed
by social scientists after 1950, but he did address some of the same
issues that are prominent in the literature of modernization. One exam-
ple concerns the problems associated with rapid modernization in
peasant societies, a subject of much disagreement among social scien-
tists. Many investigators in this area assumed that modernization through
the diffusion of new technology, market economies, and literacy axio-
matically meant a better way of life for the local people.1 However in
the 1960s and 1970s many scholars began to question the validity of this
and related assumptions.2 The purpose of this paper is to explore Beals'
precursive studies on this issue in Mexico of the late 1920s and Peru
of the 1930s.

In this essay, revolutionary change is to be viewed as essentially an
elite-instigated process directed toward the masses. The revolutionary
elites concoct their social reform programs within the broad context of
national, political, and economic considerations. The nasses, on the
other hand, tend to have a narrow, parochial point of view and often
find the reforms to be disruptive.3 Beals was cone ned about the

Research for this article was funded in part by grants from the American Philo-
sophical Society and the Francis Marion College Faculty Research Committee.

89

impact of rapid change on the rural masses and recognized that they
formed a relatively weak segment of society in both Mexico and Peru.
He was skeptical about the intentions of the revolutionary political elites
in their dealings with the peasantry.

Beals lived in Mexico for most of the decade from 1923 to 1933 and
was fascinated by the interplay of politics and social change that cen-
tered around the revolutionary government. Presidents Alvaro Obregon
1920-1924) and Plutarco Elias Calles (1924-1928) sought to achieve
political stability and economic prosperity through the enaction of re-
forms to benefit peasants and workers. In terms of rural Mexico, these
reforms included the distribution of land to peasants, promotion of new
agricultural techniques, and expansion of public education. Virtually all
of these programs were conceived and carried out from Mexico City
under the watchful supervision of Obregon, Calles, and other members
of the political elite.4

Beals studied the interaction of revolutionary change which origi-
nated in Mexico City and was based on the native conservatism ema-
nating from the countryside. The Indian and mestizo peasants' attach-
ment to their past made it an important factor in the Revolution. Beals
weighed the violence and brutality of the Aztecs against the "generous,
hospitable, industrious" nature of the Mayas and Zapotecs, and found
the Indian heritage predominately benign.5 He also concluded that this
heritage was, to an extent, superior to the rapidly expanding modern,
industrial civilization. Beals distinguished between the sympathetic cultural
elite that appreciated the Indian past and the aggressive political elite
that pushed for rapid change. The social and economic reforms fostered
by Obregon and Calles threatened Indian-mestizo culture. In Beals'
writing he struggled to reconcile the conflict between the way of life of
the rural masses and the revolutionary goals of the political leaders.

Beals saw a need for certain types of economic and social improve-
ments in rural Mexico. He believed that the campesino must be taught
to apply new scientific methods of agriculture. The division of large
estates into peasant-operated collective farms was essential, but, in the
last analysis, agrarian reform had to result in the "modernization of the
ejido system." By "modernization" Beals meant the use of irrigation, dry
farming, crop rotation, and other advanced techniques by literate and
informed peasant farmers.6 The food requirements of a rapidly expand-
ing urban population demanded that such changes be implemented
quickly.7 At the end of the decade, however, Beals found that the pea-
sants still lacked the basics in knowledge, land and government support
to achieve these purposes.8

Although he felt changes were imperative, Beals sensed a danger in
the expansion of the governments' social and economic programs into
rural Mexico. In an historical argument, Beals cited the disruptive eco-
nomic changes promoted by the government of Porfirio Diaz (1876-

90

1910) as acting to "shatter the social order" of the countryside.9 In the
Revolution he saw a direct conflict between the largely Indian culture of
the masses and the European and North American culture of the
nation's elite groups. He further suggested that this conflict was the
latest stage in the centuries old contest between natives and foreign
conquerors which spanned the time from the Spanish "conquest" to the
twentieth century.10 In the village of Tepotzlan the natives faced the
challenge of an

. . . alien culture that ruffles their inner harmony and sullenly
struggles for its place. And the freshly seared scars of revolu-
tion! These brusque, uprooting factors are well concealed, but
bit by bit the stoic, stark independence of the inhabitants is
becoming darkly overcast. In the brimming cup of their normal
unaffected lives whirls the backwash of the tempest of the
changing world. They feel subtly, uncomprehendingly, the tug
of these conflicting influences; yet they little realize how much
they are puppets of grotesque, gigantic forces. . . ."
This cultural conflict had its economic and political counterparts.
The cities of Mexico grew during the 1920s, largely because of the
expansion of industry and commerce. Labor unions prospered in these
years under favorable government policies while the peasants endured a
low standard of living and experienced many problems in building
cohesive organizations. In 1927 Beals pointed to a split between workers
and peasants in that

. . . the tendency is for Mexican labor to become identified

with the process of industrialization, seeking its gains in rapid

economic expansion and at the expense of continued low rural

standards. Hence the inevitable continuation of the cleavage

between labor and peasant movements. Industry and the native

industrial worker thus became identified with the western

European invasion that began four centuries ago under Cortez.

The peasant movement may ultimately be caught up in the

same current; at present it is more closely linked with the great

indigenous race surge of the Mexican people.12

In Beals' estimation the Catholic Church was too reactionary and

too weak to help resolve this conflict. Beals saw that the church retained

an "invisible empire" among the peasants,13 but it failed to comprehend

the significance of the rise of Indianism in Mexico.14 Although Beals

underestimated the peasants' willingness to stand and fight against the

government's anticlerical campaign ( 1926-1929), 15 his assessment of the

internal weaknesses of the Church was more realistic. The hierarchy

seemed to be too distant from the rural parishes to understand their

problems.16

In Beals' opinion, the government was the institution most capable

91

of ameliorating the conflict between tradition and modernity for the
rural masses. While he occasionally praised the actions of political
leaders in areas such as rural education,17 he found much to criticize
elsewhere. The revolutionary government's use of coercion against the
Yaqui Indians to subdue their defiant nature was a prime example of
willingness to destroy or weaken local native culture for the sake of
national unity.18 In an unpublished letter to Herbert Croly, editor of the
New Republic, Beals berated the arbitrary policies of the Calles' regime
in dealing with the Cristero movement. Beals was particularly wary of
"the antique instrument of social control, the Army, which if it can be
used for modernization can also be used for oppression." Such devices
offered the possibility of a unified national culture but at a very high
cost to the Indian and mestizo peasants.19

For Beals, Mexican anthropologist Manuel Gamio offered the
preferred solution. From studies of the people of the Valley of Teoti-
huacan, Gamio concluded that some elements of native culture should
be preserved within the modernization process. These traditions might
help soften the often painful transition from isolated rural communities
to a commercial and industrial society. Beals was deeply impressed by
Gamio's implementation of these ideas in Teotihuacan and saw promise
in his early work in Oaxaca. Much to Beals' disgust, Gamio lost his posi-
tion in the Ministry of Education in 1925 as a result of a personality
clash. His removal from the Ministry was a serious loss to the Revolution.20
In spite of many adverse factors, Beals maintained a persistant
optimism. He saw Indian-mestizo culture as active, not passive, in its
confrontation with elite-promoted modernization. Rather than a con-
tinued conflict, Beals saw signs of a cultural synthesis based on the
merger of European and North American industrialism with native tra-
ditions. But Beals did not specify the content of the cultural synthesis
nor the means by which it might appear. In a representative statement,
he insisted that "the native culture is wrapping its arms about the newest
industrialism, modifying its methods of work. . . ." His metaphor indi-
cated the presence of a vague belief rather than complete certainty.21
It is worth noting, however, that he held to this belief in spite of his
understanding of the many conflicts involved in revolutionary change
in the countryside.

Beals was in Peru from December of 1933 to April of 1934, a time of
political uncertainty because of the tense relations between the military
government of President Oscar Benevides and the leftist A.P.R.A.
(Alianza Popular Revolucionario de America), a political party led by
Victor Raul Haya de la Torre. A.P.R.A.'s frustrations resulting from its
defeat in the election of 1931 exploded in a violent but unsuccessful
revolt in July, 1932. By the time of Beals' trip, the Benevides government
adopted a temporary policy of reconciliation with A.P.R.A.22 Beals
made good use of this relatively calm period by meeting with high-level

92

A.P.R.A. officials including Haya de la Torre and visiting several
peasant villages in the vast Andean hinterland. Although A.P.R.A. was
not in power Beals felt that it was likely to have considerable influence
in Peru's immediate future.

In Peru the position of the revolutionary political elite was more
tenuous than its counterpart in Mexico because of the dominant position
of a firmly entrenched conservative aristocracy. A.P.R.A. was the
center of revolutionary politics in Peru during the 1930s, and its antipathy
toward the aristocracy was well known. Beals saw less obvious but po-
tentially important sources of discord between the A.P.R.A. leadership
and the peasants. While this type of conflict was not as clearly delineated
as it had been in his writing on the political elite and the masses in
Mexico, it was prominent in his analysis of the Peruvian situation.

Beals felt that the Indian and mestizo masses of Peru, like those of
Mexico, had preserved many valuable traditions in spite of the inroads
made by modern commercial civilization. He was impressed by their
ability to live in harmony with nature, seemingly without plans almost as
if by instinct. The center of Indian life was the ayullu or community
social organization which furnished guidance and direction for family
life, economic pursuits and local government. In spite of generations of
exploitation and disruption by the European aristocracy, the ayullu
survived as a source of stability in rural Peru, to Beals an accomplish-
ment of great importance.23

Beals found that A.P.R.A. and the Indian-mestizo peoples had a
common enemy in the coastal aristocracy which continued to control
the government in spite of the Aprista's attempts to gain power. In
Mexico the Revolution swept aside the landowning upper class, but in
Peru the gamonales remained in command. To Beals they were an arro-
gant, racist and parasitic lot who blocked A.P.R.A. and held the Indians
and mestizos in servile conditions. Under the legal system enforced by
this aristocracy, the Indians and mestizos were not full citizens. In
Beals' words:

. . . they are rounded up like animals for the army and for labor

on the large haciendas; they frequently lose their lands; they

are mercilessly exploited. Their relation to the Peruvian state

is one of onerous obligation, not of rights.24

Beals observed that the Apristas were not the first to favor social
and economic change in rural Peru. Around the turn of the century a
few liberal members of the aristocracy promoted education, universal
military science, and land reform to break the peasant away from his
traditional life style. While Beals judged these efforts failures,25 he saw
some similarities between them and the A.P.R.A. programs. Although
there is some disagreement among historians concerning Haya's sin-
cerity in calling for land reform,26 there is little doubt that he stood for
commercial and technical innovations in the rural areas. But the natives'

93

emotional attachment to the soil and to the old style of cultivation made
innovation difficult. Beals cited the study of rural Peru made by Mexican
educator Moises Saenz who concluded that the land was of such impor-
tance to the peasant that he could not see it as "property" subject to sale
or transfer. Land was a part of the natural environment that, in the
indigenous mind, could not be changed in any way without causing
great harm. With such an outlook the natives perceived land reform and
agricultural modernization as threats to a deeply ingrained, almost
religious devotion to the old ways.27 But Beals did not see this conflict
in the simplistic terms of primitive versus modern. To him, Indian Peru
was "a world of weird beauty and potential greatness." Beals warned,
"Let not the makers and masters of machines sneer or feel too superior."28
Beals found potential for additional problems in A.P.R.A.'s rela-
tionship with the peasantry. He felt that the party attempted to include
too many social groups both urban and rural. Haya sought to make the
rural masses one of the three sources of support for A.P.R. A. along with
intellectuals and the middle class. Beals saw this effort as "too compre-
hensive. It is opportunistic, bureaucratic, hybrid. It is based on petty
bourgeois reforms with slight collectivist tendencies."29 By implication
this approach had limited utility for the Peruvian peasants. Beals also
decried Haya's personal domination of the party in which he appeared
to be "perhaps too much of a God" to the lower echelon membership.
In spite of these tendencies, Beals admitted that "Aprismo must be
recognized as the most vital popular force in Peru,"30 certain to have
an important impact on rural Peru.

Looking beyond the immediate conflicts between Peruvian peasants
and the revolutionary political elite, Beals had hopes for a meaningful
reconciliation of Indian and European civilizations. He summarized his
theories by positing the appearance of

... an organic evolution out of native culture and traditions,
the fusing of elements long warring in open contradiction. It
involves, especially among highland tropic peoples, a unique
experiment in socialization compounded of modern needs,
colonial institutions and ancient indigenous experiences all
embraced in theories of democracy, Marxian economics and
Fascist force mass rhythms obeying vital life forces, new
social concepts, and determinate aesthetic and ideological
forms.31

In general, Beals believed that A. PR. A. and the Indian and mestizo
masses were confronted by two types of problems: one mainly economic
and the other cultural. Economically, the peasants endured the oppres-
sive and exploitative hacienda system which bestowed its benefits on the
wealthy. Beals saw the efforts to abolish this pernicious system as a class
struggle in which A. PR. A. and the indigenous masses attempted to
overthrow their upper class masters.32 The cultural problem was more

94

complex, and its solution called for more sophisticated methods. The
demise of the dominant class and the ascension to power of the popular
elements did not mean that the new, presumably Aprista-led, govern-
ment would be able to deal with rural Peru's resistance to cultural
change. As in his conclusions on Mexico, Beals believed that a revolu-
tionary culture which combined native with modern might preserve the
viable parts of the Indian heritage while introducing technical innova-
tions from the industrialized world in a way that would not rob the
Indians and mestizos of their self-respect.33

Beals gained wide recognition as an anti-imperialist and as a
defender of revolutionary causes, but these ideological positions did not
necessarily lead him to accept the policies of the leftist government of
Mexico or Peru's Aprista party. Some of his critics accused him of
blindly sympathizing with revolutionaries, an accusation substantially
negated by a close reading of his publications and private correspon-
dence. Beals found fault with the authoritarian political leaders of
Mexico and the personalistic and essentially middle-class Aprista move-
ment in Peru. He expressed grave doubts about the effects of revolu-
tionary change on the Indian and mestizo peoples.

One of Beals' most penetrating insights involved the ambiguities of
elite-led revolutionary change among the rural masses of Mexico and
Peru. While he did not systematically analyze these contradictions in a
manner that would satisfy the modern social scientist, he did recognize
and emphasize them in his writing. Using the findings of contemporaries
like Manuel Gamio and Moises Saenz with his own personal experiences
in the backlands, Beals developed an understanding of the peasant point
of view. He was not unique among North Americans in this accomplish-
ment, certainly Robert Redfield, Frank Tannenbaum, and Stuart Chase
appreciated this perspective in Mexico.34 But Beals added some provoca-
tive generalizations that pointed out the potentially disruptive effects of
the reforms initiated by revolutionary political elites. While he continued
to hope for a harmonious blending of imported innovations with native
traditions, his probing questions suggested persistent doubts. Recent
studies have given much more refined analyses of problems associated
with modernization in rural areas. However, within the limits of this
paper, it seems reasonable to conclude that Beals was an important pio-
neer in the study of the effects of elite-led revolutionary change on the
rural masses in Latin America.

95

NOTES

1 S. N. Eisenstadt, Modernization: Protest and Change (Englewood Cliffs: Pren-
tice Hall, 1966).

2 For an overview see S. N. Eisenstadt, "Studies of Modernization and Sociologi-
cal Theory," History and Theory, 13:3 (1974), 225-252. For more specialized
studies see: Oscar Lewis, Life in a Mexican Village (Urbana: University of Illinois
Press, 1951); Michael Belshaw, A Village Economy (New York: Columbia Uni-
versity Press, 1967); F. LaMond Tullis, Landlord and Peasant in Peru (Cambridge:
Harvard University Press, 1970); and Peter Klaren, Modernization, Dislocation
and Aprismo (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1973).

3 Abdul Said and Daniel M. Collier, Revolutionism (Boston: Allyn and Bacon,
1971), pp. 69-80 and 104-107 and John Dunn, Modern Revolutions (London:
Cambridge University Press, 1972), pp. 1-23, 48-69 and 244-257.

4 Arnaldo Cordova, La ideologia de la Revolucion Mexicana (Mexico: Ediciones
Era, 1973), pp. 262-351 and John Y. F. Dulles, Yesterday in Mexico (Austin: Uni-
versity of Texas Press, 1961).

5 Carleton Beals, Mexico: An Interpretation (New York: Huebsch, 1923), pp.
3-17 and Mexican Maze (New York: Lippincott, 1931), pp. 70-93.

6 Beals, Interpretation. 85, 106-109.

7 Ibid, p. 114.

8 Beals, Maze, 176-204.

9 Ibid., pp. 38-40 and Interpretation, pp. 84, 89-92.

10 Beals, Maze, 49-54.

11 Ibid., p. 137.

12 Beals, "The Revolution in Mexico," New Republic. 52 (October 25, 1927),
255-256.

13 Beals, Maze. 67-68.

14 Beals, "The Mexican Church on Trial," Survev. 57 (October 1, 1926), 12-15,
47-49.

15 For discussions of the Cristero movement see Jean Meyer, La cristiada
(Mexico: Siglo Veintiuno Editores, 1973-1974), 3 vols, and David Bailey, Viva
Cristo Rev! (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1974).

16 Beals, Maze. 301-302 and "Mexican Church Goes on Strike," Nation. 123
(August 18, 1926), 145-147.

17 Beals, "Frontier Teachers," Bulletin of the Pan American Union, 59 (May,
1925), 443-452.

18 Beals, Maze, 186-188.

19 Beals to Croly, June 23, 1927, Beals Papers.

20 Beals, Maze, 188.

21 Ibid. pp. 50-54, 162, 329.

22 Frederick Pike, Modern Peru (London: Wedenfield and Nicholson, 1967),
pp. 269-270 and Karen, Modernization, pp. 119-141.

23 Carleton Beals, Fire on the Andes { Philadelphia: Lippincott, 1934), p. 325-348.

24 Ibid., p. 310.

25 Ibid. pp. 311-313.

26 Thomas Davies, Indian Integration in Peru (Lincoln: University of Nebraska
Press, 1974), pp. 100- 112 and Klaren, Mo dernization, 132-135. Davies argues that

96

Haya's appeal to the peasants was politically motivated while Klaren sees him as
an astute observer sincerely concerned about rural problems. For a sampling of
Haya's public statements on the Indian problem see his Construyendo elAprismo
(Buenos Aires: Coleccion Claridad, 1933), pp. 104-116, and Politico Aprista
(Lima: Atahualpa, 1933), p. 23.

27 Beals, Fire, 342. Beals made frequent use of Saenz' Sobre el indio Peruanoy su
incorporacion al medio nacional (Mexico: Secretaria de Educacion Publica,
1933).

28 Beals, Fire, 348.

29 Ibid., pp. 401, 426.

30 Ibid., pp. 427-429.

31 Ibid,, p. 431.

32 Ibid., pp. 319-320.

33 Ibid., p. 306.

34 Stuart Chase and Marian Tyler, Mexico: A Study of Two Americas (New
York: Macmillan, 1931); Robert Redfield, Tepotzldn, A Mexican Village (Chicago:
University of Chicago Press, 1930), and Frank Tannenbaum, Peace by Revolution
(New York: Columbia University Press, 1933). For general studies of the response
of U.S. intellectuals see Donald L. Zelman, "American Intellectual Attitudes
Toward Mexico, 1908-1940" (Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Ohio State Univer-
sity, 1970) and Eugenia Meyer, Conciencia historica Norteamericana sobre la
Revolucion de 1910 (Mexico: I.N.A.H., 1970).

97

98

MEXICAN OIL DIPLOMACY AND THE
LEGACY OF TEAPOT DOME

By James J. Horn

The notorious Teapot Dome scandal of the Harding administration
captured headlines for years and has since become a standard page in
texts on American political history. Almost unnoticed, however, was the
impact of that scandal on American foreign relations. During the presi-
dencies of Calvin Coolidge and Plutarco Elias Calles, the United States
and Mexico became embroiled in a dispute over American property
rights in Mexico which reached near crisis proportions and raised the
issue of diplomatic support for petroleum investments abroad. At a
crucial moment in that dispute, the whirlwind of Teapot Dome mounted
to trim the sails of intervention-minded Americans and steer the State
Department toward a more conciliatory course. This little known episode
is a classic illustration of the weight of domestic events in the shaping of
foreign policy.

In the late 1920s, the United States and Mexico had locked horns on
several issues deriving from President Calles' attempts to implement
parts of the Constitution of 1917. The agrarian reform program, while
hardly sweeping, nevertheless adversely affected American held proper-
ties and led to numerous formal protests from the State Department.
Mexican anticlericalism, directed against the political might of the
Catholic Church, provoked an intense struggle in which certain American
Catholics sided with their Mexican coreligionists and% sought State De-
partment intervention. Then, when Mexico backed the Liberal rebellion
against a U.S. supported Conservative regime in Nicaragua, a large sector
of Americans feared the "bolshevist influences" from Mexico threatened
the Panama Canal, and the Coolidge Administration sent marines to
Nicaragua. These incidents coincided with a bitter debate over foreign
subsoil rights in Mexico particularly involving petroleum. Consequently,
by 1926 relations with Mexico became a dominant foreign policy issue
before the American public and one of the State Department's toughest
problems. Mexico was in the news almost daily for months at a time. In
fact, from August 1926 to February 1927, Mexico and Nicaragua over-
shadowed almost every other foreign issue.1

The fundamental controversy with Mexico centered upon property
rights. While actual agrarian seizures were more extensive, the strength
and influence of the petroleum interests generated more publicity and
official concern. The debate revolved around Ley Petroleo passed by the
Mexican congress in December, 1925. 2 The law enacted provisions of
Article 27 of the Constitution of 1917 dealing with subsoil rights, particu-
larly the clause which read:

99

Only Mexicans by birth and naturalization and Mexican asso-
ciations have the right to acquire ownership in lands, waters, and
their appurtenances, or to obtain concessions to develop mines,
waters, or mineral fuels in the Republic of Mexico. The Nation
may grant the right to foreigners, provided that they agree before
the Department of Foreign Affairs to be considered Mexicans
in respect to such property, and accordingly not to invoke the
protection of their Governments in respect to the same, under
penalty, in case of breach, of forfeiture to the Nation of property
so acquired.3

Specifically, the law provided that foreign oil companies must ex-
change their titles for fifty year leases which began with the commence-
ment of drilling. To obtain leases, the producers had to agree to the Calvo
Clause not to invoke protection from their home government under
penalty of forfeiture of their rights. The law particularly affected powerful
American and British interests. United States based firms held over 58
percent of total petroleum investments and accounted for about 70 per-
cent of production. British companies owned about 40 percent of invest-
ments and controlled about 27 percent of production.4 At this time
Mexican oil production was second in the world only to that of the United
States, having reached a peak of 193,397,500 barrels in 1921; by 1926 it
had declined precipitantly to 90,420,000 barrels.

The petroleum law was to become effective January 1, 1927, but the
State Department challenged it before its passage. Fearing retroactive
application of the law against companies which had acquired titles prior
to May 1, 1917, when the Mexican Constitution was officially promul-
gated, American Secretary of State Frank B. Kellogg addressed aides
memoire to the Foreign Office on November 17 and 27, 1925, initiating a
lengthy diplomatic correspondence which persisted well into 1926. 6
Throughout the contestation the United States rigidly maintained
that the Mexican legislation was retroactive in character and confis-
catory in effect. It argued that recognition of Mexico in 1923 had been
based on "solemn and binding" understandings that Mexico would not
impair American property rights. Moreover, it held that the Calvo
Clause could not annul the relationship between an American citizen
and his government or extinguish the government's obligation to protect
its citizens against a denial of justice. The American position included
numerous legal arguments affecting property rights and specific aspects
of the Mexican law. Perhaps most irritating to the companies and to the
State Department was their inability to determine the exact status of
American rights to pre-constitutionally acquired titles. The Department
shared the companies' "damned if we do and damned if we don't"
attitude. Conceding to the legislation by exchanging acquired titles for
leases violated their rights. But non-compliance could result altogether
in loss of their properties.7

100

While the American position had basis in international law, the
justice of American claims was questionable in one important respect
the Mexican legislation threatened but in no way violated American
rights since the law had not yet gone into effect. The Mexican foreign
office consistently retorted with demands for concrete cases of viola-
tions of acquired rights. To this the Department could only respond that
the threat of eventual seizure prevented Americans from fully exploiting
their holdings and thus constituted pro tanto confiscation.8

By November, 1926, the official correspondence had reached a
complete impasse, highlighted by the stern warning from the United
States that an "extremely critical situation" would result if the Mexican
laws were enforced in violation of American rights or the understand-
ings of 1923. 9 At this juncture, the Nicaraguan and religious crises tem-
porarily distracted attention from the issue of property rights.

As January 1, 1927, the deadline for compliance neared, President
Calles refused to grant a period of grace and the major American pro-
ducers broke off negotiations with Luis Morones, Mexican Secretary of
Industry, Commerce, and Labor.10 Tensions mounted steadily as the
petroleum producers, fearing loss of their holdings, demanded State
Department backing, and Mexico, anxious to demonstrate its sovereignty,
feared a possible intervention. Many times in the past, American war-
ships had appeared off Tampico and the coastal areas of the petroleum
zone to warn against threats to American properties by various revolu-
tionary factions. In December, 1926, American marines landed to
bolster the Conservative government in Nicaragua, with further troop
deployments in January. Then, on January 10, President Coolidge sent
an unexpected message to Congress defending his policies in Nicaragua
and accusing Mexico of seeking to establish a government there hostile
to American interests. Coolidge viewed Calles' support of the Liberal
rebel forces as a threat to the stability and constitutional government of
Nicaragua and a menace to the Panama Canal."

Two days later, in answer to congressional criticism. Secretary Kel-
logg charged before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee that a
Mexican conspiracy, linked with international bolshevism, threatened
the Panama Canal. Kellogg left the committee a printed statement en-
titled "Bolshevist Aims and Policies in Mexico and Latin America,"
which was printed in full in many papers the next day.12 While the Con-
gress remained unconvinced, Excelsior exemplified the Mexican appre-
hension that the American government was trying to provoke among its
people hostility toward Mexico.13 Thus the Administration's menacing
remarks, and the presence of marines in Nicaragua, gave the Calles
government cause for concern.

But January 1 came and went without Mexican action against the
recalcitrant firms. For various reasons both sides were reluctant to force
a showdown. The State Department, for its part, had squared off against

101

Mexico with one hand tied behind its back, for the American public
would not rally to protect American petroleum, interests. The tainted
image of the petroleum producers directly affected American diplomacy
by stiffening opposition to any drastic action on their behalf.

Of the scandals of the Harding administration, the most sensational
involved the naval oil reserves located at Teapot Dome, Wyoming and
Elk Hills, California. As part of the conservation program, the Taft and
Wilson administrations had set aside those reserves to be maintained
until such time as the navy might find it difficult to obtain oil from other
sources. Soon after Harding's inauguration, Secretary of the Interior
Albert B. Fall persuaded him to issue a secret executive order trans-
ferring the naval reserves to the Interior Department. Fall claimed that
the reserves were draining off and that leases to private companies
would profit the government and enhance national preparedness. Then,
in 1922, Fall secretly leased the reserves, without competitive bidding,
to companies owned by Harry F. Sinclair and Edward L. Doheny.
Rumors of the leases led to congressional hearings under Senator
Thomas J. Walsh of Montana which began in October 1923. After
lengthy testimony it was ascertained that Sinclair had "loaned" Fall
$308,000 in cash and government bonds, and a herd of cattle for his
ranch. Doheny "loaned" $100,000 more. Fall, Doheny, and Sinclair were
subsequently indicted for conspiracy and bribery in June, 1924, but
numerous delays postponed the trials for years. -Not until October 1929
was Fall finally convicted of accepting a bribe and sentenced to one
year in prison and a fine of $100,000. Doheny and Sinclair were both
acquitted of the bribery charges, although Sinclair was sentenced to
nine months' imprisonment for contempt of court. As for the leases, the
Supreme Court eventually declared them invalid on the grounds that
they had been obtained in fraud and corruption.14

The numerous trials and hearings associated with the scandal
created headlines throughout the Mexican oil controversy. In fact, be-
cause of postponements, the Fall-Doheny trial did not begin until
November 1926. On December 16 just as the Mexican controversy
entered the tense stage prior to the January 1 deadline for compliance,
the jury brought in a verdict of "not guilty." I5 Nevertheless, the defendants
had already been "convicted" in the minds of the majority of Americans,
judging by the public response. According to a thorough sampling of
press reports in the Literary Digest, a preponderance of the American
press seemed to echo the sentiments of the Kansas City Star: "They have
been acquitted by a jury, but they have not been acquitted at the bar of
public opinion."16

Democratic sources were most critical of the verdict. Former Navy
Secretary and future Ambassador to Mexico, Josephus Daniels, assailed
the verdict and added that "the real thing I would like to say would have
to be printed on asbestos, as it would burn up any newspaper."17 The

102

New York Times, New York World, and Brooklyn Eagle concurred that
as far as the American public was concerned, acquittal did not vindicate
the defendants from suspicion of misconduct. Similar sentiments could
be found in other Democratic papers including the Norfolk Virginian-
Pilot, New Orleans Times Picayune, and Boston Post. 18 The Richmond
Times-Dispatch believed "virtually all the people of the United States"
regarded the jury as derelect in the performance of its duty.19 Other
critical Democratic sources were the Philadelphia Record, Dayton News,
Nashville Tennessean, Louisville Courier-Journal, and Mobile Register.20

Newspapers classified as independent joined those who viewed the
verdict as acquittal without vindication. These included the Kansas City
Star, previously mentioned, the St. Louis Globe-Democrat, the Spring-
field Republican, and the Providence Journal.21 The Cincinnati Post
(and other Scripps-Howard papers) commented cynically: "Doheny was
just an impulsive Santa Claus to his old prospecting pal [Fall]. So twelve
jurors played Santa Claus for him. Merry Christmas."22 The San Fran-
cisco Chronicle recognized impropriety in the episode, but viewed
Doheny as a victim duped by Fall and the Navy Department.23

Even the Republican papers, with few exceptions, did not rise to
defend the verdict or the defendants. The Albany Knickerbocker Press
called upon all good Americans to accept the decision, and the Syracuse
Post-Standard said guilt had not been established beyond a reasonable
doubt.24 But such declarations of a sound verdict aside, there was much
more critical sentiment. Numerous editors regarded the jury as lenient,
and there was widespread feeling that the decision would not affect
public opinion. The Wichita Beacon 's view that the episode, in the minds
of the people, "remains about where it was before the trial," was shared
by the Minneapolis Journal, Boston Transcript, Springfield Union, and
Pittsburgh Gazette Times.25 Only the New York Herald-Tribune, a con-
sistent supporter of the Coolidge Administration, went out of its way to
exonerate Doheny as a patriotic American. Yet even that Republican
paper conceded Fall's "total unfitness for public office."26

This preponderant criticism of the verdict and the defendants and a
general suspicion of the oil men was a persistent theme in liberal journals
such as The New Republic, The Christian Century, and The Nation, all of
which are mentioned later. In sum, despite the verdict, a widespread
public suspicion of impropriety if not crime hung over Fall and the oil
men.27

The issue remained alive as lower courts heard testimony on the
validity of the Teapot Dome and Elk Hills leases. Then, in late February,
1927, the Supreme Court upheld the lower court rulings declaring the
Doheny leases unlawful and void and the whole affair "tainted with cor-
ruption".28 The prevailing press sentiment at this time held that the not-
guilty verdict in the criminal case for conspiracy was "morally overturned"
by the Supreme Court's decision in the civil case.29 But the man in the

103

street could cynically ask how the deal could have been consummated in
fraud and corruption while the parties to the deal.were not guilty.

The following month Harry Sinclair was tried for contempt of the
Senate for refusing to answer questions during the congressional inquiry.
He was convicted the following May. Meanwhile, defense maneuvers
postponed the trial of Fall and Sinclair for conspiracy to defraud the gov-
ernment slated to begin February 1, 1927. M Hence, no one was yet in jail
as the smoldering Mexican controversy flared up anew.

But the adverse publicity had already severely tarnished the public
image of the oil men. A large segment of the population probably would
have concurred with Harold Ickes' later comment that "An honest and
scrupulous man in the oil business is so rare as to rank as a museum
piece."31 What is more, the American public and Congress had been
educated to look for the sinister shadow of petroleum behind quarrels
with Mexico. As early as 1924, the popular magazine Liberty carried an
article linking the Teapot Dome scandal with the same oil interests that
had kept revolutionary warfare alive in Mexico for their own private
ends.32

In January, 1926, Calles had singled out petroleum as the true source
of Mexican-American difficulties, adding: ". . . the trouble is not between
the people of the United States and the people of Mexico, but between
the people of Mexico and a small group of American capitalists who are
trying to induce the Department of State to aid them by force."33 Mexi-
can politicians frequently blamed this problem on Wall Street magnates,
especially the petroleros, and a similar theme was commonplace in the
Mexican press.34

As the dispute with Mexico reached its tense state in January, 1927,
President Calles weakened the hand of the interventionists by offering to
arbitrate the controversy over property rights. The Coolidge adminis-
tration viewed the issue as non-arbitrable and showed no inclination to
accept the offer.35 The American Congress and press reacted quite dif-
ferently, however, and opponents of Administration policies began to
blame petroleum interests for the Administration's intransigence.

Democratic representative George Huddleston of Alabama de-
nounced "the great American business interests" who sought war with
Mexico "for the protection of their mines and oil wells." Huddleston won
the applause of Congress with his ringing manifesto "I am not willing that
a single American boy shall be conscripted and sent into Mexico to lose
his life in order that the oil companies may pay dividends."36

Senator William E. Borah had already emerged as the Administra-
tion's leading gadfly. The Republican from Idaho was chairman of the
powerful Foreign Relations Committee and both Coolidge and Kellogg
treated him with deference. Borah believed that there was "a determined
effort on the part of selfish interests to embarrass our government and
lead to a break with Mexico."37 He cooperated with a bipartisan faction

104

in the Senate in urging a conciliatory course. After a favorable report
from Borah's committee on January 25, the Senate unanimously approved
the Robinson Resolution calling on the Administration to arbitrate its
dispute with Mexico.38

In answer to press speculation that Doheny interests were pressuring
the Administration, in early February the Senate adopted a resolution by
George W. Norris, the famous Nebraska liberal, requesting from the
State Department a list of companies which had complied with Mexican
law, and inquiring whether the State Department had given the companies
any advice or instructions (which Kellogg denied.)39 Meanwhile, a
Senate Foreign Relations subcommittee heard testimony that companies
which had not complied with Mexican law and applied for confirmatory
concessions owned 1,660,579 acres, and that Doheny, Sinclair and Mellon
owned 87.9 percent of the total.40 A second Norris resolution of February
24 asked the State Department whether Doheny, Sinclair, or Mellon
were among the recalcitrants.41

Borah had earlier captured the headlines by directly wiring President
Calles to request information on the American companies which had not
complied with the law.42 Before the end of February he proposed that his
Foreign Relations Committee travel to Mexico and Central America to
investigate.43 While that junket never received approval. Congress did
perceive a kind of "credibility gap" between the Administration and the
public. With increasing frequency voices argued that American business-
men who invested abroad did so at their own risk.44 This of course,
contravened the Coolidge administration's position that the government
must protect its citizens beyond its borders.

Coincident with this congressional debate, numerous newspapers
and journals had taken up the cry against intervention on behalf of the oil
men. In January, The Independent, a fairly liberal weekly, complained
against the "active claque working steadily in this country toward an
American domination of Mexican affairs." Noting that an explosive inci-
dent could lead to war, that journal boldly cautioned: "Leave Mexico
Alone."45

Walter Lippmann's New York World (intoned the same refrain,
blaming men like Doheny for America's problems with Mexico. Noting
that oil-tarnished Secretary Fall had consistently advocated intervention
in Mexico, Lippmann admonished Coolidge to beware lest the oil
interests lead the country into war.)46

In February's The New Republic, Carleton Beals queried: "Whose
Property is Kellogg Protecting?"47 He concluded that only Doheny and
Mellon interests had not complied with the Mexican legislation on at
least some of their holdings. Since Luis Morones had praised Mellon's
cooperative attitude in his Mexican dealings, only Doheny remained
recalcitrant. Beals ascribed this situation to Doheny's weak legal position,
pointing out that the 1,321,167 acres controlled by Doheny interests

105

accounted for 36.05 percent of the Mexican oil holdings.48 The following
April Beals was still campaigning for a congressional inquiry into the
practices of the oil producers in Mexico, and charging the American oil
titles there had been obtained by fraud, bribery, and even murder in a
setting of "Borgian violence."49

Throughout February's issues, the editors of The New Republic
charged repeatedly that the oil men were in the wrong, that Mexican
policies did not call for force, and that the producers would have settled
long before if State Department support had not raised expectations for
better terms. Arguing that the American people were being asked to
coerce Mexico for the benefit of a few citizens like Doheny, that journal
called the Administration's Mexican policy ". . . one of the most serious
blunders in American statesmanship in a generation."50

The Christian Century, a liberal Protestant journal, also warned that
the petroleum dispute could lead to war. Referring to the previous trans-
gressions of Doheny and his ilk, the editor observed that the oil interests
should not be surprised if the public ignored their pleas for help in
Mexico.51 The Nation reprinted the entire text of one of Borah's well-
received public addresses urging conciliation with Mexico and closing
with the plea: "God has made us neighbors let justice make us friends."52

This is not to imply that such sentiments were universal. Numerous
papers and journals supported Administration policies and advocated a
hard line with "bolshevist" Mexico.53 This article does not intend to
survey the wide range of public opinion on the issue of Mexican policy,
however, but rather to demonstrate that corrupt oil men were linked with
Mexican problems in both the news media and the Congress.

The corruption of the petroleum interests so captured the public
imagination that it became the subject of literature and the arts. Samuel
Hopkins Adams' 1926 novel Revelry fictionalized the scandals of the
Harding Administration and helped keep the issue alive.54 Referring to
Revelry in connection with the Fall-Doheny trial. The Independent
magazine expressed hope that history would expose the scandals so the
job would not have to be left to fiction.55

Joseph Hergesheimer's 1926 novel Tampico dealt with petroleum
corruption specifically, painting a lurid picture of greed, conspiracy,
fraud, violence, and murder directed from the London, Holland, and
New York offices of the oil tycoons. The timeliness of Hergesheimer's
theme emerges when one of his characters seeking American interven-
tion in Mexico remarked: "Then we could have Article 27 reversed and
run our companies any damn way we chose."56 The novel received gen-
eral unfavorable reviews, but Hergesheimer was a major writer of the
twenties and his works sold widely.57 At any rate, his expose of American
commercial imperialism came at a very opportune moment.

The popularity of this theme was again demonstrated in the Broadway
play Spread Eagle by George S. Brooks and Walter B. Lester, which

106

opened to mixed reviews at the Martin Beck theater in New York on
April 4, 1927. The plot concerned the Spread Eagle Mining Company
headed by a New York financier disgruntled by Mexican policies. The
tycoon succeeded in luring the son of a former President into the path of
a revolution he had instigated by bribing a Mexican general. The death of
the President's son accomplished the desired goal of American intervention.58

With the State Department at a loss as to which way to turn, a bizarre
episode helped guide it in a moderating direction. In late February, the
Calles government handed over to American officials copies of about 350
stolen American documents. The collection included official correspon-
dence between Ambassador Sheffield and Secretary Kellogg, reports of
the military attache, consular dispatches, and other documents stolen
from the American Embassy in Mexico City. The complexities of this
episode need not be detailed here. In brief, some of the documents were
forged, but most were authentic and embarrassing. Furthermore, the
Administration had no idea how many more documents the Calles gov-
ernment possessed. Mexican complaints that the United States was
plotting an invasion of Mexico seemed to have a chastening effect on
Coolidge.59

The fact that the situation in Nicaragua was pretty well under
control, and the mounting press and congressional criticism of the
Administration seemed to discount the danger of any drastic action by
March, 1927. The following month both sides seemed determined to
resolve their problems unemotionally and President Coolidge manifested
a more amiable attitude in an address to the United Press Association.
While reasserting the government's obligation to protect American
personal and property rights abroad, he insisted that the United States
sought no quarrel with Mexico, sympathised with its people, and desired
to assist them.60 President Calles found Coolidge's remarks "serene and
cordial" and announced that the way was now open to a satisfactory set-
tlement of all pending difficulties.61 That same month. Justice William
Howard Taft wrote his friend Ambassador Sheffield in Mexico of his
conversation with Secretary Kellogg who believed that the situation in
Nicaragua was clearing up and the Calles government now seemed more
disposed to yield to reason.62 The danger past, the hardline Ambassador
resigned during the summer, paving the way for the appointment of
Coolidge's former college friend Dwight W. Morrow who, due to his
personal qualities and a propitious change in Calles' attitude, worked
out an informal and temporary settlement of the outstanding difficulties.63

Numerous factors help explain the sudden easing of tension. President
Calles was faced with enormous internal problems. By late 1926 the
smoldering religious strife had expanded into a sizeable and bloody con-
flict, the Cristero rebellion. The Yaqui Indians' revolt also required mili-
tary action and put a strain on the budget. The decline in petroleum pro-
duction resulted in a serious fiscal crisis which worsened with a decline in

107

the price of silver, Mexico's second major export. Calles realized he had
little to gain by continuing to antagonize the United States and took
advantage of the change in ambassadors to work out a settlement.64

For President Coolidge, the wisdom of moderation was clear with
an election year looming. The scandals of his predecessor had put him
on the defensive as Democrats tried unsuccessfully to taint him with
corruption.65 Relative calm in Nicaragua and the embarrassing stolen
documents also played a role. Undoubtedly the public reaction against
the oil men helped arouse considerable sentiment against the Adminis-
tration's policies of defending property rights in Mexico. But one cannot
overestimate the role of the Teapot Dome scandal and public opinion in
the light of other important factors. The anti-Mexican campaign of
Catholic partisans in the United States had the unintentional effect of
aiding Calles by stimulating certain Protestant groups, liberal journals,
and the Ku Klux Klan to counterprotest. Thus the State Department
had to be wary lest it appear to be a "tool of Rome."66 To this must be
added the decline in importance of Mexican oil. The fear had earlier
gripped American business and government circles that domestic petro-
leum reserves might soon be exhausted. The post- World War I period of
intense oil exploration began to bear fruit in 1924 with the discovery of
vast new oil deposits in Oklahoma, Texas, Louisiana, and California.
The companies had also begun moving their operations into Colombia
and Venezuela which soon replaced Mexico as the major foreign
sources for petroleum. Thus, by 1927, the previous oil scarcity had
become a surplus making Mexican oil less consequential, lessening the
Administration's concern, while at the same time weakening Calles'
bargaining position in dealing with the foreign interests.67

All these things brought pressure to bear for a peaceful settlement
of Mexican-American difficulties. But the mercurial barometer of public
opinion cannot be discounted. Of course, the actual extent to which
public opinion affected the Administration and the State Department is
impossible to gauge. Nevertheless, there is evidence that public officials
were very sensitive to public opinion, and on occasion even attempted
to shape it.

For example, in November 1926, Undersecretary of State Robert
Olds was convinced that the public had to be "educated" if the Depart-
ment was to win popular support for its plan to send troops to bolster the
Conservative Diaz regime in Nicaragua. At. the suggestion of Hugh R.
Wilson, Chief of the Division of Current Information of the State
Department, Olds called in representatives of the four press associations
and extracted from them a pledge not to quote him. He then related a
sensational tale of communist intrigue in Mexico and Central America,
and asked the reporters to cooperate in educating the public to the
danger. Only the Associated Press complied with Olds' request, issuing a
release on the "specter of bolshevism" in Mexico which the Department

108

feared threatened the Panama Canal. When news leaked out of Olds'
role, the Administration was embarrassed by charges of managed news.68
Ambassador Sheffield had been a persistent critic of the State
Department's failure to pursue a stronger policy toward Mexico. He was
convinced that publication of the details of cases on file in the Depart-
ment would bring about public demands for a firmer policy. When
Secretary Kellogg responded that there was no support for a policy
more vigorous than the one the Department was pursuing, Sheffield
responded:

You feel the American people would not support a move-
ment for armed force in Mexico. I quite agree with you so long
as we conceal from them the facts. But what would be their
position if they knew the truth about Mexico, . . . [?]69
In late October, 1926, Sheffield's friend Chandler Anderson, a
lawyer who had frequently represented Conservative Nicaraguan gov-
ernments in Washington, reported a conversation with Kellogg in which
the Secretary developed his belief that the Department could not go
further than it already had in dealing with Mexico. Kellogg believed that
Congress would not support even withdrawal of recognition, much less
anything more drastic. He added that he was not even getting press
support, singled out several newspapers for their hostility, mentioned
the opposition of the American Federation of Labor, and pointed out
that even the Ku Klux Klan supported Mexico because of its religious
policies.70 Obviously, Kellogg lamented this lack of support for the
Administration.

The most revealing document, and the only source which directly
implicated public opinion in policy formulation, was a memorandum by
Assistant Secretary of State William R. Castle, a man with considerable
influence on Secretary Kellogg. Castle indicated that a state department
officer had told newsmen at the time of the petroleum crisis that "public
opinion was set, that any drastic attitude toward Mexico was pretty
near impossible."71

It would thus seem apparent that the significant opposition to any
action on behalf of petroleum interests in Mexico was an important
consideration in the formulation of State Department policy. The glare
of publicity given to their previous misdeeds found the petroleum inter-
ests in a state of indecent exposure just at the height of the Mexican oil
controversy. Almost ignored in the past, this striking coincidence forms
the diplomatic legacy of Teapot Dome.

109

NOTES

1 See James J. Horn, Diplomacy by Ultimatum: Ambassador Sheffield and
U.S. -Mexican Relations. 1924- 1 927 (Ph.D. dissertation, State University of New
York at Buffalo, 1969), hereafter cited as Horn, Diplomacy by Ultimatum.

2 Text of law in Charles W. Hackett, The Mexican Revolution and the United
States. 1910-1926 (Boston: World Peace Foundation, 1926), pp. 425-431.

3 From text of Article 27, Political Constitution of the United States of Mexico,
quoted in ibid., p. 408.

4 Ludwell Denny, We Fight for Oil (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1928), p. 56.

5 Leonard M. Fanning, American Oil Operations Abroad (New York and
London: McGraw Hill Book Co., 1947), p. 52, hereafter cited as Fanning,
American Oil Operations Abroad.

6 Aide memorie of November 17 is enclosed in Kellogg to Sheffield, November
13, 1925, Records of Department of State. National Archives, 812.5200/50,
hereafter cited as R.D.S. followed by file number: Aide memoire of November
27 and other correspondence has been published as Rights of American Citizens
in Certain Oil Lands in Mexico. Senate Document 96, 69 Cong. 1 sess. (Wash-
ington: Government Printing Office, 1926), and American Property Rights in
Mexico: Further Correspondence Between the Governments of the United
States and Mexico in Relation to the So-Called Land and Petroleum Laws of
Mexico, Supplementing the Correspondence Heretofore Published as Senate
Document 96. 69 Cong., 1 sess. (Washington: Government Printing Office,
1926), hereafter cited as American Property Rights in Mexico: Further Corre-
spondence.

7 Ibid.

8 Summary of issues based on ibid, and official memorandum entitled "Mexico",
January 29, 1927, James R. Sheffield papers, Yale University, hereafter cited as
Sheffield Mss.

9 Text of Kellogg notes in American Property Rights in Mexico: Further Cor-
respondence. October 30, 1926.

10 New York Times, December 30, 1926.

11 Congressional Record. LXVIII, Part 2, 69 Cong.. 2 sess., 1324-3126: New
York Times. January 11, 1927.

12 Text of Statement and reports in New York Times. January 13, 1927.

13 Excelsior, January 15, 1927.

14 Summary based on Robert Engler, The Politics of Oil (Chicago: University of
Chicago Press, 1961), pp. 317-318, hereafter cited as Engler, The Politics of Oil:
J. L. Bates, The Origins of Teapot Dome (Urbana: University of Illinois Press,
1963), pp. 220-243; M. R. Werner and J. Starr, Teapot Dome (New York: Viking
Press, 1959), hereafter cited as Werner and Starr, Teapot Dome: Burl Noggle,
Teapot Dome (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1962), hereafter
cited as Noggle, Teapot Dome.

15 New York Times. December 17, 1926.

16 Literacy Digest, 91 (December 25, 1926), 7.

17 Ibid.. 6.

18 Ibid.

19 Ibid.

20 Ibid.

21 Ibid.

110

22 Ibid.

23 Ibid.

24 Ibid.

25 Ibid.
25 Ibid.

27 Numerous sources attest to press and public sentiment. See also Paul Y.
Anderson, "Twelve Good Men and True," The Nation (January 5, 1927), 9-11,
who argues that 95 percent of the newspaper correspondents and "the overwhelming
preponderance of public opinion" had already convicted Fall and Doheny.

28 Literaiy Digest. 92 (March 12. 1927), 8-9.

29 Ibid.

30 Werner and Starr, Teapot Dome. 221-223, 225-250, 266-284; Noggle, Teapot
Dome. 200-215.

31 Harold Ickes Diary. July 21, 1936, quoted in Engler, The Politics of Oil. 286.

32 Edward S. O'Reilly, "Well Oiled Insurrections," Liberty. I (September 20,
1924), 36-38.

33 Plutarco Elias Calles, Mexico Before the World, translated and edited by
Robert H. Murray (New York: The Academy Press, 1927), p. 152.

34 See for example speeches in the Mexican Chamber of Deputies reported in
New York Times. January 1, 1927; editorials in El Democrata. January 20, 22,
1926.

35 New York Times, January 9, 1927: The State Department position is explained
in H. F. Arthur Schoenfeld to James R. Sheffield, February 8, 1927, Sheffield
Mss.

36 Congressional Record. January 8, 1927, LXVIII, Part 2, 69 Cong., 2 sess.
1291, 1292.

37 Borah to Rev. C. E. Burgess, March 28, 1927, the William E. Borah papers,
Division of Manuscripts, Library of Congress, hereafter cited as Borah Mss.

38 For press accounts see Literary Digest. 92 (February 5, 1927), 10-1 1; Congres-
sional Record. LXVIII, Part 2, 69 Cong.. 2 sess., 2200-2204; New York Times.
January 22, 1927.

39 Congressional Record. LXVIII, Part 2, 69 Cong.. 2 sess., 2057-2058.

40 Hearing Before a Subcommittee of the Committee on Foreign Relations,
United States Senate, 69 Cong., 2 sess. (Washington: Government Printing
Office, 1927), 28-29.

41 Congressional Record. LXVIII, Part 4, 69 Cong., 2 sess., 4642, 4974.

42 Arnold Toynbee, Survey of International Affairs. 1927 (New York: Oxford
University Press, 1929), 463; Text of Borah telegram and Calles reply in United
States Daily, March 1, 1927.

43 New York Times, February 24, 1927: Marian C. McKenna, Borah (Ann
Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1961), pp. 229-280.

44 Amos Pinchot. "The Flag and the Dollar", The Forum, 11 (September, 1927),
435-442.

45 The Independent, 118 (January 15, 1927), 60.

46 New York World, January 27, 1927.

47 Carleton Beals, "Whose Property is Kellogg Protecting?", The New Republic,
50 (February 23, 1927), 8-11.

48 Ibid.

49 Carleton Beals, "Who Wants War With Mexico?" The New Republic, 50

111

(April 27, 1927), 266-269.

50 The New Republic, 49 (February 2, 1927), 285-286; (Quotation:) 49 (February
8, 1927), 312; 49 (February 16, 1927), 342; 50 (February 23, 1927), 2.

51 The Christian Century. 44 (March 17, 1927), 323-324; see Ibid., (February 17,
1927), April 7, 1927), 422-426.

52 Borah, "Neighbors and Friends. A Plea for Justice in Mexico.", The Nation.
124 (April 13, 1927), 392-394.

53 Most consistent in supporting the Administration were the Washington Post
and the New York Herald Tribune. For examples of dozens of papers critical of
"bolshevism" in Mexico, see Horn, Diplomacy by Ultimatum. 128-157; most
business and financial journals were remarkably silent on Mexican affairs,
except for the Wall Street Journal and Barron 's which favored a hard line with
Mexico. A thorough survey of business media uncovers no sentiment favoring
protection of petroleum interest in Mexico except in such company journals as
Jersey Standard's The Lamp.

54 Samuel Hopkins Adams, Revelry (New York: Boni and Liverwright, 1926).

55 The Independent. 1 17 (November 27, 1926), 607. The novel was also mentioned
in Raymond Clapper, "Sinclair and Fall on Trial", The Nation, 124 (October 26,
1927), 445-446.

56 Joseph Hergesheimer, Tampico (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1926), p. 279.

57 Sales figures are not available from the publisher. Hergesheimer's "supreme
position" as a novelist before the depression is discussed in Clifton Fadiman's,
"The Best People's Best Novelist," The Nation. 136 (February 15, 1933), 175-177.

58 Ernest Gruening, Mexico and Its Heritage (New York and London: D. Apple-
ton-Century Co., 1942), p. 616; Book Review Digest. 1927 (New York: H.W.
Wilson Co., 1928), p. 105.

59 See Horn, Diplomacy by Ultimatum. 169-174.

60 Text of Coolidge address in New York Times, April 26, 1927.

61 Calles quoted in El Universal. April 27, 1927.

62 Taft to Sheffield, April 13, 1927, Sheffield Mss.

63 Horn, Diplomacy by Ultimatum. 189-195; Harold Nicolson, Dwight Morrow
(New York: Harcourt, Brace and Co., 1935), p. 304.

64 Horn, Diplomacy by Ultimatum. 159-193 passim: Fran Schneider Jr., "The
Financial Future of Mexico," Foreign Affairs. 7 (October , 1928), 88.

65 Gerald D. Nash, United States Oil Policy. 1890-1 964 (Pittsburgh: University
of Pittsburgh Press, 1968). p. 81.

66 Denny, We Fight for Oil, 67-68.

67 Ibid., 90; Fanning, American Oil Operations Abroad, 3-7, 53; Nash United
States Oil Policy, 82; The serious economic crisis in Mexico and particularly the
oil slump is covered in The Wall Street Journal, January 1, 4, 5, 14, 24, February
1,3, 10,21, 1927.

68 Hugh R. Wilson, Diplomat Between Wars (New York and Toronto: Long-
mans, Green and Co., 1941), p. 179.

69 Sheffield to Chandler P. Anderson, July 1, 1926, Sheffield Mss.

70 Chandler P. Anderson Diary, October 29, 1926, Chandler P. Anderson
papers, Division of Manuscripts, Library of Congress.

71 Assistant Secretary of State Memorandum, W.R.C. [William R. Castle |
February 1, 1927, R.D.S., 711.12/1102; for information about Castle see L.
Ethan Ellis, Frank B. Kellogg and American Foreign Relations, 1925-1929 {New
Brunswick, N.J.: Rutgers University Press, 1961), pp. 12-13.

112

V- IS

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE
STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XVIII

June, 1979

THE SOUTHEASTERN UNITED STATES

ESSAYS ON THE CULTURAL

AND HISTORICAL LANDSCAPE

%%\w J- . JQpn

Snu '?" Ingram Library

Published by
WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

A Division of the University System of Georgia
CARROLLTON, GEORGIA

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE
STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XVIII June, 1979

THE SOUTHEASTERN UNITED STATES:

ESSAYS ON THE CULTURAL

AND HISTORICAL LANDSCAPE

CONTENTS

Page

Contributors iii

Foreword v

Preface vi

The Role of Ferryboat Landings in East Tennessee's

Economic Development, 1790-1870 Tyrel G. Moore '

Spatial Strategies in Railroad Planning in

Georgia and the Carolinas, 1830-1860 David C. Weaver 9

Functional and Spatial Patterns of Georgia

Short Line Railroads, 1915-1978 ... W. Theodore Mealor, Jr. 25

Expansion of the Pine Oleoresin Industry

in Georgia: 1842 to Ca. 1900 Jeffrey Dobson and Roy Doyon 43

The Georgia-Florida Land Boundary: Product

of Controversy and Compromise Burke G. Vanderhill 59

and
Frank A. Linger

The Decline of Smokehouses in

Grainger County, Tennessee . John B. Rehder, John Morgan, 75

and
Joy L. Medford

Prolegomenon to Future Research on

Black Agriculture in the South J. Brady Foust 85

and
Ingolf Vogeler

TITLES IN PRINT

Vol. Ill, 1964, The New Europe.

Vol. IV, 1965, The Changing Role of Government.

Vol. V, 1966, Issues in the Cold War.

Vol. VII, 1968, Social Scientists Speak on Community Development.

Vol. VIII, 1969, Some Aspects of Black Culture.

Vol. XI, 1972, Georgia Diplomats and Nineteenth Century Trade
Expansion.

Vol. XII, 1973, Geographic Perspectives on Southern Development.

Vol. XIII, 1974, American Diplomatic History: Issues and Methods.

Price, each title, $2.00

Vol. XIV, 1975, Political Morality, Responsiveness, and Reform
in America.

Vol. XV, 1976, The American Revolution: The Home Front.

Vol. XVI, 1977, Essays on the Human Geography of the
Southeastern United States.

Vol. XVII, 1978, Dependency Unbends: Case Studies
in Inter- American Relations.

Price, each title, $3.00

Copyright 1979, West Georgia College

Printed in U.S.A.

Thomasson Printing Co., Carrollton, Georgia 30117

Price, $3.00

West Georgia College is an
Affirmative Action I Equal Opportunity Employer

CONTRIBUTORS

DOBSON, JEFFERY R., received the B.A., M.A., and Ph.D. degrees
from the University of Georgia. His teaching and research interests include
land use, resource utilization, and vegetation. Dr. Dobson has taught
most recently at the University of Illinois and Ohio State University and
is presently a post-doctoral associate at the University of Georgia.

DOYON, ROY, received the M.A. in history from the State University
of New York at Oneonta. He is presently a Ph.D. candidate in historical
geography at the University of Georgia where his research interests lie
in historical landscapes of the South.

FOUST, J. BRADY, received the Ph.D. degree from the University of
Tennessee and is presently Associate Professor of Geography and Depart-
ment Chairman at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. His research
interests include agriculture, manufacturing, and urban systems. He is
the co-author of The Economic Landscape: A Theoretical Introduction
and World Space Economy and has published articles on economic geo-
graphy in professional journals.

MEALOR, W. THEODORE, JR., holds the B.A. degree in history from
the University of Florida and the M.A. and Ph.D. in geography from the
University of Georgia. His research interests are focused on land use, trans-
portation and remote sensing. Dr. Mealor has contributed articles to
various journals including the Annuals of the Association of American
Geographers and Photogrammetric Engineering and Remote Sensing.
Presently he is Professor of Geography and Chairman of the Department
of Geography at Memphis State University.

MEDFORD, JOY, received the B.A. degree from Wright State University
and is presently a M.S. candidate in geography at the University of
Tennessee, Knoxville. Her research interests are in the development of
cultural and historical landscapes in the South. Ms. Medford is currently
working in Eastern Tennessee.

MOORE, TYREL G., received the M.S. degree in geography from the
University of Tennessee, Knoxville, where he is a candidatefor the Ph.D.
degree. His research interests include cultural and historical geography
of the southeastern U.S., particularly southern Appalachia. He is presently
an Instructor in Geography at Western Kentucky University, Bowling
Green.

MORGAN, JOHN, received the B.A. and M.A. degrees from East
Carolina University and is presently a Ph.D. candidate in geography at
the University of Tennessee, Knoxville. Mr. Morgan's research and
teaching interests are in the areas of agriculture and rural economics.

iii

REHDER, JOHN, received the B.A. degree from East Carolina Univer-
sity, and the M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from Louisiana State University.
His teaching and research interests are concentrated in rural settlement
geography, cultural geography, and remote sensing. His publications
currently total more than twenty five in article, book chapter, and mono-
graph form. He is currently chairman of the Remote Sensing Committee
of the Association of the American Geographers and is associate editor
of RSEMS (Remote Sensing of the Electromagnetic Spectrum). His
current research is in the Historical Buildings Surveys of Grainger, Union,
and Hancock counties, Tennessee. Dr. Rehder is presently Associate
Professor of Geography at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville.

UNGER, FRANK A., holds the M.S. degree in geography from Florida
State University and presently is director of FSU's Florida Resource and
Environmental Analysis Center. His research has emphasized public
lands in Florida and the problems of property lines and boundaries, and
he has co-authored an earlier article in West Georgia College Studies
in the Social Sciences.

VANDERHILL, BURKE G., is Professor of Geography at Florida State
University and earned the Ph.D. degree at the University of Michigan.
He has contributed numerous articles to American and foreign profes-
sional journals, many of which have dealt with North American frontiers
of settlement. Studies in the historical geography of Florida and Georgia
have appeared in Southeastern Geographer, Florida Historical Quarterly,
and in earlier issues of West Georgia College Studies in the Social
Sciences.

VOGELER, INGOLF, received his doctorate from the University of
Minnesota and is currently Assistant Professor of Geography at the
University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire. His research interests focus on the
underdevelopment of rural areas in North America. His twenty published
articles include studies on the cultural landscapes of South Dakota Indian
reservations, the Appalachian peasant culture region, the significance
of subsistence farming in the United States and the preservation of prime
agricultural lands. He is writing a book, The Myth of the Family Farm,
on U.S. agricultural problems.

WEAVER, DAVID C, received the B.A. degree from the University
of Manchester (U.K.) and the M.A. and Ph.D. degrees from the University
of Florida. His teaching and research interests include regional and urban
planning, land use analysis and environmental management. Dr. Weaver
is currently Associate Professor of Geography at the University of
Alabama, Tuscaloosa.

IV

FOREWORD

This volume continues the precedent of utilizing the services of a
volume editor working under the loose supervision of a general editor,
a policy begun with the 1973 issue of Studies in the Social Sciences. Re-
ponsibility for selecting the theme of the present volume, the essays herein
included, and initial editorial refinement was that of the volume editor.
The role of the general editor was limited to broad consultation with the
volume editor, final editing, and liaison with the printer.

Volume topics for the past seven issues of Studies have rotated among
various social science disciplines. This year's volume is the third issue
to be devoted to facets of the cultural and historical geography of the
Southeastern United States.

As in the past, this journal is financed partially by the University
System of Georgia. It is distributed gratis to libraries of state supported
colleges and universities in Georgia, and to selected institutions of higher
education in each southern state. Interested individuals or libraries may
purchase copies of the journal for $3.00 each to help defray printing and
mailing costs. Standing orders for the annual series are available at the
reduced rate of $2.00.

It is with considerable pleasure that the editors submit to you this
volume on the Southeast.

John C. Upchurch
Professor and Chairman
Department of Geography
General Editor

PREFACE

Two previous volumes of Studies in the Social Sciences have had
Southern cultural and historical geography as their theme. Because both
issues have been well received, it was decided to produce a third volume
with a similar regional and thematic focus.

The present issue contains seven articles relating to matters that
range widely in temporal and topical content. As such they represent the
wide range of research interests among geographers who are students
of the U.S. South. The essays of Moore, Weaver, and Mealor emphasize
the importance of transportation in the development of Southern land-
scapes. Dobson and Doyon illustrate the significance of the oleoresin
industry in Georgia. Vanderhill and Unger continue the theme of historical
and geographical development with a review of the difficulties encountered
in establishing the Georgia-Florida boundary line. Rehder, Morgan,
and Medford's analysis of smokehouses as indicators of changing cultural
landscapes illustrate how even subtle aspects of a vanishing landscape
can provide valuable insights. Foust and Vogeler stir a radical theme in
southern research with their call for deeper investigative approaches
in studying Black agriculture in the South.

The objective of this volume is to present samples of research being
conducted by those studying aspects of Southern historical and cultural
geography. The editors believe that this volume meets this objective.

James R. O'Malley

Associate Professor of Geography

Volume Editor

\ i

THE ROLE OF FERRYBOAT LANDINGS IN

EAST TENNESSEE'S ECONOMIC

DEVELOPMENT, 1790-1870

By Tyrel G. Moore

Ferryboat landings played a significant role in the development of
economic patterns in East Tennessee during the eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries. In 1871 a traveler from New York described Chattanooga's
ferryboat as a quaint Southern institution outdated by bridging in the
Northeast.1 Ferries were neither quaint or exceptional to East Tennes-
seans; they were important elements of the transportation network.
East Tennessee's early settlement had oriented transportation patterns
to the valleys of the Holston, French Broad, and Tennessee rivers where
settlers found productive agricultural land (Figure 1). These and other
streams produced frequent interruptions for travel and gave rise to the
problem of establishing reliable stream crossing methods.

As in the rest of the South, transportation improvements were more
slowly realized than in other parts of the eastern United States, and the
earliest bridges across East Tennessee's larger streams were not built
until after 1850, nearly eighty years after initial settlement took place.2
Before that time, stream crossing methods were limited to ferrying and
fording. Both were widely used, but ferries became more common on
important routes and were the chief means of stream crossing from the
1790s to the 1920s. During this period ferryboat landings were more
than convenient places to cross a river. Their sites also held locational
advantages which attracted locally important service functions. This
paper examines the ways in which ferry crossing sites complemented
other elements of the transportation and economic systems to stimulate
economic development from the 1790s to the 1870s.

Because they were privately established in anticipation of profits
from tolls, most ferries had to be located on routes of either local or re-
gional significance. Site selection was also based on physical characteristics
which caused ferries to be more common on important routes. Fording
was limited where water depths exceeded three feet or so, especially if
wagon cargoes were subject to water damage, and was most easily ac-
complished at points where streams flowed over beds of sand and gravel.3
Fords established on uneven, rocky stream beds were difficult to negotiate
and were avoided if the stream could be crossed by ferry at some nearby
point.4 Before and after the organization of state government in 1796,
road building and maintenance followed the Anglo-Saxon tradition of
communal responsibility, which lacked engineering skills and finances.5
The state government could not assume financial responsibility for internal

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improvements, and the resultant system of routes varied in quality from
county to county.6 These conditions made travel slow and difficult and
gave rise to multiple services provided at ferry landings.

Permission to operate ferries was granted by county courts which
regulated tolls and required ferry owners to keep "ordinaries," or inns,
at their crossing sites.7 Entries appearing in County Court Minute Books
between 1796 and 1820 suggest that McBee's Ferry, which crossed the
Holston River about twenty miles north of Knoxville, was typical of
others in East Tennessee (Figure 1). Travelers' accounts from the period
reveal that McBee's was a popular overnight stop and travel service center.8
In 1795 McBee advertised his blacksmithing services and stated that
travelers could be supplied with liquors, corn, oats, and fodder.9 These
accommodations eased the hardships of travel and provided an outlet
for local agricultural commodities.

Similar arrangements were found at Clark's Ferry, near the present
site of Kingston, where the major route from Knoxville to Nashville
crossed the Clinch River (Figure 1). Warehouses stocked with locally
produced agricultural commodities and a trading post were located
near the ferry landing. For west-bound travelers this was the last service
center to be found for the next one-hundred miles across the Cumberland
Plateau.10 The availability of goods and services seems also to have in-
fluenced the success of the ferry. Toll rates set at 12'/4e for a single horse-
man and one dollar for a loaded wagon and team often provided the
ferryman with a daily income of twenty dollars in 1 799. ' ' A ford, passable
for about eight months of the year, was located a short distance upstream
but was seldom used.12

While services available at ferry crossings contributed to local trade,
the activities of at least one site led to a significant permanent settlement.
A ferry, flatboat landing, and warehouse were established in 1815 on the
Tennessee River near Moccasin Bend. The community, Ross' Landing,
immediately became a center of trade between the whites and the Cherokee
Indians.13 The ferry subsequently served the western arm of the Federal
Road from northwest Georgia to Nashville.14 In 1837 Ross' Landing
became known as Chattanooga.

Around 1830 a new era of commercial development came with the
arrival of the steamboat. Regular service was established between Knox-
ville and Ross' Landing, and routes extended up the Clinch River to
Clinton, the French Broad to Dandridge, and the Holston to Tampico
(Figure 2).15 Flatboats and keelboats had been used on the Tennessee
and its tributaries for a number of years, and their use was stimulated
with the advent of steam navigation.16

The transportation of agricultural commodities overland and by
flatboat to steamboat landings became a common practice, and ferry
crossing sites played an important role in this commodity flow. Ferries
served as trans-shipment points between wagon and water transport

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and were staging areas for down-river flatboat movements.17 Ferry
landings on steamboat routes also were potential steamboat landings
and were used when local cargoes provided a profitable stop.18

Country stores became significant trade centers in this system of
commerce, and were often located near ferry landings in order to take ad-
vantage of water transport.19 Local agricultural surpluses such as hogs,
bacon, lard, flour, and dried fruits were collected at these stores and traded
for coffee, sugar, salt, and manufactured goods arriving from distant
centers.20 A clear example of this pattern of trade was the operation of the
ferry and store at Pinhook Landing on the Tennessee River (Figure 3). The
crossing site, established before 1857, connected Spring City and Decatur,
and was one of a number of steamboat landings between Chattanooga
and Knoxville. The site served as a warehousing point for shipments of
local agricultural products and as a ditribution point for merchandise
from Chattanooga and Knoxville.21 Other ferry landings, such as Nance's
Ferry on the Holston River, and Niles's Ferry on the Little Tennessee
River, were useful places for collecting farm products marketed in Knox-
ville and Loudon.22

The ferry landing's focal role in this pattern of trade persisted well
beyond the 1830s, as illustrated in the 1871 manifest of a steamer arriving
in Knoxville from Bryant's Ferry on the French Broad River near Dand-
ridge in Sevier County. The cargo, which was described as typical, con-
sisted of 1 1 sacks of corn, 80 sacks of flour, 26 sacks of potatoes. 8 sacks
of bran, 64 sacks of oats, 100 pounds of bacon, and 6 cans of lard.21
Although the ubiquitous country store was not mentioned in this par-
ticular instance, the quantity of goods taken aboard at the ferry suggests
that there was some system of collection prior to shipment. Such arrange-
ments made it economical for individual farmers to market their products
at scales of operation which could not bear the expense of extended wagon
or rail transportation.24 These localized patterns collectively gave regional
significance to the marketing system that revolved around the integration
of water and land transportation systems. Ferry landings had become
key elements in an economic pattern that would be maintained until
transportation technology changed after the turn of the century.

The economic importance of both ferries and steamboats declined
dramatically as increased motor vehicle traffic diverted commodity flows
away from water transport in the twentieth century. Highway improve-
ments followed the availability of federal funds in 1916, and by 1922 only
ten per cent of Tennessee's vehicle traffic was horse-drawn.25 While
a fifteen to thirty minute delay for stream crossing may have represented
a welcome rest stop in the horse and wagon era, this interruption was
annoying to motorists who had become accustomed to shorter travel
times. Increased accessibility to larger trade centers also disminished
the widespread influence of the country store, thus taking away another
element that had given economic prominence to ferryboat landings.

Figure 3
"The Pinhook Ferry and Related Trade Facilities," adapted from Burnett
and Cloverdale, An Archaeological and Historic Survey of the Watts Bar
Steam Plant Fly Ash Disposal Pond Extension.

Before their decline ferry landings had functioned as trading centers
for travelers, outlets for local agricultural products, and as an effective
interface between land and water transportation. In these ways they had
done much to direct the flows of goods and people over the area which
shaped the economic patterns of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
In their passing, remnants of their operation have become part of the
present cultural landscape. Local routes in the area continue to bear the
names of ferries which once served them. In other instances roads ter-
minate at stream banks where they were once linked by a ferry crossing.
These features are reminders of an historically important transportation
system which contributed to the early settlement and development of
East Tennessee.

NOTES

1 O.B. Bunce, "Lookout Mountain and the Tennessee," in William Cullen Bryant's
Picturesque America, Vol.1 (New York: D. Appleton and Company, 1872). pp.
66-69.

2 Balthasar H. Meyer, ed.. History of Transportation in the Eastern United States
before I860 (New York: Peter Smith, 1948), p. 50 and David E. Donley. "The
Flood of March 1867, in the Tennessee River," East Tennessee Historical Society
Publication No. 8 (1936). p. 84.

3 Milton B. Newton, Jr., "Route Geography and the Routes of St. Helena Parish,
Louisiana," Annals of the Association of American Geographers, Vol. 60, Number
1 (March 1970), p. 139.

4 Knoxville Times, May 24, 1839.

5 Thomas P. Abernethy, From Frontier to Plantation in East Tennessee (Chapel
Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 1932), pp. 152-156.

6 Stanley J. Folmsbee, Sectionalism and Internal Improvements in Tennessee,
1796-1845 (Knoxville: East Tennessee Historical Society, 1939), p. 38.

7 Albert C. Holt, "Economic and Social Beginnings of Tennessee," unpublished
Doctoral Dissertation, George Peabody College, 1923, pp. 96-97.

8 For detailed observations of the area's travel conditions, see Samuel Cole
Williams, ed.. Early Travels in the Tennessee Country, 1540-1800 (Johnson
City, TN: Watauga Press, 1928) and F.A. Michaux, "Travels to the West of the
Allegheny Mountains, 1802," Vol. Ill, pp. 105-306, in Early Western Travels
1748-1846, Reuben Gold Thwaites, ed. (Cleveland: The Arthur H. Clark Co.,
1904), p. 206.

9 Knoxville Gazette, Feb. 3. 1795.

10 Samuel Cole Williams, ed., "Report of Steiner and de Schweinitz," Early
Travels in the Tennessee Country (Johnson City: Watauga Press, 1928), pp.
501-502.

11 Ibid.

12 Samuel Cole Williams, ed., "The Executive Journal of John Sevier," East
Tennessee Historical Society Publication Number 6, 1934, pp. 107-108.

13 Gilbert E. Govan and James W. Lovingood, The Chattanooga Country:
1540-1951 (New York: E.P. Dutton and Co., Inc., 1952)

14 John H. Goff, "Retracing the Old Federal Road," The Emory University
Quarterly. Vol. VI, No. 3 (October 1960), pp. 167-171.

15 Donald Davidson, The Tennessee, Volume I: The Old River: Frontier to
Secession (New York: Rinehart and Company, Inc., 1946), pp. 160-162.

16 Folmsbee, op. cit.. p. 11.

17 Interview with Mr. Wilson Nance, owner and operator of Nance's Ferry,
New Market, Tennessee, August 23, 1974.

Ix Interview with Mr. Sam Breeden, Knoxville, July and August, 1975. Mr.
Breeden, and engineer with the State Highway Department in the 1920s and 1930s,
has given considerable study to the history of steamboating in East Tennessee.

19 Lewis E. Atherton, The Southern Country Store. 1800-1860 (Baton Rouge:
Louisiana State University Press. 1949).

20 J. Gray Smith, A Brief Historical. Statistical, and Descriptive Review of East
Tennessee, U.S. of A. (London: J. Leath, 1842), p. 2.

21 Interview with Mr. and Mrs. J. Howard Hornsby, last owners of the Pinhook
Ferry.

22 Mayme Parrott Wood, Hitch-hiking Along the Holston River 1792-1962
(Gatlinburg: Brazos Printing Company), pp. 37-38.

23 Knoxville Daily Chronicle, September 9, 1871.

24 Bunce, op. cit.. p. 69.

25 Tennessee State Department of Highways and Public Works, Report of the
State Highway Commissioner of Tennessee: For the Biennium Ending June 30,
1928, (January. 1929), p. 27.

SPATIAL STRATEGIES IN RAILROAD

PLANNING IN GEORGIA AND THE

CAROLINAS, 1830-1860

By David C. Weaver

The expansion of agriculture and the rise of the crossroads villages
and country stores on the Piedmont of Georgia and the Carolinas after
1800 had a profound effect on the prevailing transportation systems of
the three states. The great influx of settlers to the areas above the Fall
Line intensified the need for a cheaper and more reliable mode of trans-
portation than the horse and wagon. The trend of the southeastern
economy toward specialization in staple crops further accentuated this
demand.

Merchants were affected as much as producers by the demographic
and economic shifts. Competition for back country trade became more
intense as marketing opportunities and service centers multiplied. Services
moved consistently closer to their consumers as population became more
dense and capable of supporting them. The process of trade expansion
was cumulative. Populations on the outer edge of the agricultural frontier
moved rapidly, outpacing in most instances in the inland movement of
supply centers. They were, as a result, forced to rely on difficult journeys
to distant markets. Slowly intermediate wagon yards and country stores
appeared in the more densely populated areas behind the frontier to facil-
itate the process of marketing frontier produce. These groups of stores
gradually became small towns which equipped themselves to service the
wagon trade that had previously flowed to seaboard communities.

The effects of the parallel processes of urbanization and specialization
were so widespread and obvious that coastal cities and interior towns
quickly became aware of the changes that were taking place. The frustra-
tions of the upland trade centers in their poor ability to move goods, and
the fears of the coastal ports that they were losing their traditional trade
positions, induced statewide perceptions that the existing road-river trans-
portation system had become completely inadequate for he demands of
trade. Repeated disappointments with canals and steamboats were major
factors arousing sentiments in favor of railroads in both the Carolinas and
Georgia.

Basically, the railroad programs evolved from the same causes that
had given impetus to earlier road and navigation improvements; the
desire of ports to maintain and increase their commerce, increased trade
competition between inland service centers, the need to accommodate a
shifting agricultural base, and the general demand for speedier communi-
cations between the various sections of the states. All of these considera-

tions created a situation where the advantages of railroads as public
carriers could be effectively promoted. The result was a massive expansion
of that transportation form after 1830 which completely overshadowed
other communications activity in the region.

The reason why railroads came to be viewed as such breathtaking
innovations and achieved such rapid acceptability in Georgia and the
Carolinas was that they worked in almost all types of weather and were
more versatile with respect to terrain and less costly than canals. Further-
more, the railroad could be easily accommodated to a system of private
property reversing both the trend towards and the political and financial
problems associated with the public ownership and operation of trans-
portation arteries begun with the building of turnpikes and canals. This
private property aspect of the railroad gave the initiative for development
to local individuals. No longer were planters in insolated counties forced
to petition their legislature and wait for action. After acquiring charters,
groups of citizens from all over a state could solve their transportation
problems by building railroads themselves.

Because so much of the early railroad construction was determined
by the flow of private capital, and organized through private companies,
most of the existing literature on early railroads treats the role of specu-
lative mania, fast-buck promoters, and other better motivated entrepre-
neurs in rail development. Emphasis is also placed on the prevalent con-
ditions of unrestrained competition which resulted in unnecessary and
inefficient duplication of facilities, and a pattern of piecemeal development
characterized by excessive flurries of construction activity stimulated by
the availability of cheap money. Largely neglected by study to date is the
fact that while many railroad developments were influenced by the basest
of mercenary considerations, many others resulted from grand designs for
regional development, and were conditioned by a variety of considerations
related to the prevailing spatial economy into which they were introduced.
This study attempts to illustrate some of the geographic and planning
considerations, both regional and parochial, which characterized railroad
building in Georgia and the Carolinas before 1860.

EARLY RAILROAD DEVELOPMENTS IN SOUTH CAROLINA

The first expression of public support for railroads in the southeast
was that for the Charleston and Hamburg project, the first totally steam
operated line in the United States. The alignment of the road was deter-
mined by two factors, the level nature of the terrain and the spatial organi-
zation of Charleston's existing trade area.1 Charleston merchants were
aware by 1827 that the growth of the South Carolina Fall Line towns
Columbia, Camden, and Cheraw had cut into their retail traffic. They
also knew that the port was not getting its share of increased business
from the spread of cotton production to the interior.2 Railroads to these
towns, however, seemed unlikely to improve Charleston's trading position

10

a great deal. Rivers and canals already afforded a means of bringing cotton
from lands around the Broad, the Wateree and Peedee to Charleston. The
city was still getting their import-export business and seemed likely to do
so. The new road was given priority over alternative Columbia and
Camden routes simply in an attempt to divert the Savannah river trade to
Charleston.

There was a distinct lack of enthusiasm for the line in areas other
than those through which it was projected to pass.3 Subscription books
were open for four days at Columbia, Camden, and Hamburg without
a share being taken. Charleston, including the city government, the banks,
and insurance companies, supplied all the money. It was a Charleston
effort to revive Charleston. In Hamburg's case the lack of interest was due
to the fact that its connections with Savannah and Charleston via the
Savannah River, were reasonbly satisfactory. The other towns were little
interested in a project to improve the economic welfare of Charleston
and even less in promoting the interests of Fall Line business rivals. Also
the road did not appear to offer any real prospect of filling the transpor-
tation needs of the uplands.

The railroad between Charleston and Hamburg was completed in
1 833 and Charleston's commerce increased after its construction.4 Charles-
ton was delighted and began to consider a transmontane line that would
tie the city to the rapidly expanding agricultural regions of the Middle
West. It was hoped that such a connection would make Charleston not
only the chief commercial center of the South, but also assure its position
as the dominant east coast seaport with extensive inland connections and
a volume of traffic rivaling that of New York and the other major Atlantic
ports.

The main line of the projected railroad was to start at Charleston then
run through middle South Carolina and western North Carolina, over the
mountains and through the valleys of eastern Tennessee and Kentucky to
a terminal at Cincinnati. Its potential linkages raised even greater pro-
spects. Cincinnati had either completed or begun connections by river or
canal with western Pennsylvania, the rest of Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and
other areas adjacent to the Great Lakes. The more farsighted South
Carolina railroad promoters looked to a time when large areas of the
Midwest would become tributary to Charleston instead of other Atlantic
coast cities.5 The Cincinnati and Charleston Railroad Company was
approved by charter in South Carolina in 1835. Charleston subscribed a
substantial amount of money but the other states through which the line
was to pass, particularly Tennessee and Kentucky, showed little interest.6
As a result, the idea foundered at this time for primarily financial reasons,
although it was revived at frequent intervals up to the end of the century.7

One consequence of the Cincinnati-Charleston project in the 1830s
was the completion of a spur of the South Carolina Railroad to Columbia.
This branch was intended eventually to be the stem for the transmontane

11

line and was notable for its indirect alignment with respect to Charleston.
In order to provide the most economical construction, the line was laid
in such a way as to provide the shortest link between Columbia and Cam-
den and a point on the South Carolina Railroad northwest of Charleston.
The result was a line, completed in 1842, running southeast from Colum-
bia, along the Saluda to a point southwest of Camden, where it turned
southwest to cross the Saluda and strike the Hamburg line at Branchville.
Immediately after the Columbia Branch was completed, Camden began
to campaign for its own connection to the line. The railroad company
agreed to put up a number of shares equal to that subscribed by private
individuals if a right of way could be secured. These conditions were met,
and the line was completed in 1848.

EARLY RAILROAD BUILDING IN GEORGIA

At the same time that Charleston was promoting the transmontane
line the city was also encouraging Athens, Georgia, to build a railroad
west from Augusta to link the central Piedmont of Georgia to the Ham-
burg road.s The promotion of the Georgia Railroad began the most
sustained and perhaps the most acrimonious of the railroad based trade
area conflicts in the South before 1 860. Before Charleston's backing of the
Georgia R.R., Savannah had been somewhat reluctant to consider a rail-
road development to the Piedmont because of the costs of building across
the pine barrens, which were functionally a population desert.9

Savannah had long felt secure in its monopoly of the Savannah river
trade, but the advent of railroad construction in South Carolina threatened
this old order. With the completion of the Charleston and Hamburg R.R.
in 1833, no city in Georgia saw more clearly the threats and advantages
of railroad expansion to the maintenance of its trade hinterland than
Savannah. 1() This perception was heightened as the Georgia R.R. became
virtually an extension of the Charleston and Hamburg.

As Charleston developed a rail connection with the heart of upper
Georgia draining away some of Savannah's established trade, the question
for Savannah became not whether but where to build. Columbus, Macon,
and Milledgeville all solicited Savannah's favors but Macon promised
to supply more subscription funds. In 1833 a group of Savannah business-
men secured a charter to run a railroad to Macon, hoping to assure for
themselves through it the trade of the central and western part of the state.
Of the 12,308 shares sold in the company, the city of Savannah took 5,000
and the city of Macon 2,500. Milledgeville and Sandersville were the other
major contributors."

Places throughout the Piedmont with the exception of Augusta were
interested in connecting with the Savannah line. Augusta felt that on the
one hand a railroad to Augusta would be a distinct advantage but on the
other it would probably divert the trade of the town and the plantations
southwest of Augusta away from the town to Savannah. For some years

12

the latter was the prevailing consideration. Also, the Georgia Railroad,
at Charleston's instigation, threw its influence against any proposal for
an Augusta connection with the Central.12 Despite Augusta's disinterest,
the Central of Georgia and the city of Savannah decided in 1847 to put
up the money for a railroad into Augusta from the south. I3 The line from
Millen on the Central to Augusta was completed in 1854. This move only
increased the hostility of the two lines which competed for control of the
trade of the Georgia cotton belt.

Competition between the two companies for tributary traffic was
inevitable. The two railroads paralleled each other for a considerable
distance and more frequently were less than fifty miles apart. As a result
they vied constantly for the trade and traffic of this somewhat narrow
corridor which separated them. One of the specific issues related to this
competition which gave rise to great irritation between the two companies
was a proposal by the Georgia Railroad to extend its Warrenton spur into a
branch to Macon.14 This would have established a direct line between
Macon and Augusta and introduced a threat from Charleston to the traffic
of south-central and western Georgia which Savannah considered itself
to have pre-empted. Some of the communities to be connected by this
route, such as Sparta and Milledgeville, actively promoted the plan,
and Macon, Augusta, and Charleston lent their support.

At first the Georgia Railroad used the plan as a bargaining chip
in a defensive strategy aimed at limiting the Central's expansion to the
south and west. The Georgia R.R. suggested that any expansion by the
Central would result in countervailing moves by the Georgia R.R. with
the Warrenton spur as the stated example. In 1860 the Georgia Railroad
changed its posture, however, and shifted to an offensive strategy, com-
mitting itself to the implementation of the Warrenton project. The Central,
not to be outdone, immediately announced a planned retaliatory exten-
sion to Union Point which would give it an entry to the Athens trade
focus. Although the onset of the way delayed completion of the Central
project for some years, this localized contest provides a good example
of the balance of forces and the types of tactics which characterized early
railroad development strategy in the three state area.

EARLY RAILROAD DEVELOPMENT IN NORTH CAROLINA

The apparent success of the Charleston and Hamburg in South
Carolina stirred similar action in North Carolina and Virginia. Wilming-
ton, Petersburg, and Norfolk all combatted each other for the Roanoke
valley trade by building railroads to tap that river at the Fall Line.15 The
Petersburg road was constructed first, generating a quick reaction from
Norfolk. The roads of both cities competed for locational advantages
on the Roanoke. Petersburg won temporarily by construction of a short
line from its initial route to Gaston above the Fall Line. 16 Feeling threat-
ened. North Carolina's business interests began in 1833 to demand a

13

response to the Virginia challenge.

The Wilmington and Raleigh Railroad Company, chartered in 1834,
was chiefly a Wilmington enterprise to connect North Carolina's leading
port with its capital city. I7 When the citizens of Raleigh failed to subscribe
their share of stock, the company decided to build the railroad from
Wilmington to Weldon on the Roanoke where it was hoped that con-
nection and competition would take place with the Virginia roads. Upset
by the shift in terminus, Raleigh businessmen promoted and obtained
a charter for their own road, the Raleigh and Gaston. The line ran from
Raleigh to Gaston to connect with the railroad from Petersburg. It was
strongly supported by Virginia interests and opposed by Wilmington.
Both companies were organized and operated as private corporations
and neither originally expected aid from the state. I8 Eventually both were
obliged to ask the state for assistance in order to complete their lines,
but the aid was relatively small.

PLANNING STRATEGY IN THE THREE STATES

By the 1840s, and with the completion of the first North Carolina
lines, a distinct pattern of railroad expansion had begun to appear in
Georgia and the Carolinas. In all three states the planning and operating
controls on expansion were being exerted by the commercial and financial
powers in the territory drained by the roads. The economic horizons of
these decisionmakers rarely extended beyond their city or port, resulting
in a provincial attitude toward railroad function. They conceived the
railroad as their most potent weapon in the growing commercial rivalry
between leading ports and interior distributing centers. In formulating
development policy they sought to achieve three basic goals: long-term
investment profit, localization of traffic at the principal terminus, and
development of the economic resources of the area tributary to the road.

From this localized perspective emerged an operating strategy that
guided railway policy in the three states before the Civil War. According
to this idea the railroad existed to service its key terminus and the area
tributary to it. The welfare of city, territory, and company alike required
that all three realize their mutually dependent relationship and the need
to foster it. Basic to this idea was the principle of one railroad for one
region or territory, and the need to avoid any road alignment that would
carry traffic away from the sphere of the controlling cities.

The description by Julius Gridinsky of this territorial concept as
it operated in the west is equally applicable to the southern situation:19

To serve a territory with no railroad was the ambition of every
road operator . . . An extensivley controlled local territory was
an asset as long as it lasted. A monopoly of this kind was per-
haps the most important strategic advantage of a railroad,
provided, of course, the monopolized area originated valuable
traffic or served as a market for goods produced in other areas.

14

Territory thus controlled was looked upon as natural territory.
It belonged to the railroad that first reached the area. The con-
struction of a line by a competitor was an "invasion." Such a
construction, even by a business friend of the possessing road
was considered an unfriendly act. The former business friend
became an enemy.

Virtually all of the early railroads were financed by city and private
subscriptions with the city providing the lion's share of the money. Because
railroad construction was a costly enterprise, only the larger wealthier
cities could participate in it. As a result the cities capable of supplying
the capital were the ones which shared most in, and benefited most from
railroad construction. The arrival of the railroads marked a new stage
in the differentiation of the possessors and the non-possessors of trade
which had been proceeding since the early days of colonization. With
the coming of the railroads, there appeared to be no hope that the small
ports could increase their trade. At the same time, the fortunes of the
smaller interior towns appeared destined to be subject to the whims of
the big city railroad builders.

THE ROLE OF THE STATES IN RAILROAD PLANNING 1840-1860

To some extent the financial disadvantages of the smaller cities, with
respect to railroad building were relieved after 1840 by the intervention
of the state legislatures. This was particularly the case in North Carolina
where the state decided that it was in the best interests of the people for
the government to build a railroad through the middle of the state. The
line was projected to run from the Tennessee line to Beaufort, the state's
best deep water harbor.20 This move had two major objectives. One was
to cheapen the cost of transportation to the sea for large areas of the North
Carolina Piedmont. The second was to keep the traffic in North Carolina
commodities in North Carolina during its journey to the sea. North
Carolina's port interests constantly complained of losing traffic to Virginia
cities.

Due to "pork barrel" political decisionmaking the road was not
aligned through the center of the state, as originally planned, but around
it in a semicircle from New Bern to Charlotte. It provided, when com-
pleted, a solid penetration line between the coast and the mountain fringe,
and traffic along it gave New Bern an unexpected lease on life. The road,
however, ran through Raleigh and Goldsboro and consequently traffic
continued to be lost to Petersburg via the Raleigh and Gaston line, and
to Wilmington via the Wilmington and Weldon line.21 The carefully
established gauge differentials of the North Carolina railroad system
(more fully treated below), with respect to those of Virginia and South
Carolina, were obstacles to the transfer of freight, but they could not
counteract the advantages of the shorter distances to Virginia ports from
large areas of the North Carolina Piedmont. Only one railroad was built

15

without substantial state aid in North Carolina between 1840 and 1860.
The line from Wilmington to Manchester, South Carolina, was an attempt
by Wilmington businessmen to grab a share of Charleston's traditional
trade hinterland in eastern South Carolina.22

The state of South Carolina took a more piecemeal approach in its
support of railroad building. Its standard procedure was to encourage
private enterprises to provide the funds for construction. If these attempts
failed, the state usually stepped in with supplementary funds to assure
completion. Because of this attitude of the legislature, the evolution
of the South Carolina railroad network between 1 840 and 1 860 was some-
what different from that in North Carolina. Instead of a single planned
trunk line running from the coast to connect all the important mountain
fringe towns, the crooked stem of the South Carolina Railroad was used
as the base for any lines which were able to raise the money to build to it.
The result was a piecemeal set of lines converging on Columbia from
the towns of the mountain fringe, each having short connectors to impor-
tant Piedmont villages.23 This construction confirmed the position of
Columbia as the outstanding Fall Line mart of the state and concentrated
the trade of the Piedmont even further at Charleston, enabling that city
to maintain its lead as the largest town of the region.

The regional trading position of Charleston was challenged by both
Wilmington and Savannah, and Charleston had to struggle with minimal
state aid to defend its territory. It countered the thrust of the Wilmington
and Manchester by building the Northeastern Railroad to intersect that
line at Florence, and by persuading Cheraw to build a line to Florence
to connect with the Northeastern.24 This drew Cheraw away from Wil-
mington and into the Charleston orbit. Charleston made a less successful
attempt to attract trade from the Savannah River and southeast Georgia
by building the Charleston and Savannah Railroad. Little traffic was
diverted by this move.

In Georgia the attitude of the state to railroad-building between
1840-1860 was different than that in both of its Carolina neighbors.25
The Georgia legislature insisted that the railroads of the state be built
by private enterprise, avoiding state sponsorship wherever possible.26
The overriding consideration in railroad building, therefore, became
cheap construction. Normally roads were built over the shortest distance
available to connect them with the state's two early established trunk
roads the Central of Georgia and the Georgia Railroad. The result,
though for entirely different reasons, was circuitous routes to the coast
from western Georgia and Alabama similar to that in North Carolina.

Georgia's one great exception to its non-intervention policy was its
construction and operation of the Western and Atlantic Railroad. Real-
izing that there was no hope of raising local capital in the remote and
poorly settled area of northwest Georgia, and recognizing the tremendous
advantage to the central and southern parts of the state of access to the

16

food supplies of the Midwest, the state resolved to build a rail connector
from the Georgia Piedmont to Chattanooga.27 The railroad was a link
for lines from the Midwest, converging at Chattanooga to the lines already
established within Georgia. 2X

The precise language of the Act which established the Western and
Atlantic was as follows:29

A railroad communication as a State work and with funds of
the State shall be made from some point on the Tennessee River,
commencing at or near Rossville, in the most direct and practic-
able route to some point on the Southeastern bank of the Chat-
tahoochee River which shall be most eligible for the extension
of branch railroads thence to Athens, Madison, Milledgeville,
Forsyth and Columbus and to any other points which may be
designated by the engineer or engineers surverying the same
as most proper and practicable and on which the legislature may
hereafter determine, provided that no sum greater than three
hundred and fifty thousand dollars shall be appropriated
annually to the work contemplated by this act shall otherwise
direct.

Realizing that the best junction point for branch roads was further
east than the river the legislature amended this act the next year so as
to provide "That the Western and Atlantic Railroad shall continue from
the Southeastern bank of the Chattahoochee River to some point not
exceeding eight miles as shall be most eligible for the running of branch
roads thence to Athens, Madison, Milledgeville, Forsyth and Columbus,
and that the same shall be surveyed and located by the engineers in chief,
upon the ground most suitable to answer the purposes herein expressed."

The work was begun in 1837 when Stephen Long, Chief Engineer,
located the southern end of the line by driving a stake at a point where
the northeast corner of the old car shed was located which was at the
intersection of Wall Street and Central Avenue at the southwest corner
in the heart of Atlanta. As a result of this judicious investment policy the
state of Georgia achieved a deeper penetration of the interior and a more
efficient rail network than either North or South Carolina, without com-
promising the territorial extension of individual railroads within the state.
The completion of this system had been projected as early as 1825
by Governor Wilson Lumpkin. In his book on the Removal of the Chero-
okees, Lumpkin tells of his trip through Cherokee-inhabited Georgia
with Hamilton Fulton as a representative of the State Board of Public
Works. 3o

In the year 1825, when I was elected a member of the Board of
Public Works by the Legislature of Georgia, and being selected
by my colleagues of the Board and by Governor Troup for the
purpose, spent the year 1826, in company with Mr. Fulton, the
State Engineer, in taking a general reconnaissance of the state,

17

with a view to a systematic plan of internal improvements. While
in this service I devoted my whole time and all the capacity I
possessed to acquiring information connected with the business
in which I was then engaged. I then came to the conclusion that
railroads would prove to be the best possible investment for
Georgia and that they would someday directly supersede the
navigation of small rivers and most of the canal projects of that
day. Moreover I then thought whenever Georgia should find
herself prepared to embark on any great work of internal im-
provement one should commence at Savannah, from thence to
Milledgeville and from thence to some point on the Tennessee
River, near where Chattanooga is now located. These opinions
were not only entertained but freely expressed, officially and
unofficially, upon proper occasions.

OTHER EXPRESSIONS OF TERRITORIAL STRATEGY

In overall perspective the intervention of the states in railroad building
after 1 840 had little effect on basic concepts developed in the earlier period.
Territorial strategies, emphasizing the conscious avoidance of connections
with competing lines and the countering thrusts from opposing trade
areas, continued to prevail. These strategies were primarily responsible
for the disjointed and fragmented character of the southeastern rail net-
work before 1860. The failure to connect Florida and Georgia by rail
before 1860 was in part because Florida business interests feared that
the trade might be monopolized by Savannah instead of benefiting
Florida ports.31 A through route across the Piedmont region of North
Carolina to the northeast was prevented by a gap between Greensboro,
North Carolina and Danville, Virginia. The advantages of a line permitting
through-traffic to Richmond was recognized early in the century by
merchants in western North Carolina. Commercial interests in eastern
North Carolina, however, especially those at the port cities of New Bern
and Wilmington, allied to defeat all attempts to obtain a charter for such
a railroad from the North Carolina legislature until the needs of the Con-
federacy forced its building. The fear of eastern North Carolina was that
the trade of the Piedmont would be diverted from North Carolina ports
to Richmond.32

Gaps were not the only obstacles to interstate railroad traffic. Gauge
differentials provided a more considerable hinderance. The first railroad,
the Charleston and Hamburg, adopted a five foot gauge. This influenced
consequent railroad construction throughout most of the South. The
five foot gauge was adopted exclusively by Georgia, South Carolina
and Tennessee railroads and it was the dominant gauge in Kentucky,
Mississippi and Alabama. A number of Virginia railroads were standard
gauge, as were almost all those of North Carolina, and some short lines
in Kentucky and Mississippi. In the case of the short lines, gauge variations

18

usually reflected local differences in judgement and poor realization of
the potential of the railroad as a means of long distance transportation.
Railroads in northern Kentucky and northern Virginia adopted the
standard gauge in attempts to foster connection to the north across the
Ohio and Potomac Rivers where that gauge prevailed. The gauge pattern
in North Carolina, however, was an expression of the economic chau-
vinism of that state.

The resentment of the citizens of North Carolina particularly those
of the east concerning the flow of North Carolina produce to Charleston,
Petersburg, Richmond, and Norfolk, was an important fact of political
life in the state from its beginning. The arrival of railroad technology
seemed to many North Carolina businessmen their first real opportunity
to redress the situation. An internal improvements convention in Raleigh
in 1833 adopted a resolution declaring that the state should use its power
"in creating and improving markets within her own limits. "33 Standard
gauge was selected for the Wilmington and Weldon despite the five foot
roads already being built in Georgia, South Carolina and Virginia. After
that the state was careful to maintain its own gauge.

There was continued opposition in the state to standard gauge, but
the coastal counties, along with Wilmington, New Bern, and Morehead
City, always outvoted it. When the line between Greensboro and Danville
was built at Confederate demand during the Civil War, eastern interests
prevailed upon the legislature to require that it be standard gauge, despite
its connection at Danville with the five foot gauge of the Richmond and
Danville.34 Military necessity finally forced the legislature of North
Carolina to approve changing the gauge to five feet, but the act by which
this was authorized was careful to provide that the gauge would be changed
back to standard width within six months after the close of the War. This
act, authorized in 1865, was not implemented.

Other obstacles to through traffic were maintained in the Georgia-
Carolina railroad network before 1860. Caps between railroads occurred
in a number of prominent cities. When the first railroads were built they
were regarded primarily as avenues for trade between a port city and its
hinterland. As a result they ran to and not through the port cities. Because
of noise and fire hazards terminals were normally kept to the edges of
cities, allowing no connection with other rail lines to the city, or to the
docks for direct transfer of goods to ships. By the 1 850s, with the invention
of spark arresters, lines were allowed to enter downtown areas, but not
to make the physical connections which would permit interchange of
rolling stock or facilitate the transfer of freight from one line to another.

Restrictions were maintained by local business groups who either
had a vested interest in the transfer business or who wished to increase
the trade of their own ports over those of competitors. The terminals of
the Central of Georgia, the Savannah, Albany and Gulf, and the Charles-
ton and Savannah Railroads had separate terminals and no physical

19

connection in Savannah.35 Not until 1850 did Macon give its consent for
the Central of Georgia, the Southwestern, and the Macon and Western
to make a junction of their tracks.36 Only after prolonged opposition
in the state legislature was the South Carolina Railroad Company granted
the privilege of building a bridge over the Savannah and making a con-
nection with the Georgia Railroad at Augusta. Also at Augusta local
commercial interest prevented the Augusta and Savannah line from
forming a junction with other railroads entering the city.37 The Ashley
River separated the tracks of the Charleston and Savannah Railroad
at Charleston from those of the other two railroads running into the city.
At Wilmington the Cape Fear River, as well as gauge differences, blocked
through rail movements.38 Gauge differences separated the Charlotte and
South Carolina, from the Wilmington, Charlotte and Rutherfordton,
and the North Carolina, at Charlotte. Only inland, and usually away
from the navigable waterways, were there genuine junction points such
as those at Atlanta, Columbia, Florence, Raleigh and Goldsboro.

The railroad network would have been more extensive and inter-
connected had a second planned objective that of completing routes
to facilitate intersectional trade been achieved. For a variety of reasons,
economic, topographic and political. North and South Carolina failed
in their attempts to construct lines from the Atlantic Coast, through the
Appalachians, to Tennessee and the Midwest. By 1860 only Georgia,
with more favorable topography for its route, and a more attractive
junction across the state line at Chattanooga, was able to gain a trans-
montane penetration, and a real interregional connection.

CONCLUSIONS

The main objective of railroad planning in Georgia and the Carolinas
before 1860 was to secure control over a particular trade territory and to
exclude competition. Investment in line construction was the primary
tool employed by ports and interior trading centers for extending their
spheres of influence. Political manipulation and thoughts of counter-
vailing construction were the main tools used for preserving territorial
integrity and trade monopoly. The result, by 1860, was a railroad network
comprised of a series of substantial, but relatively discrete short trunk
lines. These systems flowed much like the rivers of the area draining from
the Piedmont to the Atlantic coast. They were controlled largely by the
capital and the votes of the major ports, and were primarily sustained by
the profits of transporting the agricultural produce of areas served by
the system to the coast.

The two main results of the dominance of the "short haul" and "ter-
ritorial" planning concepts were a poor physical integration of neighboring
systems, and a neglect of spatial efficiency in network design with respect
to long-haul or interregional traffic. There were only four major long
distance rail routes operative in Georgia and the Carolinas by 1861. These

20

were: (1) Charleston to Memphis via Augusta, Atlanta, and Chattanooga
(755 miles) opened in 1857; (2) Alexandria and Mobile via Charlottesville,
Lynchburg, Bristol, Knoxville, Atlanta, and Montgomery (1,215 miles)
opened in 1861; (3) Louisville to Charleston via Nashville, Chattanooga,
Atlanta and Augusta (782 miles) opend in 1859, and (4) a seaboard route
from the Potomac to Cedar Key, Florida via Richmond, Weldon,
Florence, Charleston, Savannah, Waycross and Jacksonville, complete
except for a short gap in South Georgia in 1 860. The routes were circuitous
however, involving repeated transfers from one line to another, and
were poorly co-ordinated in terms of scheduling. The route between the
national capital and Florida, loosely welded from seven individual port
feeder roads, provided perhaps the best example of a sequence of indirect
alignments with respect to ultimate destination, occurring anywhere
at any time in the absence of topographic obstacles.

The development of the railroads as a transportation mode was an
innovation to the southeast in more than the simple technological sense.
Railroads were extensive and expensive installations involving much
more in the way of benefit and locational analysis than the piecemeal
road and canal construction which had gone before. The railroads were
in effect the first of the truly large scale "planned" public works programs
in the Southeast. The history of their development indicates the widely
perceived importance of spatial considerations in facilities planning at
their early date. It also shows that the temporality of valid judgements
is nothing new in planning experience. The railroad system, developed
with a precise logic based on the political and economic circumstances
of the 1830s were outmoded and ineffective based on the economic and
political demands of the 1860s.

Hindsight, often too harsh a judge, senses some irony in the fact
that the disjointed railroad system which was one of the most taxing
strategic and logistical difficulties encountered by the Confederate military
machine, and one of the biggest economic burdens of the reconstruction
South was deliberately created before 1860 by some of the commerical
interests most supportive of secession. Most of the railroad strategists
of the 1830s and 1840s, however, would not have considered themselves
to be either long range or regional planners. For the most part they
practiced a type of planning characteristic of contemporary retail and
industrial development, which attempts to maximize trade and out-
distance completion through judicious facility location. Viewed in this
way the planning achievements of the early railroad developers of Georgia
and the Carolinas can be judged through a more charitable retrospect.

21

NOTES

1 D.D. Wallace, The History of South Carolina, American Historical Society,
New York, 1934, p. 404.

2 U.B. Phillips, A History of Transportation in the Eastern Cotton Belt to 1860,
Columbia University Press, New York, 1908, pp. 133-134.

3 A.G. Smith, Economic Readjustment in an Old Cotton State; South Carolina,
1820-1860, University of South Carolina Press, Columbia, S.C. 1958, pp. 158-159.

4 Wallace, op cit.. pp. 405-407.

5 Smith, op. cit., pp. 160-161.

6 S.J. Folmesbee, Sectionalism and Internal Improvements in Tennessee, 1796-
1845, East Tennessee Historical Society, Knoxville, Tenn., 1939, pp. 117-167.

7 W.W. Way, The Clinchfield Railroad, University of North Carolina Press,
Chapel Hill, N.C., 1931, pp. 33-46.

K P.J. McGuire, "Athens and the Railroads, The Georgia and Northeastern,"
Georgia Historical Quarterly, Vol. 18, 1934, pp. 1-26.

9 B.C. Yates, "Macon, Georgia: Inland Trading Center, 1826-1836", Georgia
Historical Quarterly, Vol. 45, 1961, pp. 1-21.

10 Phillips, op. cit., p. 253.

11 M. Dixon, "Building the Central Railroad of Georgia," Georgia Historical
Quarterly, Vol. 45, 1961, pp. 1-21.

12 Phillips, op cit., pp. 264-266.

13 W. Harden, A History of Savannah and South Georgia, Vol. 1, n.p. Chicago
and New York, 1913, pp. 325-326.

14 Phillips, op cit., 287-291.

15 T.J. Wertenbaker, Norfolk, Historic Southern Port, Duke University Press,
Durham, N.C., 1931, pp. 102-203.

16 C.W. Turner, "The Early Railroad Movement in Virginia," Virginia Magazine
of History and Biography, Vol. 55, 1947, pp. 350-371.

17 C.C. Weaver, Internal Improvements in North Carolina Previous to 1860,
John Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 1903, pp. 77-84.

18 C.K. Brown, A State Movement in Railroad Development, University of North
Carolina Press, Chapel Hill, N.C., 1962, pp. 104-105.

19 J. Grodinsky, Transcontinental Railway Strategy, 1869-1893, University of
Pennsylvania Press, Philadelphia, 1962, pp. 104-105.

20 Brown, op cit., pp. 63-94.

21 Ibid, pp. 95-147.

22 Phillips, op. cit., pp. 352-354.

23 Ibid, pp. 336-349.

24 Ibid, pp. 354-364.

25 M.S. Heath, "Public Railroad Construction and the Development of Private
Enterprises in the South before 1861," Journal of Economic History, 19, 1950, pp.
40-58, and M.S. Heath, Constructive Liberalism: The Role of the State in the
Economic Development of Georgia to 1860. Harvard University Press, Cambridge,
Mass., 1954.

22

26 F.A. Cleveland and F.W. Powell, Railroad Promotion and Crystallization
in the United States, Longmans, Green, New York, 1909, p. 214.

27 E.M. Coulter, A Short History of Georgia, University of North Carolina Press,
Chapel Hill, N.C., 1933, pp. 253-256.

2K R.S. Cotterhill, "Southern Railroads and Western Trade 1840-1850," Mis-
sissippi Valley Historical Review. Vol. 10. 1917. pp. 427-441. and "Southern
Railroads, 1850-1860, Mississippi Valley Historical Review, Vol. 10. 1924.
pp. 398-405.

29 W.G. Cooper, The Story of Georgia, American Historical Society, New York,
1938. Vol. Ill, p. 340.

30 W. Lumpkin, The Removal of the Cherokee Indians from Georgia, Dodd.
Mead and Company, New York, 1907, Vol. II. p. 294.

31 Phillips, op. cit.. pp. 359-361.

32 C.K. Brown, "A History of the Piedmont Railroad Company," North Carolina
Historical Review, Vol. 3. 1926, pp. 198-222.

33 C.K. Brown, At State Movement in Railroad Development, op. cit., pp. 202-
211.

14 C.W. Ramsdell, "The Confederate Government and the Railroads," American-
Historical Review. Vol. 22. 1917. pp. 749-810.
35 Harden, op. cit.. p. 489.

16 Phillips, op cit.. p. 294.

17 C.C. Jones and S. Dutcher. Memorial History of Augusta. Georgia. D. Mason
Co., New York. 1890. p. 504.

38 B.R. Taylor and I. Neu, The American Railroad Network, 1861-1890, Harvard
University Press, Cambridge, Mass., 1956, pp. 46-47.

23

24

FUNCTIONAL AND SPATIAL PATTERNS OF
GEORGIA SHORT LINE RAILROADS,

1915-1978

By W. Theodore Mealor, Jr.

The annals of American history are replete with illustrations of com-
munities attempting to build or attract railroads. Constructed at different
times and with different gauges many of these railroads initally operated
as short lines, reflecting the economic development of the areas they
served. Most of these lines have disappeared through mergers into larger
systems, as other modes of transportation usurped their functions, or
as the need for their services vanished.

In his article "Freight Traffic Functions of Anglo-American Rail-
roads," William H. Wallace makes the point that "freight traffic character-
istics of railroads are to a considerable degree products of the regions
served and the patterns of rail lines."1 Assuming that Wallace's statement
is correct, then freight traffic functions and distributional patterns of
railroads should change as the economic base of the regions they serve
change. Wallace classified Class I American and Canadian railroads
according to freight traffic statistics averaged for a ten year period.2
Although he alluded to functional change, Wallace did not pursue the
topic. Also, because most Class I railroads have considerable mileage of
track and serve large areas, it was difficult for him to do more than list
the percentage distribution of freight traffic by commodity groups.

Based on the methodology developed by Wallace, this paper seeks
to determine the relationships between spatial patterns and functional
characteristics and the viability of Georgia short line railroads. The specific
objectives of the paper are (1) to describe and compare the spatial patterns
and characteristics of short line railroads and (2) to compare their func-
tional characteristics for the study years 1915, 1940, 1965, and 1978. The
results of the study should provide insights into the viable nature of the
short lines and serve as a basis for relating areal economic data with the
spatial and functional characteristics of the short lines.

CRITERIA

There is no standard definition of a short line railroad. One definition
describes a short line as "a common carrier railroad that is listed in either
the Official Guide or the Pocket List of Railroad Officials, or both, which
has a route mileage of less than 400."3 The American Association of Short
Line Railroads, however, has members whose main lines exceed 2,000
miles. Other criteria that could be used to define a short line railroad
include the number of locomotives operated and rolling stock owned.

25

For the purpose of this study the following criteria were used to define
a short line: ( 1) a maximum of 150 miles of main line track; (2) function
that consists of inter-city service; and (3) operation of rolling stock under
its own corporate name. These criteria eliminate longer haul railroads,
terminal switching companies, and those railroads that own nothing
but right-of-way and do not operate rolling stock. It does not exclude
those railroads that are wholly owned or controlled by another company
as long as the subsidiary operates rolling stock and locomotives under
its own name.

CLASSIFICATION OF SHORT LINES

Although passenger traffic may have been of significance at one time,
the function of Georgia short line railroads traditionally has been the
transporation of freight. Using the annual Interstate Commerce Commis-
sion reports of the railroads on file with the Georgia Public Service Com-
mission, each short line has been classified according to the commodities
it hauled and by its function as an originator or receiver of traffic for each
of the study years. Unfortunately, classification of some railroads was
impossible due to incomplete reporting and, since 1963, by a change in
reporting form.

There are five possible commodity classifications based upon the
Commission's annual reports. They are: (1) agricultural commodities;
(2) animals and animal products; (3) products of mines; (4) products of
forests; and (5) manufactured goods. Two other classifications, (6) bal-
anced and (7) combination are possible based upon admixtures of the
five principle commodities.

A short line railroad was classified as one through five of the above
types if the tonnage hauled of a specific commodity amounted to 36 per-
cent or more of the total tonnage carried and there was at least 1 1 percent
difference between the leading commodity and the next most important
commodity. A combination classification was achieved when the leading
commodity represented 35 to 50 percent of the total tonnage and the
second commodity amounted to more than 25 percent of the total and
there was less than 10 percent disparity between the two. The third and
fourth commodity groups combined must have been equal to or less
than 25 percent of the total tonnage. The classification of balanced,
determined in three ways, indicates that at least three commodity groups
are significant in the admixture of freight carried.4

Functional classification of a railroad was determined by computing
the percentage of commodity tonnage that originated on line or that
was received from another rail connection. More than 50 percent of the
total tonnage was necessary to classify a railroad as an originator or as
a receiver. A railroad that was classified as an originating line was sub-
typed as (1) an "internal line" when the largest proportion (at least 30
percent) of freight was both originated and terminated on line or as (2)

26

a "generating line" when more than 30 percent of its tonnage was origi-
nated on line and delivered to another railroad for further shipment. A
receiving line was sub-typed as (1) a "terminating line'" when more than
30 percent of the goods it received were delivered on line, or as (2) a "bridge
line" when more than 30 percent of the received goods were delivered
to another railroad for continued shipment.5 Unfortunately, information
on function other than originating and receiving was not readily available
for Georgia short lines.

SHORT LINE FUNCTIONS: 1915

The 47 short lines operational in Georgia in 1915 had a total of 1,900
miles of main line track (approximately one-third of all main line mileage
in the state). Analysis of the distribution of these railroads indicates several
areas of concentration (Figure 1). The most outstanding pattern was
along the northeast-southwest route from Augusta to Valdosta. With
interchanges in Dublin, Hawkinsville, Bridgeboro, Rockledge, Wadley,
and Glennville, the 15 short lines of this network provided service from
Albany, Valdosta, and Bainbridge to Macon, Augusta, and Brunswick.
Another concentration, consisting of four lines, paralleled the Savannah
River. Other focal points were LaGrange, Gainesville, and Waycross.
No short line was isolated; either through direct connections or via other
short line routes, each company in 1915 and in subsequent years had
access to main line railroads.

Commodity information is available for 32 short lines in 1915 (Table
1). Of these, nine (28 percent) were engaged primarily in the transportation
of forest products. Only one of these lines, the Gainesville and North-
western, was located in north Georgia. The six railroads ( 1 8 percent) whose
commodity function classified them as "manufacture" lines were located
in central and north Georgia. All three lines (nine percent) classified as
carriers of agricultural goods were located in north Georgia. There were
eight short lines (25 percent) whose commodity functions classified
them as balanced and three-quarters of these were in south Georgia. Five
railroads (14 percent), all in south Georgia, were functionally classified
as combination lines. Analysis of the admixtures of commodities carried
by the 1 3 balanced and combination short lines shows that the two leading
classifications were manufactured products (11 lines), agricultural pro-
ducts (eight lines), minerals (five lines), and forest products (two lines).
Only one short line, the Gainesville Midland, was classified as a carrier
of minerals.

Information on function is available for only 13 of the short lines
in 1915 (Table 2). Of these, seven were classified as originating lines and
six as receiving lines. Although four of the receiving short lines were
classified as balanced or combination, manufactured goods were dominant
on all lines except the Macon and Birmingham (agricultural-mineral).
Only one of the originating short lines (the Tennessee, Alabama, and

27

GEORGIA
SHORT LINE RAILROADS

1915

MANUFACTURING _ Name* _

FOREST A Nome A _

MINERALS ..N.9.mej_
AGRICULTURE _rN_ame_
BALANCED _.i.1?.'2St ._
COMBINATION . . *N.a.'V** . .
UNCLASSIFIED ..jMfiHnSA...

0 5 10 20 30 40
MILES

Figure 1.

28

Georgia, a carrier of manufactured goods) was not a dominant carrier
of raw materials. All other originating short lines were transporters of
forest products or were classified as balanced or combination with agri-
cultural goods being the most significant commodity carried. Interestingly,
one-half of the originating agricultural and forest lines originated more
traffic in manufactured goods than they received. On the other hand,
only three of the receiving lines generated more agricultural cargo than
they received.

Table 1

SHORT LINE COMMODITY CLASSIFICATION. 1915

Manufacture

Forest

Balanced

Greene County (G. Co)

Hartwell

Louisville and Wadley (L&W)

Macon, Dublin and Savannah

(Mac., Dub., &Sav.)
Milstead
Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia

(T, A&G)

Mineral

Gainesville and Northwestern

(G'ville&Nwestem)
Milltown
Ocilla, Pinebloom, and Valdosta

(O.P.B.&V.)
Ocilla Southern

Pelhani and Havanna (Pel. & Hav.)
Savannah and Statesboro (Sav. & St.)
Talbot ton

Waycross and Southern (Way. & S.)
Waycross and Western (Way. & W.)

Agriculture

Atlanta and West Point

(Atlanta &W. Pt.)
Flint River and Northeastern

(F.R.&NE)
Georgia Northern (G.N.)
Hawkiasville and Florida Southern

Macon and Birmingham

Monroe (Mon.)
Sylvania (Syl.)
Wadley Southern

Combination

Gainesville Midland (G'ville Mid.)

Elbert on and Eastern
Lawrenceville Branch (L'ville Br.)
Union Point and White Plains
(U.Pt&W.PI.)

Augusta Southern

Fitzgerald, Ocilla, and Broxton

(F.O.&B.)
Georgia Southwestern and Gulf

(Ga. SW.&G.)
Valdosta, Moultrie, and Western

(Val. & Moultrie)
Wrightsville and Tennille

(W.&T.;Wville&Tenn.)

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

SHORT LINE FUNCTIONS: 1940

In 1940 there were 24 short lines operating over slightly more than
1,000 miles of main line track (Figure 2). The decrease in number of
operational units resulted in a significant change in the areal pattern of
the short lines. The network connecting Augusta with Macon, Valdosta,
and Brunswick was broken with the demise of the Augusta Southern,
the Valdosta, Moultrie and Western, and the reorganization of the Georgia
Coast and Piedmont, the Wadley Southern, and the Hawkinsville and

29

Florida Southern. Although one line (the Savannah and Atlanta) still
paralleled the Savannah River, the pattern was not as dense as it had been
in 1915. Although a node still existed at Gainesville, the pattern in north
Georgia showed little spatial association of one short line with another.
Similar to the 1915 pattern, the majority of the 1940 north Georgia
short lines were tentacles, providing rail connections between a central
place and a main line railroad. The short lines on the Coastal Plain tended
to be areally associated with each other and to be integrated in the state-
wide rail net formed by the Atlantic Coast Line, Central of Georgia, Sea-
board Airline, and Southern railroads. With the exception of the Tal-
botton, no short line duplicated a direct route of a major railroad.

Table 2
FUNCTIONAL CLASSIFICATION OF SHORT LINES, 1915

Internal Originating Receiving Bridge Terminating

Augusta Southern Atlanta and West Point

Hawkinsville and Florida Gainesville Midland

Southern

Ocilla Southern Georgia Northern

Savannah and Statesboro Georgia Southwestern and Gulf

Tennessee. Alabama, and Macon and Birmingham

Georgia

Wadley Southern Macon, Dublin, and Savannah
Wrightsville and Tennille

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

Twelve of the 23 short lines for which 1940 data are available were
engaged predominantly in transporting manufactured goods (Table 3).
Of these lines, five were in north Georgia and seven in south Georgia.
Only four ( 1 7 percent) of the short lines, all in south Georgia, were classi-
fied as carriers of forest products. Three lines (13 percent) were classified
as balanced, and three as combination. Manufactured goods coupled
with products of forests or agriculture were significant in the admixtures
of the four balanced and combination lines in south Georgia while north
Georgia lines were dominated by combinations of minerals and manu-
factured goods. Only one short line was a "mineral" railroad and no line
was classifed as "agricultural."

The overwhelming proportion (78 percent) of Georgia short line
railroads functioned as receivers of freight in 1940 (Table 4). Nine of the
18 receiver railroads were sub-classified, five as terminating lines and
four as bridge lines. As would be expected, two of the terminating lines
were tentacles, connecting a small town with a Class I railroad. The other
three terminal routes and all of the bridge lines connected two or more

30

Ta/lulah Falls* /

* <

ATalbotlon*

GEORGIA

SHORT LINE RAILROADS

1940

MANUFACTURING _ N.ameJ _

FOREST ANomeA _

MINERALS _*N.9nJS*_

AGRICULTURE rN_ame=_

BALANCED _.iMSJKt ._
COMBINATION . . Nome"
UNCLASSIFIED .._*N.qme*___

6 5 10 20 30 40
MILES

f*

I

o6 \*

_<'

6*V

>^

-

IP

#

J?

I 1

Lakeland*

US. Go. A

BASED ON GA. PUBLIC SERVICE COMMISSION MAPS, 1925. 1949

I S t. Marysn

WTM 2-79 W-"

Figure 2.

31

Table 3
SHORT LINE COMMODITY CLASSSIFICATION, 1940

Manufacture

Forest

Balanced

Atlanta and West Point

Flint River and Northeastern

Georgia Northern

Georgia Southwestern and Gulf

Greene County

Hartwell

Louisville and Wadley

Macon, Dublin, and Savannah

Milstead

Savannah and Atlanta

Sylvania

Tennessee, Alabama, and Georgia

Mineral

Sanders ville
South Georgia
Talbot ton
Wadley Southern

Georgia, Ashburn, Sylvester and Camilla
Tallulah Falls
Wrightsville and Tennille

Agriculture

Combination

Lakeland

G)llins and Glennville
Gainesville Midland
St. Marys

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

places that were served by Class I railroads.

Carriers of manufactured goods tended to function as receiving
lines. Only two "manufacture" short lines were originating companies
(the Hartwell, a tentacle route, and the Savannah and Atlanta, serving
the port city). Of the four remaining receiving lines, three were sub-typed
as bridge lines and one as a terminating line. Likewise, the six short lines
classified as balanced or combination were receiving lines and three of
these were sub-typed as terminating routes. Again, manufactured goods
were significant among the commodities carried by these railroads. The
one "mineral" short line (the Lakeland) was a tentacle and functioned
as a terminating route. Three of the four forest products related lines
were originators of traffic while the fourth was classified as a bridge line.

SHORT LINE FUNCTIONS: 1965 and 1978

By 1965 only 16 short lines, operating 750 miles of main line track,
remained in Georgia (Figure 3). Only remnants of former patterns re-
mained; the spatial association of the three former Pidcock family owned
lines (the Georgia Northern, the Georgia, Ashburn, Sylvester and Camilla,
and the Albany and Northern) in southwest Georgia being the best
example. In only one other place (Tennille) was there a junction between
two short lines. The remaining eleven lines were areally disassociated
from each other. Four of the short lines were tentacles as was the branch

32

Table 4
FUNCTIONAL CLASSIFICATION OF SHORT LINES, 1940

Internal

Originating

Receiving

Bridge

Hartwell
Sandersville
Savannah and Atlanta
Talbot ton
Wadley Southern

Collins and Glennville
Flint River and Northeastern
Georgia, Ashburn, Sylvester

and Camilla
Georgia Southwestern and Gulf
Greene County
Louisville and Wadley
Milstead
St. Marys
Sylvania

Terminating

Gainesville Midland

Lakeland

Tallulah Falls

Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia

Wrightsville and Tennille

Atlanta and West Point
Georgia Northern
Macon, Dublin and Savannah
South Georgia

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

of another. The remaining lines connected cities served by Class I railroads.

Information is not available on commodity tonnage for 1965. How-
ever, data are available from 1963 for nine of the short lines (Table 5).
Surprisingly, the number of forest related railroads increased from four
in 1 940 to five in 1 963, all in south Georgia. Three of the "forest" railroads
(the Chattahoochee Industrial, the St. Marys, and the Valdosta Southern)
were owned by timber related industries. Two, the Chattahoochee Indus-
trial and the Valdosta Southern, were founded after 1950. Three lines
were carriers of manufactured goods and one line was classified as a
carrier of minerals.

Data on short line functions are even more scarce than information
on commodities. No functional patterns or associations can be discerned
for the six lines for which information is available (Table 6).

Eight short lines were operational in Georgia in 1978 (Table 7). With
the merger of the former Pidcock lines into the Southern system and
the Wrightsville and Tennille into the Central of Georgia, all remaining
vestiges of the 1915 Augusta to Valdosta network of short lines were
dissipated. Five of the remaining short lines were tentacles while three
provided connections between two or more Class I rail lines (Figure 4).
Although commodity and function data were not available in the annual
reports, ownership characteristics were. Three of the lines were owned by
companies involved in forest related industries, indicating that the com-
modities they carried were probably forest related. One other line, the

33

* r

GEORGIA

SHORT LINE RAILROADS

1965

MANUFACTURING _ Sf<omeg _

FOREST A Nome A _

MINERALS _.f.N.am8f__

AGRICULTURE Slam.eS_

BALANCED _.4MSffi>.i._

COMBINATION . . NomyB . .

UNCLASSIFIED ..JfMP.TJ*...

6 5 10 20 30 40
MILES

7<!

8 Tenn a '

>?

sOT

f<?

y

.AChoH Ind.A

1?

I to.

BASED ON GA. PUBLIC SERVICE COMMISSION MAPS. 1925, 1949

ASt MorysA

WTM 2-79

Figure 3.

34

Sandersville, owned 345 hopper cars and served a kaolin mine north of
Sandersville. More than likely this line was still classified as "mineral"
in 1978.

DEFUNCT AND MERGED SHORT LINES

Of the 49 short lines included in this study, 41 no longer operate as
inter-city carriers under their own names (Figure 5). Ten of these lines
are operational as part of Class I rail systems while one operates as a
switching company. Several of the remaining 30 lines were bought by
larger railroads prior to their routes being abandoned.

Slightly more than one-third (15) of the short lines in existence in
1915 were out of business by 1930 and all but four of these were in south

Tabic 5
SHORT LINE COMMODITY CLASSIFICATION. I%5

Manufacture Forest Balanced Mineral Agriculture Combination

Atlaniu and West Poini Chattahoochee Industrial Sandersville

Louisville and Wadley Si. Marys

Savannah and Atlanta South Georgia

Valdosta Southern

Wrightsville and Tennille

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

Georgia. Ten of these lines were tentacle routes that in most cases did
not serve communities of any size, a paradox in light of some of the
corporate names. For instance, the Ocilla, Pinebloom and Valdosta,
owned by the Gray Lumber Company of Willacoochee, served neither
Ocilla nor Valdosta, but did connect Lax, Pinebloom, and Shaws Still.
One terminal of the Savannah and Southern was at Louin while the other
terminal was located "two miles past Willie."7

Table 6

FUNCTIONAL CLASSIFICATION OF SHORT LINES. 1965

Internal Originating Receiving Bridge Terminating

Sandersville Louisville and Wadley Atlanta and West Point

Savannah and Atlanta South Georgia

Wrightsville and Tennille

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

35

k

GEORGIA

\ / ) \

1

/ / '

V /

\ / ^ /

SHORT LINE RAILROADS

/ /

/ * 'k

1 / /

/ / ' \

XL

DEFUNCT

MFRGFD

\ /

\ 0 5 10 20 30 40

\ MILES

v N / v A^^x^

* \

1

/m^^^\ \ ^ I

<

/y \\ '^*^ JL \

\ <j

y/ \\ ' ~~^^<-L

u

/Vr'V

\/

W \ \

N x AN

""" "Tv Y '

7^ 1 ' V V \ 1

A\T

V ... SW

f \ '' V -X.

W

X' ' \ - 1

_ "-^ ^^ ' \ "~

>Cy ^

\ /^ N

\ /

Y'i

\ X A^ ^

V \ / 1 v / \

\ / \ M \

\ \ / \

~^ 7

1

^5< / W

1 \ (f)

\ \ / \

' *"* 4.^

V I {[/

/

r^~^J(i

\

i

/

\ / K Y \ jA

\J Kg^

BASED ON GA.

PUBLIC SERVICE COMMISSION MAPS. 1925.

1949

WTM 2-79* -* 1

Figure 4.

36

* f

f J

GEORGIA

SHORT LINE RAILROADS

1978

MANUFACTURING _ Nome* _

FOREST * Nome A _

MINERALS _*N_?.m!._

AGRICULTURE Nome

BALANCED _.*f*fjl._

COMBINATION . . Name _ _

UNCLASSIFIED ..jfcNanie*...

6 5 10 20 30 40
MILES

!
i

+ Val. So*
BASED ON GA. PUBLIC SERVICE COMMISSION MAPS. 1925. 1949,1969

X?

*St. Marys*

wVi

\ G /

WTM 2-79^- >

Figure 5.

37

The depression did not wreak havoc upon Georgia short lines. Only
six lines, three in south Georgia, failed between 1930 and 1941. Of these,
four were tentacles. However, several companies, such as the Wadley
Southern, abandoned routes that were integral to the total Georgia rail
network. Since 1942 nine short lines, six in south Georgia, have ceased
operations. Six of these were part of the state-wide network while one
other essentially replicated the route of a Class I railroad. Ten of the 15
short lines that went out of business between 1930 and 1978 had at least
one county seat as a terminal and three of the others served at least one
community with a population of more than 2,500.

Table 7

SHORT LINES OPERATIONAL IN 1978

Railroad Ownership or Affiliation Railroad Ownership or Affiliation

Atlanta and West Point (Seaboard Coast Line) Louisville and Wadlev (Central of Georgial

Chattahoochee Industrial (Great Northern Paper Co.) St. Marys (Gilman Paper Co.)

Gainesville Midland (Seaboard Coast Line) Sandersville (independent)

Hartwell (independent! Valdosta Southern (Owens-Illinois Co.)

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

Data available on commodities carried by 21 of the 30 defunct short
lines during their last year of operation reveal both areal and commodity
associations (Table 8). Twelve of the 21 companies were primarily carriers
of forest products and all but one of these were in south Georgia. Two
other south Georgia short lines carried forest commodities in combination
with manufactured goods. Although information is sketchy, apparently
many forest oriented railroads were originators of traffic. Eight of the
lines were tentacles, joining such places as Cogdell with Waycross and
Haylow with Statenville. The corporate life of most of these lines was
short. Only three of the companies were operational prior to 1900 and
nine were out of business by 1930. Interestingly, two of the oldest com-
panies, the Talbotton and the Wadley Southern were among the last to
cease operations.

The three lines classified as carriers of manufactured goods ceased
operations between 1930 and 1941. Although each was a receiver of goods,
only one was part of the state-wide rail network. Both of the tentacle
routes connected cities of some regional importance (Savannah with
Statesboro and Gainesville with Helen. No significant patterns or associa-
tions can be concluded concerning the routes or commodity functions
of the other defunct short lines.

The types of commodities carried by a short line and its ability to
accommodate or adjust to changes in local needs apparently is related

38

Table 8
SHORT LINE COMMODITY CLASSIFICATION. LAST YEAR OF OPERATION

Manufacture

Forest

Balanced

Gainesville and Northwestern ( 19331
Savannah and Statesboro ( 1933)
Greene County 1 1941 1

Mineral

Agriculture

Fitzgerald, Ocilla, and Broxton ( 1918)
Ocilla, Pinebloom and Valdosta ( 19181
Valdosta, Moultrie and Western (1919)
Pelhani and Havanna 1 19221
Savannah and Southern ( 1922)
Waycross and Western 1 1925)
Statenville(1927)

Union Point and White Plains ( 1927)
Waycross and Southern 1 1929)
Flint River and Northeastern (1946)
Talbotton (1956)
Wadley Southern ( 19b4i

Combination

Augusta Southern ( 1920)

Unclassified

Elberton and Milstead 1 1961 ) Collins and Flemington, Hinesville and Western (1915)

Eastern 1 1933) Glennville ( 1941) Hawkinsville and Western ( 19151

Sylvania ( 1954) Flovilla and Indian Springs ( 1916)

Lawrenceville Branch i I919i
Roswell (1921)
Shearwood (1937)
Lakeland (1957)
Tallulah Falls (1961)
Bow don 11963)

Atlanta. Stone Mountain and Lithonia
loperated as switching company)

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

to its viability as an operational company. Data on 16 of the defunct short
lines show that the dominant types of commodities carried by nine of
them during their last year of operation were the same as they carried
during the selected study years. All nine of these lines functioned as
originators of traffic, predominantly forest products, during the selected
study years and, with the exception of the Talbotton, all were out of busi-
ness by 1930.

The types of commodities carried by the remaining seven short lines
were not uniform for the selected study years. Most of these lines carried
either agricultural or forest products in 1915 (only the Milstead, owned
by a textile mill, was classified as a "manufacture" line). During subsequent
years manufactured goods became the dominant commodity carried on
all but two routes. The majority of this type of short line initially func-
tioned as originators of traffic; however, each functioned as a receiver
of goods during at least one of the study years.

39

Short lines that were merged into the systems of Class I railroads
typically were integral to the state-wide rail network at the time of merger
(Table 9). In several cases only a portion of the short lines' routes were
incorporated into the larger system. Also, many of the short lines had
been controlled by a Class I railroad prior to being operationally merged
with the parent system. All but two of the merged short lines were estab-
listed prior to 1900 and, with the exception of the Monroe, each at one
time operated in excess of 50 miles of main line track.

Table 9
SHORT LINES MERGED WITH CLASS I RAILROADS

Short Line

Class I Company

Date of Merger

Georgia, Ashburn, Sylvester
and Camilla

Southern (through prior merger
with the Georgia Northern

Dec. 31, 1971

Georgia Northern

Southern

Dec. 31, 1971

Macon and Birmingham

Seaboard

1930

Macon, Dublin and Savannah

Seaboard

1956

Monroe

Georgia Railroad

1916

Ocilla Southern

Seaboard

1923

Savannah and Atlanta

Central of Georgia1

June 1, 1971

South Georgia

Southern (through prior merger
with the Live Oak, Perry and Gulf

Dec. 31, 1971

Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia

Southern

Jan. 1, 1971

Wrightsville and Tennille

Central of Georgia

Junel, 1971

'The Central of Georgia is controlled by the Southern Railroad.

Source: Georgia Public Service Commission.

"Manufacture" short lines were the most prominent among the
types merged with Class I railroads. During the last year of operation
prior to merger all but three of the short lines for which data are available
were carriers of manufactured goods. Unlike the defunct short lines, the
overwhelming majority of these companies (90 percent) were consistent

40

from study year to study year in the types and admixtures of commodities
that they carried. Only one, the Wrightsville and Tennille. showed signi-
ficant variation from year to year. This company and the Tennessee,
Alabama and Georgia were the only two short lines not to function con-
sistently as either originators or receivers of goods during the selected
study years. The majority of merged short lines functioned as receivers
of goods and at least two were sub-typed as bridge lines. All four north
Georgia short lines were receivers during their last year of operation
as were two of the south Georgia companies.

CONCLUSIONS

The 1978 map of Georgia's state-wide transportation network exhibits
gaps that previously contained rail lines. The loss of more than 1,200
miles of main line tracks in the last 60 years is directly attributable to
the demise of short line railroads and is associated with both the spatial
patterns and functional characteristics of those railroads.

Short lines having tentacle routes were much more susceptible to
failure than were those lines integrated in the state-wide network. Of the
23 tentacle railroads operative in 1915 only three survive and none of the
others were incorporated into a larger system. Two additional tentacle
routes exist today as a result of right-of-way abandonment (the Valdosta
Southern) and failure of a connecting short line (the Augusta Southern
with the Sandersville). Of the five tentacle lines in 1978, two were owned
by timber related companies and one was functionally associated with
kaolin mining.

Twenty-six short lines have been part of the state-wide rail net since
1915. Of these, only three remain (five of the two tentacle routes that were
once a part of the net are included). However, ten of the short lines in the
state-wide network were incorporated into larger systems. The survival
rate, therefore, was 50 percent for lines integral in the network and 13
percent for companies with tentacle routes.

Survival of short lines as independent operations or as parts of
larger railroad systems is in part related to the types of commodities they
carried. Short lines whose cargoes traditionally have been dominated
by manufactured goods survived longer than those whose freight was
predominantly forest or agricultural products. Seemingly more important
to the survival of a short line than change in the commodity classification
has been the consistency through time of the company to provide trans-
portation for a particular commodity type or admixture of commodities.
With the exception of several short lines owned by forest related industries,
those short lines operational today or that have merged with larger systems
typically were dependent on the movement of manufactured goods during
each of the study years. Concomitantly, the consistency with which a

41

short line functioned as an originator or receiver of goods has been more
important to its survival than year to year change in function.

Tentacle short lines that functioned as originators of forest products
were the least viable of all the short lines. Certainly many of these were
special purpose lines that reflected the economy of the areas along their
routes. A listing of the places they served reveals that most were "saw
mill" towns that do not exist today. As the timber was cut and as truck
transportation became more feasible these lines ceased to operate. Because
of their location and routing most were not attractive partners for mergers
with larger railroads. On the other hand, companies that provided routes
between cities that were (and are) focal points of regional growth and
that had shown consistency in service were attractive to the larger rail
systems.

Short lines have played a significant role in the development of the
economies of the areas they served. Those that have survived into the
1970s have done so because their routes are either integral to the statewide
rail net or they serve a particular special interest. Their existence
in the decade of the 1980s will continue to be dependent on these functional
and spatial associations.

NOTES

1 William H. Wallace, "Freight Traffic Functions of Anglo-American Railroads,"
Annals of the Association of American Geographers, Vol. 52, No. 3 (Sept. 1963)
312-333.

2 In 1956 a Class I railroad was defined as a company having annual operating
revenues of $3,000,000 or more. The definition has been reworked several times
since Wallace's study. Today a Class I railroad is one that hasoperating revenues
greater than $50,000,000.

3 Sy Reich, "Short Line Railroads in Georgia," Railroad Magazine (Nov. 1967)
46-48.

4 The classification of "balanced" can be determined in three ways: (1) The two
leading commodities each amount to more than 20 percent but less than 40 percent
of the total tonnage with 10 percent or less disparity between them. The third
commodity must represent more than 20 percent of the total and have a five percent
or less difference from the second commodity; (2) The first two commodities each
total between 20 and 40 percent with a 10 percent or less disparity while the third
and fourth commodities each amount to more than 15 percent with a 10 percent
or less disparity between the second and third items; and (3) The first commodity
totals between 30 and 40 percent while the second commodity represents between
25 and 40 percent with less than 10 percent difference between the two. The third
and fourth commodities combined must be greater than 25 percent.

5 Wallace, 313-314.

* Moody's Transportation Manual, 1978 (New York: Moody's Investors Ser-
vice, 1978) 721.

7 Report of the Savannah and Southern Railroad for 1915 to the Interstate Com-
merce Commission.

42

EXPANSION OF THE PINE OLEORESIN
INDUSTRY IN GEORGIA: 1842 TO CA. 1900

By Jeffrey R. Dobson and Roy Doyon

The first commercial extraction of pine oleoresin in Georgia occurred
in 1842. During the following six decades, the industry developed from
a minor experimental enterprise to a predominant land-use form which
annually brought millions of dollars to Georgia's Coastal Plain. This
study attempts to characterize the industry and to assess its impact upon
the region from the first known extraction in 1842 to around 1900 when
expansion ceased. The industry's role in developing the region and changes
within the industry during its expansion phase are emphasized in the
analysis. Specific questions to be examined are: ( 1) Was the industry more
significant, both economically and culturally, than is generally recognized?
(2) Was the exploitative character of the industry compatible with contem-
porary demands for cleared land for agriculture? (3) What factors most
influenced the location of the industry during expansion?

Since the answers to these questions vary throughout the study period,
they are discussed in the context of a chronology of the industry's diffusion
in Georgia.

CONDITIONS PRIOR TO INTRODUCTION IN GEORGIA

Gum naval stores (pine oleoresin) production was a major occupation
in the North Carolina Coastal Plain from colonial time. Extraction began
as early as 1665 and, after 1700, the colony became the major production
center in North America. With cessation of naval stores production in
New England around 1750, North Carolina was the western hemisphere's
only cropping region for over a century. During this period, the only
locational changes in the North Carolina industry were minor shifts of
the cropping area. Large-volume production began in the Wilmington-
Beaufort region around 1721, but because of technological destruction
of trees, production shifted, by 1750, to the Washington-Albermarle
Sound area. After 1800 North Carolina's production declined in the
Washington-Albermarle region, and the producers began to move inland.
Mobility of the industry was hampered by higher overland transport
costs and by the requirement that processing could occur only in large
distilleries at central locations. Economic recession after 1800 further
depressed the industry in the Tarheel State.

In the 1830s, dramatic changes revitalized North Carolina's naval
stores industry. Mobile copper distilleries, which allowed bulk reduction
before transport, were introducted in 1 834. Turpentine also was discovered
to be an economical illuminator when mixed with alcohol, and it was

43

needed as a solvent in the developing rubber industry as well. With increas-
ing demand for turpentine, the stage was set for expansion of production
into the vast longleaf pine forests from South Carolina to Texas.

One key factor was responsible for maintaining production in North
Carolina during the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries. It was
the popular myth which held that trees south of the Cape Fear River
were unproductive of gum (oleoresin). By 1836 experiments exposed this
myth for what it was, and by 1840 the Cape Fear River was no longer an
artificial barrier. Production began in South Carolina that year and spread
to Georgia in 1842. Extraction of gum occurred in Alabama and Florida
by 1855 and in Mississippi and eastern Louisiana by I860.1

Coastal Georgia was ripe for naval stores cropping in the mid-
nineteenth century. In 1842 the region's population was relatively sparse,
and vast portions of the tidewater were still covered with large stands
of virgin longleaf pine. Only two roads (and no railroads) traversed the
area in 1842, and none was needed by oleoresin producers until after
the Civil War when forested areas adjacent to streams had been cleared.
Poor productivity of the sandy pine barrens reduced competition by
plantation and yeoman agriculturists for labor throughout much of the
Georgia Coastal Plain. Finally, social attitudes toward cropping as a
demeaning activity, which earlier had prevailed outside North Carolina,
were beginning to decline throughout the South and were of little con-
sequence through the Civil War period since most naval stores' laborers
were slaves.

Even Georgia's legal codes contributed to the readiness of the state
for extraction. A small-volume wood naval stores industry (tar and pitch
recovered by slow combustion of felled timber) had existed in the state
as early as 1744 and shipments were made to England in 1748.2 British
mercantilist policy resulted in a colonial law which established standards
for packaging, marketing, and inspecting pitch, tar, turpentine, and other
commodities.1 The act of 1776 was adopted by the state's legislature upon
independence and was modified and updated as needed prior to 1840.
No modifications were required from 1840 to 1876 when extraction
methods and classification became more refined.

DIFFUSION IN GEORGIA

The industry's role in helping to settle the Georgia Coastal Plain
is defined by its character during early expansion. Historians and chroni-
clers of the industry differ in their interpretation of this role because
they have applied regional or long-term generalizations to a process which
differed considerably over area and through time. The industry has been
characterized as a pioneer enterprise at the leading edge of the agricultural
frontier. Such a thesis appears likely in North Carolina during the 1700s
when yeomen farmers supplemented farm incomes through ancillary forest
activities. Lands so cleared by destructive practices could be utilized

44

more easily for agriculture and no doubt encouraged agricultural expan-
sion. To some extent oleoresin producers thereby directed the course of
agricultural development.

In South Carolina during the early 1700s, wood naval stores were
extracted by slaves during low agricultural work seasons. Perry points
out, however, that labor requirements in planting and harvesting crops
were incompatible with large-scale oleoresin production because the
seasons of peak labor demand coincided.4 The same conflict would have
precluded such an arrangement in Georgia. The more likely variant is that
a production unit involving a landowner and several slaves would have
oleoresin extraction as a major goal much in the way that plantations
featured agricultural activity. This arrangement was well suited to atti-
tudes, cultural trends, and tenure patterns in Georgia's tidewater area.5
Finally, the activity in Georgia has been characterized as an industrial
outgrowth of North Carolina's production complex. In this case, the
industry would have been directed by conscious decision-makers from
outside the state. These circumstances might inply either an infusion
of capital from North Carolina or an exploitation of Georgia's pine barrens
by non-Georgians. This latter thesis appears unlikely for the pre-Civil
War period but bears investigation during the late 1800s when North
Carolina's industry rapidly declined.

PRE-CIVIL WAR DEVELOPMENT

The first instances of oleoresin extraction in Georgia occurred in
the tidewater area south of Savannah where early producers relied upon
inexpensive water transport for delivery to the Savannah market. Census
schedules for 1850 suggest that extraction was first centered in Camden
County (which then included most of present-day Charlton County)
where six landowners engaged in the activity (Figure 1-A). Wayne and
Mcintosh counties were less important, having only one producer each
in 1850. With a few exceptions, the producers were young, single, native
Georgians with moderate level estate holdings ($3,000 to $7,000). Of the
eight recorded producers, five were slave owners with combined holdings
of fifty-six male slaves between the ages of 12 and 60, and three had no
slaves. Assuming that slave owners were managers rather than workers,
the industry could have had fifty-nine workers in the three counties.
Glynn County apparently had some production since two men in the
county listed themselves as oleoresin managers; but they had no land
and no slaves and most likely they worked for other landowners.6

The impact of oleoresin land use upon the settlement process in
Georgia was probably small. Oleoresin croppng seldom cleared more than
20 percent of the standing forest and lumbermen never cut cropped timber
until well after the Civil War because of a prevalent belief that scarified
trees made inferior lumber.7 The most serious effect of oleoresin land
use was unsightly islands of stunted, broken timber in a sea of healthy

45

nil

46

pines, sometimes interspersed with cut-over land and agricultural fields.
Economic incentives for settling on land previously cropped for oleoresin
were small compared to incentives for settling cut-over lands. Though
clear-cutting seldom occurred before 1880. cut-over land contained many
fewer windfalls and standing trees than cropped land. Even if settling
was encouraged by cropping, the total area involved was probably small.
If each of the 202 oleoresin workers recorded in the 1850 census had
worked a standard tract of ten acres, only around 2,000 acres would have
been cropped at this date.

In 1850 the oleoresin industry in Georgia was of limited significance,
contributing only $55,000 to the state's $7,000,000 gross manufacturing
product. Oleoresin production was only significant in Camden County
where much or all of the gross manufacturing product came from oleo-
resin sales.

From 1850 to 1860, the naval stores industry in Georgia grew in
size and importance. The combined capital of oleoresin producers rose
from $110,000 in 1850 to almost $200,000 in 1860 (Table 1). Although
the number of establishments decreased from fourteen to twelve during
the decade, the number of workers increased from 202 to 307. The expan-
sion of capital and workers thus suggest that the industry became an
important economic activity during its second decade in Georgia.

The location of the cropping region changed little during the 1 850-
1860 period except for addition of one small-volume producer in Ware
County and cessation of gum activity in Glynn County (Figure 1 -A).
Charlton County, formerly a part of Camden, was the major producer
in 1860, in number of producers (five) and in production capacity
($196,620). Camden County's one producer apparently comprised the
largest single factility in Georgia with an investment of $45,750.

The core production area clearly remained in coastal and near coastal
counties with only a hint of the inland shift which was to occur later.

Table 1
OLEORESIN PRODUCTION STATISTICS IN GEORGIA. 1840 TO 1909

Number of

Capital

Number of

Volume of

Gross Manufacturing

Year

Establishments

Investment

Wage Earners

Sales

Product for the State

1840

0

0

0

0

*

1850

14

109.950

202

55.068

7,082,075

1860

13

196.620

307

116. 1 1 1

16.925.564

1870

4

63.000

138

95,170

31.196,115

1880

84

513.885

2.646

1 .455.739

36,440.948

1890

228

2,242.592

9,911

4,242.255

68,917,020

1900

524

3.785.432

19.199

8,110.468

106,654.527

1909

592

2.989.971

14.253

6.938,957

202,863.262

Source: United States Censuses.

*Gross manufacturing product unknown, but capital investments were 53 percent of capital
investments in 1850.

47

Though the Atlantic and Gulf Railroad from Savannah to Thomasville
was completed in 1860, its opening was too late to have affected signif-
icantly the cropping distribution that year, and coastal waterways re-
mained the major transport routes for oleoresin movement.

In 1860, oleoresin production accounted for about 1.5 percent of
Georgia's $17,000,000 gross manufacturing product. Though the percent-
age is small, it was aquired on only 3,000 acres of land. Its influence was
distinctly local and was confined largely to an economic impact upon
the lives of a few individuals. No large corporate investments occurred
to infuse capital into the region, and the volume of sales was too small
to affect appreciably regional development.

Cultural impacts on the region as a result of oleoresin activities
were small at first because few people were involved; but to those who
were part of the industry in the years following the formative stages, sig-
nificant cultural changes began to occur. For example, during the 1850s
the paternalistic camp system appeared in Georgia. By 1860 the standard
working unit modeled upon the plantation system contributed much less
to overall production than did the larger migratory work camps consisting
of as many 100 slaves, a distillery, and a cluster of semi-permanent dwell-
ings. The camp was a necessary adjustment to problems in economics of
scale. Large units were more efficient, but they depleted larger areas and
were forced to migrate continually. The migratory character of the indus-
try thus coincides with the introduction of camps. Rapid turnover in
active producers was a logical result of rapid depletion at the local level
although large-area depletion would not occur for several decades. No
listed producer of 1850 was still active in 1860.

The transition from an indigenous to an non-indigenous industry
was completed by 1860. In that year only three of eighteen Whites in the
oleoresin industry were native born, and two of the three were young sons
of a North Carolinian. Despite historical accounts of major migrations
from North Carolina, it appears that more than half of Georgia's new-
comers were from Virginia. ' ' There is little direct evidence to link the two
phenomena, but it is known that relative agricultural decline in Virginia
prior to the war caused out-migration.12 Ward noted that during Recon-
struction wealthy Virginians relocated and began turpentining (extracting
oleoresin) in south Georgia. 13 Since oleoresin extraction ceased in Virginia
after 1620, none of the migrants could have worked in the industry prior
to migration. It is likely that such movements involved men with adequate
capital who left an area in decline to seek opportunity in a growth industry
located in a potentially more prosperous region.

POST-CIVIL WAR DEVELOPMENT

The Civil War almost totally obliterated oleoresin production in
Georgia. Emancipation meant loss of capital and labor for the producers.
Moreover, railroads were destroyed, shipping was halted, and markets

48

were lost. And foreign production of naval stores increased during the
conflict as Europeans sought to free themselves of dependence upon
American oleoresin. In Georgia, the postwar industry, like the region,
was in chaos. 14 In 1 870, only two counties were producing oleoresin. Three
producers working in Charlton County and one in Pierce County were
seeds of the post- War industry rather than remnants of pre-War develop-
ment (Figure 1-A). By 1870 capital holdings of oleoresin producers de-
clined from $200,000 in 1860 to $63,000; sales fell during this period from
$236,000 to $95,000, and; the number of laborers dropped from 307 to
138.15

Census schedules for 1870 list as turpentine workers only 42 of the
138 wage earners in the industry; however, other workers may have listed
themselves as "laborers" or they could have been recent migrants who
failed to register as Georgia residents. Of the 42 persons listed, the majority
were non-Georgians. Fourteen came from North Carolina, eight from
Virginia, and five from other states. This small number of workers pre-
cludes the possibility that Georgia's oleoresin work force was largely
a relic of slavery.

Information about the location of oleoresin activities in Georgia
in 1870 suggest that coastal production was being closed out at this time
and that inland production, dependent upon rail transport, was beginning
to emerge as the more significant case. Pierce County, on the Atlantic
and Gulf rail line, was the first of a new wave of oleoresin producing
counties along the post-bellum rail network. Though Pierce County's
volume of sales in 1870 was relatively low ($17,000), the $40,000 investment
of a single producer indicates a change in scale of operation, and from
this time on Georgia establishments exhibit a larger scale of activity than
occurred in North and South Carolina. This change is significant because
larger producers tended to be more exploitative. They often worked a
tree for only two years before abandoning it because of declining yields
in the third and fourth years. I6 North Carolina's trees declined at the same
rate, of course, but the smaller operators there used each tree more inten-
sively and over a longer period of time. Hence, Georgia's yields per crop
were usually higher than those in other states.

The greatest expansion of the Georgia industry occurred from 1870
to 1900. Sales volumes rose from $95,000 to $8,000,000 in the thirty year
span, with dramatic increases in evidence during each decennial census
period. From 1870 to 1900, the industry virtually exploded in cropping
area and in volume of sales, with the 1880 sales figure of $1,500,000 re-
presenting four percent of the state's gross manufacturing product. Census
returns for 1880 show oleoresin production being divided among thirteen
counties throughout the southeastern and south central portions of the
state (Table 2). With the exception of Mcintosh County and three counties
on the edge of the longleaf range, every county along the region's three
railroads was in production. Linear extensions of the industry spread

49

Table 2

OLEORESIN PRODUCTION STATISTICS. BY COUNTY.
VERSUS ALL OTHER MANUFACTURING. 1880

Type & No. of

Number of

Total

Value of

Comparative Percentages*

County

Establishments

Capital

Employees

Wages

Products

I apital

No. of Emp.

Wages

Appling

Oleoresin 9

(1.1.600

161

28,632

116,200

41

65

63

Other 6

91,500

88

16.750

93,150

59

35

37

Berrien

Oleorsin 6

31.7(H)

137

25.500

100,000

43

88

83

Other 2

41.. MX)

18

5,144

42.000

57

12

17

Bryan

Oleoresin 4

35,000

289

40.500

118.300

100

100

1(H)

Other 0

0

0

()

0

0

0

0

Camden

Oleoresin 1

12.000

30

8,00(1

30.000

5

32

27

Other 5

2l(i.000

58

21,352

318,333

95

68

73

Chatham

Oleoresin 2

4,000

60

14.750

60,000

1

7

4

Other 71

967,850

768

319.538

3.489.418

44

93

96

Clinch

Oleoresin 1

5,400

80

K).(HH)

20.000

6

73

38

Other 2

mm inn

32

16,000

145,900

94

27

62

Dodge

Oleoresin 6

41.0(H)

263

56.400

105,000

64

76

75

Other 6

22,650

86

19.000

114,000

36

24

25

Emanuel

Oleoresin 1

10.000

77

10.000

25.000

28

64

49

Other -1

26.000

48

10.400

85.750

72

36

51

Lowndes

Oleoresin 2

7.5(H)

120

16.000

33.600

17

69

58

Olhei 11

37,300

58

1 1 .645

80,514

83

31

42

Pieree

Oleoresin 8

76,000

287

55,000

146.050

39

90

70

Other 4

118,000

38

2Z500

150.675

61

10

30

Telfair

Oleoresin 5

28.500

107

31.754

80,000

77

41

91

Other 3

8.700

II

3.3(H)

31.844

1\

4

9

Ware

Oleoresin 2

8,500

168

16,000

44,000

10

79

53

Other 4

73.000

46

14.400

141.000

90

21

47

Wayne

Oleoresin 13

81.600

298

70,275

35.430

42

74

63

Other 7

111,000

1(H)

40.500

204.325

58

26

37

Worth

Oleoresin 6

25,000

127

25.400

82.075

57

80

79

Other 6

18,500

27

6,850

88.805

43

20

21

Totals

Oleoresin 66

434.8(H)

2.204

408,216

995,655

33

76

66

Other 1.14

1.812.000

1 .378

507.374

3.366.540

67

24

3

"Chatham County is atypical and is excluded in the computation of the total comparative percentages.
Source: U.S. Census. 1880.

outward along the Macon and Brunswick, the Brunswick and Albany,
and the Atlantic and Gulf railroads (Figure 1-B). As evidence of the im-
portance of rail access, counties without rail service failed to have any
commercial oleoresin production.17

By 1880 lumbermen had discovered that cropped timber was equal
to uncropped timber in suitability for lumber. The two enterprises
lumbering and oleoresin extraction were finally compatible, and a
management policy called "turpentining ahead of the cut" became pre-
valent. 18 This change was the third in a series of seven innnovations which
allowed the industry to survive at crucial times when it might otherwise
have been forced into oblivion by voracious consumption of its basic
resource, timber. The first innovation was the shift from combustion
recovery to oleoresin extraction in the early 1700s. The second was devel-
opment of the copper still, which reduced transport costs and allowed
more extensive exploitation. After "turpentining ahead of the cut," a

50

series of innovations were developed, including the clay pot, the metal
cup, acid applications, and double-headed nails. If compatibility had
not been achieved by the two industries during the late nineteenth century,
oleoresin production would have been unable to compete effectively
with lumbering.19

Census schedules for 1880 refute the most widely accepted inter-
pretation of the origin of Georgia's oleoresin labor force. The concensus
that Georgia's Black laborers were derived from the slave labor force of
the declining North Carolina industry is not supported by the evidence.
Most of the workers were indeed migrants, but forty percent of them came
from states other than North Carolina (Figure 2). The Blacks who mi-
grated from North Carolina were predominantly young men who were
pre-adolescent in 1860. Since production declined dramatically after 1860
and slavery ceased in 1865, it is impossible for North Carolinians to have
worked in the industry as slaves.20 In further contrast to the concensus,
as late as 1880 the number of migrants from North Carolina was equaled
or exceeded by migrants from Virginia where no commerical oleoresin
extraction had occurred since 1620. The conclusion is inescapable.
Georgia's oleoresin work force did not originate in a former slave oleo-
resin work force in North Carolina or anywhere else. The workers un-
doubtedly were young, poorly educated Blacks who viewed oleoresin
work as suitable employment. Despite labor shortages throughout the
South in the Reconstruction period, young Blacks freely chose to enter
the turpentine trade. The industry may have enjoyed advantages over
other employment, especially agriculture, because: (1) special skills were
not required, yet pay was adequate and fringe benefits were good; (2) work
in the pine barrens offered a measure of freedom not found in most other
jobs, and; (3) forest work bore fewer resemblances to plantation agri-
culture which for many former slaves was synonymous with servitude.
Additionally, though work was hard and employers demanding, the
extensive nature of the industry meant that supervision was often poor.
Shelton notes that workers could take advantage of employers by be-
coming indebted to them and running away.21 This is in contrast to agri-
cultural operations where indebtedness often resulted in a lifetime of
peonage for the sharecropper or tenant farmer. Life in the turpentine
camps was viewed by many whites as a picturesque, communal existence
for Blacks. It is unclear whether the Blacks shared this feeling. The camp
offered a simple, secure existence which may have appealed to those who
felt trepidation about the White world around them. The patronage system
offered cradle-to-grave security for workers, and employers acted as
adversaries for their employees in the outside world. Whatever the basis
for their decisions, it is likely that, given their educational status, Blacks
chose the industry for positive rather than negative considerations.
Clearly, without strong positive inducements, employers never could
have attracted the thousands of young workers who entered the industry
from 1870 to 1900.

51

MIGRATION OF LABOR INTO GEORGIA'S

PINE OLEORESIN

INDUSTRY 1870-1880

/ VA ^^

NC A J

sc yH a

r j\/^

i \\v,

/ ^ x\ \ga yf

V" ^ * jp

\ PER CENT OF TOTAL MIGRATION

<2> (

\ 40

Fl \ C39% OF TO ML LABOR FORCE

J W^S INDIGENOUS)

SOURCE U.S. CENSUS SCHEDULES R.D 79

Figure 2.

Ward describes the process of out-of-state labor recruitment around
1880 as follows:22

At the close of each year's work the turpentine men would go

back to the Carolinas and secure negroes by the train loads.

They would unload . . . and haul the negroes and their families

out to the stills and deposit them in cabins prepared for them.

The employers apparently sought Carolinians as laborers because they

had problems in quality control with the Georgia work force.23 This might

lead one to assume that workers attracted to Georgia were familiar with

oleoresin production in the Carolinas before they migrated. The fact is

that after 1860 there was an insufficient number of laborers in North

Carolina and South Carolina combined to account for all the workers

entering the Georgia industry, even if worker mortality and attrition

are ignored (Table 3).

52

Table 3

NUMBER OF OLEORESIN LABORS IN GEORGIA AND
IN THE CAROLINAS, 1860 TO 1919

1850

1860

1870

1880

1890

1900

1909

1919

jeorgia
Zarolinas

202
3078

307

5165

138
1691

2646
6304

9911
3990

19,199
1286

12,787
582

7078
110

Source: United States Censuses.

The question of the origin of Georgia's 19,000 workers in 1900,
therefore, remains open. Undoubtedly, many were brought in from the
Carolinas, but it is impossible for a high percentage of the workers to
have worked in the Carolina industry. Furthermore, if the majority of
Georgia's workers came from the Carolinas as some writers contend,
they could not have been experienced workers as the employers seemed
to think.24 On the other hand, if all the migrant Carolinians were expe-
rienced workers, migrants from those states could not have formed a
high percentage of Georgia's labor force because of the limited extent
of oleoresin production and employment opportunities in the Carolinas
at this time. Either the writers are incorrect concerning the percentage
of Carolinians in the Georgia industry, or the employers were importing
bogus workers. An examination of census schedules in 1900 indicates
that many of the workers were, in fact, native Georgians. Additionally,
leased convict laborers accounted for more than five percent of the total
labor force.25

Expansion of Georgia's oleoresin industry continued as new rail
lines and later tramways extended rail access throughout the pine bar-
rens.26 In 1890 the industry consisted of 228 establishments, 10,000
laborers, and a total capital investment of almost $700,000. Sales exceeded
$4,000,000. At the turn of the century the number of establishments had
increased to 524 with 19,000 wage earners and a capital investment of
$3,800,000. Statewide oleoresin income was over $8,000,000 eight percent
of the state's gross manufacturing product.27 Expansion throughout
Georgia's pine barrens was virtually complete by 1 890 as the rail network
reached every county in the region (Figure 1-C). After 1887, when the
state approved measures allowing rights-of-way for private tramways,
every part of the naval stores region had access to rail transport.28 This
allowed more rapid exploitation of the pine barrens than previously had
been possible. In 1900, 39 counties reported oleoresin operations, and
all of these had railroad connections.

53

As suggested earlier, oleoresin production had a significant impact
upon the State of Georgia from 1870 to well after 1900. The main reason
for this impact lies not in the volume of transactions, but in the location
of the industry. The activity took place in those areas of the state where
other economic possibilities were minimal, and forest enterprises provided
a major impetus to the development of the vast almost untapped region.
Towns and cities benefited from oleoresin processing and distribution,
often in the absence of other manufacturing. The development of Savan-
nah as a prosperous port city depended in part upon its status as the oleo-
resin market of the world; and for many counties in coastal Georgia,
oleoresin sales were the only source of manufacturing income.29

Capital investments from outside the state benefited the region too,
because many investors came into the state and remained as lifelong
residents, and profits were seldom taken from the state by absentee devel-
opers. Turpentine men, as producers were called, often became wealthy
counterparts to the aristocratic planters and frequently engaged in local
developments as financiers or philanthropists. There is little doubt
that regional development of the pine barrens was greatly advanced by
the presence of the industry.

At the turn of the century Georgia's oleoresin industry consumed
over 250,000 acres of new pine lands each year. Along with clear-cut
lands which were not "turpentined before the cut" this rate of exploitation
led to total decimation of the state's majestic virgin stands of longleaf pine.
By 1908 when oleoresin production peaked, landowners had become aware
of the folly in destructive turpentining. Lease prices amounted to as much
as $1,500 per crop per year (compared to as little as $100 per crop a few
years earlier). Other production areas in Florida, Alabama, Mississippi,
Louisiana, and Texas, which were still stocked with virgin timber, drew
the industry from the state until their pines were also depleted. Georgia's
production could not rebound until the 1920s when second-growth timber
reached workable size, and the clear-cut areas of the 1880s became an
unexpected asset which allowed rebirth of the industry in the 1920s.

SUMMARY

Historical records and literature adequately depict the course of the
pine oleoresin industry. The foregoing analysis, based upon these sources,
provides answers to the three questions in the introduction. The first
question concerning the economic and cultural significance of the industry
consists of two parts which are considered separately.

The first part of question one concerns the economic significance of
the industry. The industry was relatively insignificant until 1870, except
at a very local scale, but by 1 880 it had become a major force in the develop-
ment of Coastal Georgia. Capital inputs were small compared to Georgia's
total manufacturing investments but returns were good and profits re-
mained in the region since producers usually migrated and became long-

54

term residents. The industry's location was strategic because it occupied
a poorly developed region with low agricultural potential. Regional
development was facilitated by oleoresin income and oleoresin processing
brought industry to an industry-poor section of the state.

The first question also deals with the cultural significance of turpen-
tining. During expansion in Georgia, the industry rapidly changed from
small-scale operations based upon the plantation system to industrial
concerns with the naval stores camp as the basic production unit. The
camps formed a distinct cultural feature which may have eased former
slaves' transition into free society. The industry appears to have been a
suitable employment opportunity for young Blacks rather than a job of
last resort. Producers did not capitalize upon a residual slave labor force
from the pre-War industry from the Carolinas as depicted by some
authors. Rather, they recruited laborers from outside the industry both
in Georgia and the Carolinas, and when labor demand was highest they
leased Georgia convicts to supplement the labor force. Turpentining
was indeed of cultural significance in the region, but its importance is
limited in that it affected only a small portion of the Black population
of the state and an even smaller portion of the White population. Cultur-
ally, turpentining was most significant during the last three decades of
the nineteenth century when the industry was large and the camp system
prevailed.

The second question concerns the exploitative nature of the industry.
Oleoresin probably contributed little toward the clearing of agricultural
land before 1880. After 1880 operations became compatible with lumber-
ing and were less destructive than in prior years. Where "turpentining
ahead of the cut" was not practiced exploitation continued because
lumber operations were clearing more land that was being utilized for
agriculture. When not coincident with lumbering turpentining damaged
or destroyed millions of acres of Georgia's forest resources. The loss
was not apparent until depletion of the longleaf pine occurred shortly
after 1900. A contemporary factor resulting from this damage was early
regeneration of second growth timber necessary for revitalization of the
industry thirty to fifty years later. There is little doubt that the industry
was exploitative in nature during expansion in Georgia, but there is no
evidence to suggest that forest land damaged by turpentining was utilized
for agriculture in sufficient quantity to offset the loss of the forest resource.

The third question asks which factors most affected location of the
industry within the region. At the regional scale, availibility of labor
in the pine barrens was the overriding factor which allowed the industry
to enter Georgia's forests. At the local scale, however, access to market
remained the most crucial location factor throughout the expansion era.
Prior to the Civil War, water access was vital to the industry. By 1880,
most coastal areas had been cleared of timber and rail lines crossed the
region. From 1880 to 1900 the industry was directed by rail expansion

55

throughout the pine barrens. Wherever virgin longleaf pines and rail
lines coexisted, oleoresin production occurred. Where there were no rail
lines, the trees remained untapped.

The foregoing analysis is illuminating, but it is far from complete.
The oleoresin industry deserves continued research by geographers,
historians, economists, and other scholars and scientists. Like a fallen
empire, a once-great industry in decline offers hope of lessons to be learned
from experience. Expansion of the industry in Georgia may parallel
growth of similar industries in developing economies the world over.
As for academic interest in the industry per se, recent developments such
as the renewed search for alternative hydrocarbon resources caused by
petroleum depletion and price increases may someday reverse historical
trends of decline. The scientific community should be prepared with a
full understanding of pertinent aspects of this and other resource-related
industries. Studies such as this one should contribute to such an under-
standing.

NOTES

1 United States Census, 1880, special report on Forests of North America,
p. 516.

2 Donald Martin, "An Historical and Analytical Approach to the Current Pro-
blems of the American Gum Naval Stores Industry," unpublished Ph.D disserta-
tion (University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill: 1942), p. 83.

3 Oliver H. Prince, comp., A Digest of the Laws of the State of Georgia, Oliver
H. Prince (Athens: 1837), p. 814.

4 Percival Perry, "The Naval Stores Industry in the Ante-Bellum South, 1789-
1861," unpublished Ph.D dissertation (Duke University: 1947), p. iii.

5 Percival Perry, "The Naval Stores Industry in the Old South, 1790 to 1860,"
The Journal of Southern History, Vol. 34 (Nov., 1968) p. 516.

6 United States Census, 1850, passim.

7 Martin, op cit., p. 92.

K Area of land utilized is estimated on the basis of 300 barrels per crop of 10,000
faces occupying 200 acres of land. Since crops were worked three to four years,
about 35 percent of the total acreage had to be newly invaded each year. Census
ligures should be viewed as indicating general levels of production. Reliability
could not always be assured because of the "backwoods" nature of the industry.
y United States Census, 1850, passim.
111 United States Census, 1860, passim.

11 Ibid.

12 Virginius Dabney, Virginia: The New Dominion, Doubleday and Co., Inc.
(New York: 1971), pp. 275-281.

13 Warren P. Ward, Ward's History of Coffee County, The Reprint Company,
Publishers (Spartanburg, S.C.: 1978), p. 313.

56

14 Report of the Secretary of Agriculture, 1892, U.S. Government Printing Office
(Washington, D.C.: 1893), p. 335.

15 United States Census, 1870, passim.

16 United States Census, 1880, op. tit., p. 517.

17 Martin, op. cit., p. 78.

18 Rupert B. Vance, Human Geography of the South, 2nd ed., Russell and Russell
(New York: 1968), p. 121; Report of the Secretary of Agriculture, op. cit. pp
330-331.

19 United States Census, 1880, op cit.. p. 51 7 and Report of the Secretary of Agri-
culture, op. cit., p. 331.

20 Even if all 6,000 slaves in the industry in 1860 had remained active in 1880,3,000
new non-slave workers would have been added to the industry.

21 Jane Twitty, Shelton, Pines and Pioneers, a History of Lowndes County,
Georgia, 1825-1900, Cherokee Publishing Company (Atlanta: 1976), p. 202.
Of course, peonage did occur, Shelton points out that most workers owed their
employer $200 to $300. In order to acquire a new worker, an employer would
usually pay off the worker's debts to the former employer. Economic demands for
a worker's services thereby alleviated some of the restraints of indebtedness.
Recruitment by "outsiders" was considered deplorable and numerous local
ordiances were passed to control "enticement" of workers.

22 Ward, op cit., pp. 312-313.
21 Shelton, op. cit., p. 184.

24 I hid., p. 312.

25 Fourth Annual Report of the Prison Commission of Georgia, J.F. Lester
(Atlanta: 1901), p. 37-38.

26 John L. Hopkins, comp. The Code of 'the State of Georgia, Vol. 1, Foote and
Davies Co. (Atlanta: 191 1), p. 210; Jefferson Dixon, "Georgia Railroad Growth
and Consolidation, 1 880-1917, "Unpublished Master's thesis (Emory University:
1949), p. 49.

27 United States Census, 1890, passim.

28 Hopkins, op. cit., p. 210; Dixon, op. cit., p. 49-50.

29 Martin, op. cit., pp. 86-87.

30 Shelton, op cit., p. 312; Ward, op cit., pp. 311-313.

57

58

THE GEORGIA-FLORIDA LAND BOUNDARY:

PRODUCT OF CONTROVERSY AND

COMPROMISE

By Burke G. Vanderhill and Frank A. Unger

Florida came into American hands well after the establishment of
the United States and General Land Office, and her public lands were
surveyed on the familiar GLO grid. Within a narrow strip of territory
along Florida's land boundary with the state of Georgia, however, there
are survey units which do not conform to the GLO system. Examination
reveals that these tracts are fragments of Georgia land lots overlapping
the Florida line, a fact clearly suggesting a jurisdictional dispute and a
boundary adjustment.1 Despite its significance for landholding and field
patterns and for road alignment, the survey anomaly along Florida's
northern margin the so-called "Georgia Fractions" is not widely
recognized nor understood today.2 The present study sought to explain
the phenomenon through an investigation of the genesis of the Georgia-
Florida land boundary and of the controversies which accompanied its
demarcation.3

The boundary between Georgia and Florida as it stands is drawn
from the 31st parallel of latitude along the channel of the Chattahoochee
River to its junction with the Flint, then in what aproximates a straight
line overland to the head of the St. Marys, whose course it follows to
the Atlantic. It was so fixed initially by the Royal Proclamation of George
III in 1763 when, as a result of British acquisition of Florida after the
French and Indian War, it became necessary to establish the northern
limits of the new province of East Florida in an area long plagued by
conflicting Spanish and British territorial claims. The boundary was
affirmed in 1783 by the Treaty of Peace between Great Britain and the
United States following the Revolutionary War, under which Florida
was returned to Spain, and reaffirmed in 1795 by the Treaty of San
Lorenzo between the United States and Spain.

Although it had formed a portion of an international boundary since
1783, the geometric line from the mouth of the Flint to the head of the
St. Marys had not been surveyed. Worse, the middle and upper reaches
of the St. Marys were only vaguely known and the source of the stream
had not been determined. Such questions were addressed in the 1795
treaty, which authorized the appointment of a commissioner and a sur-
veyor for each of the two concerned parties, the United States and Spain,
and directed them to run and mark the Spanish-American boundary as
delineated. The commissioners were further instructed to ". . . make plats
and keep journals of their proceedings, which shall be considered as a

59

part of this convention, and shall have the same force as if they were
inserted therein."4 The latter proviso was to have special significance when,
at a later date, the alignment of the land boundary between Georgia and
Florida was in question.

Implementing the boundary provisions of the Treaty of San Lorenzo
in 1796, Andrew Ellicott and Captain Esteban Minor were appointed
commissioners on behalf of the United States and Spain, respectively,
to run and mark the Spanish-American boundary from the Mississippi
River eastward to the mouth of the St. Marys. By late 1799 the line had
been marked as far as the junction of the Chattahoochee and the Flint,
but Indian harassment near that point forced the Ellicott-Minor party
to proceed to the lower St. Marys by sea. During January and February
of 1800, at a time of high water, they ascended and mapped the river and
found that the main channel issued from the Okefenokee Swamp at its
southern margin. A survey mound since known as "Ellicott's Mound"
was placed "on the west side of the main outlet as near to the edge of the
swamp as . . . (they) could advance on account of the water."5 The head
of the river was identified as being a point in what was estimated to be
mid-channel, "640 perches" (two miles) N. 45E of the mound.6 After
astronomically determining the latitude and longitude of the mound
and calculating it for the point in the river, the commissioners withdrew
from the St. Marys to prepare their report without running the ground
survey of the Ellicott-Minor line (Figure 1).

31o N 1\ y GEORGIA

"*v y r, Ol

^T Jii'^'t-Mmor une.nn,

' Sou rce"
St Marys
N 45E

miles from

Mound B^'

v5 i

tj

U

^y \ ^r^-rrv. FLORIDA

4| .%

w A&^^ ^\

'$&-G^FZc. h^ Nv.

Jy ^v"

"**- '-a

-Jl \

Georgia-Florida \

Land Boundary Survey vV

1800 %

>y-?^

Figure 1.

60

An approximate landward boundary line could now be drawn based
on a calculated angular bearing using the spherical coordinates of the
two termini; the junction of the Flint and Chattahoochee and the "source"
of the St. Marys. The eastern end of the line was to run approximately 1.4
miles north of and to the point two miles northeast of Ellicott's Mound.
Ellicott stipulated in his record that the eventual surveyed line should be
no less than one mile north of the mound, and if this were not the case,
the line should be resurveyed to correct it.7

The failure of Ellicott and Minor to run the line and the offset
between the survey mound and the inaccessible point designated as the
true head of the St. Marys River left the boundary issue unsettled.

The Georgia-Florida boundary was given little attention by the
United States government as long as Florida remained a Spanish posses-
sion. The fact that it was unmarked became a matter of concern to the state
of Georgia, however, for in 1802 the Creek lands west of the Indian
Boundary were ceded to the state and, subsequently, were opened to
settlement under state auspices. As Georgia's land lot survey proceeded
the need for an established southern boundary became more critical.
In 1816 the Georgia Legislature requested the Governor to urge the federal
government to fix and mark a line from the mouth of the Flint to the
head of the St. Marys.8

At this point came the first challenge to the Ellicott-Minor line.
William Cone, a Georgia legislator with personal knowledge of the St.
Marys, claimed in 1817 that Ellicott was mistaken and that an accurate
survey would indicate that the true source of the river was the head of
its middle prong, about twenty miles south of Ellicott's Mound. The
Georgia Legislature authorized Governor William Rabun to appoint
commissioners to investigate the matter and in 1818 Major Generals
Wiley Thompson and John Floyd and Brigadier General David Black-
shear were named for this purpose. Their party visited the upper St.
Marys during a relatively dry period and could find no direct linkage
between the river and the Okefenokee Swamp. Nevertheless, after ex-
ploring the area, they reported early in 1819 that in their opinion "Mr.
Ellicott and the Spanish deputation were correct in establishing on the
northern branch the point of demarcation between the state of Georgia
and the province of East Florida."9

Meanwhile, the federal government had responded to Georgia's
request for a boundary survey by directing Wilson Lumpkin, then engaged
in boundary work in northern Georgia, to run a provisional line from
the Flint to the St. Marys, but in early 1819, with the accession of Florida
in the offing, Lumpkin's survey was suspended before much had been
accomplished.10 Thereupon, on May 1, 1819, Governor Rabun appointed
Dr. William Greene to establish a "temporary" boundary in order that
district survey parties might extend the land lot surveys to the southern
margins of Georgia."

61

Dr. Greene surveyed his line in a more southeasterly direction from
the western terminus toward the middle prong of the St. Marys. He billed
the state of Georgia for his services in October, 1819, although it is not
clear how far the line was run or how continuous it was.12 His survey
directly influenced the land lot surveys in four of the eight borderline
Georgia Land Districts: the 21st and 22nd Districts of then Early County
and the 14th and 16th Districts of then Irwin County all were carried
south, over the Ellicott-Minor line, to the Greene line; the 23rd District
of Early, the 15th District of Irwin, and the 13th and 1 1th Districts of then
Appling were surveyed to the "Florida line," which followed the angle
of the Ellicott-Minor line13 (Figure 2). The Greene survey was viewed
as highly inaccurate, cutting deeply into the territory of Florida, and
in March, 1820, the new governor, John Clark was advised to appoint a
more skilled surveyor for the task.14

GEORGIA

A R L Y

IRWIN

Georgia Land Lot District Surveys
Florida-Georgia Li ne
1819-1821

F LORIDA

Figure 2.

Under pressure to open the land lottery in south Georgia as soon
as possible. Governor Clark on April 28, 1820, appointed Colonel James
C. Watson to run and mark a more accurate boundary. Watson completed
his assignment very quickly, for final payment for his services was autho-
orized early in June of that year. Unfortunately, Watson's survey maps
and notes have been lost; in fact there is no record that they were ever
filed, and there has been much confusion in regard to the eastern portion
of the Watson line. Governor Clark made it clear, however, that Watson
carried the line further than he was required to with respect to the up-
coming lottery, and that he ran the line from the junction of the Flint
and Chattahoochee a distance of "one hundred and eighteen miles, forty-
six chains and fifty links" to a point a short distance east of the line dividing
the counties (as then constituted) of Irwin and Appling15 (Figure 3). To
have stopped at such a point seems illogical, but when the stated distance

62

is scaled off along Watson's line as identified on later maps it appears
that he terminated his survey on the western rim of a large swamp within
what is now Hamilton County, Florida.

Contemporary questions surrounding the Watson line stem in part
from the fact that in 1821 it was extended by the District Surveyor across
the southern limit of the 13th District of then Appling County, and this
extension subsequently appears on recorded surveys as Watson's line.
Charles F. Smith, in a re-survey of the Watson line in 1874, further ex-
tended if from the southeast corner of the 13th District to the St. Marys,
which it intersected some distance south of Ellicott's Mound (Figure 3).
John A. Henderson, who re-surveyed the land within the boundary zone
in 1879, traced the Watson line east to the boundary between districts
13 and 11 of Appling County, then, ignoring Smith's survey, offset to
the McNeil line of 1825 (discussed below), following that line to the St.
Marys.16 For reasons unknown, the segment of the McNeil line between
the district boundary and Ellicott's Mound so identified by Henderson
now appears labelled on various official Florida maps as the Watson
line, continuing the confusion.

The Watson survey was meant to expedite the land lot surveys of
south Georgia in preparation for the land lotteries. It was authorized
unilaterally by the state of Georgia to resolve what was considered a
pressing problem. Although never officially recognized outside of Georgia,
the Watson line assumed critical significance as land was patented along
it under Georgia laws without reference to possible Florida rights.

While the land lotteries were under way in southwestern Georgia,
settlers were also beginning to enter the new Florida territory, claiming
tracts there described by the method of metes and bounds. An organized

Irwin

A P P L I

N G

COUNTY

5

13th Dist.

llth Dist

-Sj^^hjJjuLL_j85g^

M_cN_ej_ [1825 '

Watsont78?0

~^~^rz

^rzrrr^rr:

E 1 1 1 co tt s

Mound

/~~--~^^ Watson Line
/ ~~ Surveyed by Dist. "
/ Surveyor in 1821
Watson survey
termi nation
118 m iles. 46chs. 50 Iks
east of western
terminus

Smith resurvey 1874 Z.
Watson Line extension //

AY*

It

^-ptvTr

Eastern Area

kh

Georgia-Flor i da

Land Border

N o 1 to scale

Figure 3.
63

survey was needed badly, and in 1823 the base line and principal meridian
for a GLO grid were established, intersecting within what was to become
the city of Tallahassee. Initial settlement was concentrated between the
Apalahicola and Suwanee rivers an area later termed "Middle Flor-
ida" and the extension of township surveys to their northern limits
had high priority.

The U.S. Surveyor General for Florida was authorized in late 1824
to run a boundary line from the mouth of the Flint to Ellicott's Mound
and to survey public lands to that line. In the spirit of the Treaty of San
Lorenzo and of the Spanish-American agreement of 1819, whereby
Florida became part of the United States, it was noted that Ellicott's
Mound ". . . must be taken and considered as one of the fixed points in
the boundary line between Georgia and Florida whether it may actually
be north or south of the true point or not."17 D.F. McNeil was appointed
on February 12, 1825 to conduct the boundary survey, and the line was
run in ensuing months. The McNeil line lay north of the Watson line,
the distance reaching nearly a mile at its maximum. Subsequent Florida
land surveys were closed upon the McNeil line for much of its length,
although two townships (T3N, R3W and T3N, R3E) were extended only
to the Watson line.

Fractional sections made upon the Watson line were to be reserved
from sale until the boundary question was resolved.18 The McNeil line
served Florida as a de facto boundary for many years, however, and lands
platted to that line were alienated with little apparent regard for Georgia
patents already issued.19 Thus, the Georgia-Florida boundary dispute
was not solely a disagreement over alignment but involved the problem
of overlapping land titles.

The McNeil survey was noted with alarm in Georgia and was vig-
orously protested. At the request of Georgia, and in the hope of settling
the issue, a Congressional Act of 1826 authorized the survey and marking
of a dividing line between Georgia and Florida. To the consternation
of Georgia, however, the act stipulated that the line ". . . shall be run
straight from the junction of said rivers Chattahoochie (sic) and Flint
to the point designated as the head of St. Mary's River by the Commis-
sioners appointed under the 3rd article of the Treaty of San Lorenzo."20
Thus, Ellicott's determination was given the force of law.

To implement the Act of 1826, Thomas M. Randolph was appointed
commissioner on behalf of the United States, and Thomas Spalding was
named commissioner for Georgia. Having engaged John W. McBride as
surveyor, the Randolph-Spalding party began its work in March, 1827,
from a point one mile due north of Ellicott's Mound. Despite the apparent
reluctance of Georgians Spalding and McBride, a random line was to be
run to the mouth of the Flint, and a true line was to be marked from that
point back to the St. Marys. In a report to Governor George M. Troup
of Georgia, Spalding had expressed concern for the reaction of settlers

64

to a third boundary survey within seven years and had raised the question
of possible "feuds between Georgia and Florida."21 Unhappy with the
new line, which in places was a full two miles north of the McNeil line,
Governor Troup recalled Spalding when the survey party was about
forty miles from the junction of the Flint and the Chattahoochee and
unilaterally suspended the operation pending the results of a survey he
had ordered McBride to make of the "true head" of the St. Marys.

Although Georgia's surveyors had been withdrawn, the line was
completed to the river junction under Randolph's supervision and the
return line was marked to Ellicott's Mound, judged by Randolph to be
the most logical eastern terminus. The Randolph line was not adopted,
but his reports are noteworthy. He found Ellicott's coordinates at the
river junction to be in error, and that Watson and McNeil had not quite
closed upon Ellicott's western terminus. Further, it was noted that their
terminal marks were visible on trees which were standing in water at the
time of the Randolph survey, revealing the effect of river level upon the
precise point of confluence. Randolph found the "true" junction of the
rivers where they merged at high water to be a mile north of that
marked by Watson and McNeil. He also expressed the opinion that Ellicott
was right in his identification of the Okefenokee as the source of the
St. Marys.22

Meanwhile, McBride had concluded his field examination of the
upper St. Marys and reported that on the basis of stream velocity the
"south branch" (actually the middle branch) was the principal one. This
branch is spring-fed and relatively constant in flow while the north prong
is highly variable. At the time of McBride's visit, the north branch was
nearly dry.23

McBride's report fueled Georgia's argument for a boundary redefini-
tion, and on December 14, 1827, the Georgia General Assembly passed
an act prohibiting the survey of territory between the Ellicott line and
a future "true" line to be run to the proper head of the St. Marys; i.e., Lake
Randolph, the source of the middle branch. The act stipulated that any
land grants from the United States within the territory would be validated
provided that the United States compensate the state of Georgia for such
land within two years of running and marking the dividing line.24

The boundary question was referred to Congress in 1828 and a
vigorous exchange of communications followed in which Georgia's re-
futation of and Florida's support for the Ellicott line were elaborated.
Georgia's position in brief was that Congress had acted in 1826 in the
erroneous belief that the point designated by Ellicott was the source of
the St. Marys and that this error should be corrected. Among the argu-
ments presented was one based upon the wording of the Royal Com-
mission for Governor Sir James Wright, dated January 20, 1764, which
confirmed his jurisdiction down to the "most southern stream" of the
St. Marys. Given the state of geographic knowledge in 1764, this may

65

have referred to a distributary at the mouth of the river, but Georgia chose
to interpret it in terms of the headwaters. Florida contended that it was
strange that Georgia sat idle for 33 years while the border was drawn upon
the Ellicott coordinates. Now that people were interested in the land,
a spurious claim was being advanced and strongly promoted. The Com-
mittee of the Judiciary concluded, however, that Ellicott was correct
in using what had always been considered locally the main course of the
St. Marys and, therefore, his designated point ought to be the terminus
of the boundary.25 No further action was taken at this time.

Dissatisfied with the congressional response, the Georgia Legislature
in 1830 approved a resolution demanding that the boundary be run from
the Flint and Chattahoochee "to the head of the most southern branch
of the St. Marys and that the said line ought to be marked without further
delay."26 By the spring of 1831, Joel Crawford and J. Hamilton Couper
had been appointed commissioners to oversee the new boundary survey
on behalf of Georgia, and E.L. Thomas had been engaged as surveyor.
By mid-August a random line had been run from a point on the southern
shore of Lake Randolph (also called Ocean Pond) to the mouth of the
Flint and a corrected line had been marked back to Lake Randolph (Figure
4). The Crawford-Couper report confirmed that the St. Marys arises
in the Okefenokee but insisted that the north prong is but a tiny stream
dry at low water stages and that the "Ocean Pond drainage is the superior
one." It was termed "negative evidence of some weight" that local residents
in the upper St. Marys area spoke of all of the streams as branches or
prongs of the St. Marys, and it was suggested that Ellicotfs selection of
the north branch "would have tended to confirm to that stream the sole
and exclusive title of the St. Marys River, despite the practice of people
to think of it as the 'north branch'."27

Congress was under pressure from Georgia for a number of years
afterwards to designate the Crawford-Couper line as the boundary be-
tween Georgia and Florida, but the matter did not emerge from committee.
If the claim of Georgia had been sustained, a triangular tract containing
over 1,500,000 acres of land would have been taken from Florida, much
of it occupied.

Florida played a minor role in the boundary controversy until state-
hood was achieved, but shortly thereafter, late in 1845, resolutions were
approved in the legislatures of both Florida and Georgia authorizing
the appointment of commissioners to settle the dispute. John Branch and
William P. Duval were named by Florida, while Crawford and Couper
were appointed on the part of Georgia. The commissioners met in March,
1846, but disagreed on the objective of their mission. The position of
Florida was that the eastern terminus of the boundary was already legally
established and, therefore, was not in question, whereas Georgia insisted
that the true head of the St. Marys had yet to be determined and that
such a determination was a necessary first step.

66

AJ.nS_.to_fjJjcott's Mound

'eor9/a 7854

Georgia-Florida Surveys 1854

Figure 4.

Failing to reach an accord with Florida, Georgia in 1847 asked the
Supreme Court of the United States to review the boundary question
in the light of the Treaty of San Lorenzo, particularly questioning the
validity of Ellicott's designated terminus at the St. Marys. Independently
of Georgia, Florida filed a bill in the Supreme Court early in 1849 asking
that body to "confirm and quiet" the boundary line.28 Several years of
sometimes acrimonious debate between the governors of Florida and
Georgia ensued.29

An Interlocutory Degree was handed down by the Supreme Court
in April, 1854, authorizing the governor of each state to appoint a com-
missioner and a surveyor to determine and mark the Georgia-Florida
boundary. Florida appointed Benjamin F. Whitner as commissioner

67

and his son, Benjamin F. Whitner, Jr., became his surveyor. Alexander
A. Allen was appointed commissioner for Georgia, and James R. Butts
was named surveyor. Apparently, independent of the Florida group,
Allen and Butts had resurveyed the Crawford-Couper line and surveyed
another line which terminated at the junction of Little River and the West
or Middle Branch of the St. Marys.10 The new line lay north of the Craw-
ford-Couper line but south of where the line would be run by the Com-
missioners were it to run to Ellicott's Mound. Butts designated it the
"true line" in what was probably another attempt to settle on a more
southerly source of the St. Marys, thereby splitting the difference in the
disputed area (Figure 4). These actions by Allen and Butts did not alter
Whitner's position and the commissioners agreed to run their line from
"a point two miles N 45 E from Mound B to the junction of the Flint and
Chattahoochee rivers" because they considered themselves instructed
by the court to do so.31 The resulting Butts-Whitner line was an experi-
mental line which, while never adopted, was significant in that it fore-
shadowed a softening of Georgia's demands for a more southerly terminus.

The legislatures of both Georgia and Florida considered the boundary
issue at length during 1857 and 1858, and finally agreed to adopt the
Ellicott-Minor termini in order to set the matter at rest. Gustavus J. Orr
of Georgia and Benjamin F. Whitner, Jr., of Florida were appointed the
following year as surveyors instructed to run a new line from the mouth
of the Flint to Ellicott's Mound. Both states late in 1859 approved acts
which bound them to recognize the line then being run by Orr and Whitner
provided that it did not miss Ellicott's Mound by more than one-fourth
of a mile.32

The two surveyors had intended to run a random line eastward to
the St. Marys and, should it fail to close within the stipulated quarter-mile
of the mound, to lay out a correction line back to the Flint. Their initial
line, actually a series of 33 short lines each deflecting southward of the
preceding one in their progression from west to east, closed within twenty-
five feet north of Ellicott's marker and, therefore, a correction line was
thought unnecessary.33 The final segment of the line from Mound B to
the St. Marys was run "S361/2C,E" 8.64 chains to "the nearest point of the
River" as "the general course of the River ... is nearly west . . . (and) con-
tinuation of the line in the same direction would . . . (have) carried it into
the Okefenokee Swamp"34 (Figure 3). The Orr-Whitner line, between
the western terminus and Ellicott's Mound, not only lay north of the
Watson line but north of the McNeil line as well.

The report of the Orr-Whitner survey was filed in April, 1860, and
the boundary was ratified by Florida at the next sitting of the state legisla-
ture in February, 1861. Over strong protests within his state, Governor
Joseph E. Brown of Georgia recommended recognition of the Orr-Whitner
line shortly after receiving the survey report. In his words, "I regret that
Georgia has lost a strip of territory heretofore claimed by her, and some

68

valuable citizens residing upon it. There is no sufficient reason, however,
why she should repudiate her solemn compact with Florida."35 The
Georgia Assembly was more reluctant to ratify the boundary, but in
1866, following the Civil War, also accepted the Orr-Whitner line. The
agreement was recognized and confirmed by Congress on April 9, 1872,
thus establishing the Georgia-Florida boundary officially and permanently
upon the Orr-Whitner line.

The running of the McNeil line in 1825 had created a chaotic situation
of clouded land titles and overlapping ownership along the Georgia-
Florida border. The ratification of the Orr-Whitner line by Georgia in
1866, bringing into Florida additional land with Georgia land titles,
complicated the picture. Although the Florida Legislature had voted
in 1 859 to confirm Georgia patents, there was much confusion and concern
in the border zone. Records were often inaccurate and incomplete, pro-
cedures for verifying claims had not yet been worked out, and cases of
contested ownership were still surfacing. The collection of property taxes
was a particularly knotty problem, one which led to squabbling between
tax accessors of Georgia and Florida.36

In an effort to reduce tensions arising from the border situation, the
Congressional Act of 1872 which established the Orr-Whitner line as the
boundary also quieted land titles within the boundary zone; i.e., titles
to lands between the Orr-Whitner and Watson lines deriving from the
state of Georgia were confirmed by the United States. Until land records
were put in order, however, such confirmation of titles was by itself rela-
tively ineffectual. The validation of Georgia claims remained a difficult
task, as was the nullification of redundant Florida grants.

With the addition of land along its northern border, Florida felt the
need to have the Watson McNeil, and Orr-Whitner lines marked more
accurately, particularly in view of their importance to land description in
the border zone. A reworking of the Watson line was authorized in 1873
with the purpose of closing section and range lines upon it and also upon
the McNeil line wherever this had not been done. Range lines were to be
extended to the Orr-Whitner line, but the actual subdivision of the land up
to the Georgia boundary would have to await adjudication of the land
claims based upon Georgia patents.37 Surveyor Charles F. Smith in 1874
retraced and marked the Watson and McNeil lines, projecting the former
to the St. Marys River as discussed earlier, and closed the Florida surveys
upon them as well as upon the Orr-Whitner line.38

The problem of the organization of the space beween the Watson and
Orr-Whitner lines, a space for the most part long occuppied, was a trouble-
some one. Georgia's land lot survey system was incompatible with the GLO
system of Florida, yet because the land was settled the Georgia grid could
not be vacated as is sometimes done in the case of residential plats. It was
suggested that the Georgia patents be handled as private claims as had
the Spanish and British land grants in Florida during territorial days, any

69

remaining public lands to be surveyed on the GLO grid.39 The decision
was made, however, to re-run the Georgia lot lines and fractional parts
thereof now lying within the state of Florida, and to transfer into Florida
records the land units so described. Further, the existing GLO survey
to the McNeil line was deemed to be of no value since confirmed Georgia
grants extended south to the Watson line.40 The fragments of Georgia
land lots within this narrow strip of northern Florida became known
as the "Georgia Fractions."

The details of land ownership within the Georgia Fractions were
difficult to establish, although a list of grants of land made by Georgia,
with names of grantees, residence and dates, diagrams of landholdings,
and other survey information, was conveyed to Florida authorities by
the GLO in late 1876.41 A special survey of the land between the Watson
and Orr-Whitner lines was authorized in 1 877 for the purpose of clarifying
the tenure situation, resulting in the 1879 Henderson survey. While the
Georgia claims were given major attention, in 1883 a question related
to swamp and overflowed lands arose. Title to such lands, poorly defined
at best, had been transferred to Florida by the United States under the
Swamp Land Act of 1850, and it became evident that several tracts fell
within land districts surveyed by Georgia in the 1820s, now south of the
Orr-Whitner line.42

Most land claims and jurisdictional questions were settled during
the 1880s, culminating in the case of Coffee vs Groover, one of overlapping
ownership, adjudicated by the U.S. Supreme Court in 1887. Clouded
titles and faulty records, however, continued to plague the border zone
for many years.

The land boundary between Georgia and Florida is the product of
some seventy years of controversy, a compromise solution to a long and
often bitter dispute. Andrew Ellicott undoubtedly would have been
amazed and chagrined if he could have witnessed the results of his failure
to complete his boundary survey. The uncertainties of jurisdiction along
the disputed border were vexing to officials and administrators at all
levels, but were especially disturbing to those who took up land in good
faith within the areas affected. Boundaries determine the legal codes
and tax systems under which people live, and they determine the source
of land titles. Security of patent was threatened each time a surveying
party passed through. Now, with the controversy far behind us, the
Georgia Fractions are a reminder of this unsettled era.

70

NOTES

I The Georgia land lot survey was unique in format, but lot sizes were not stan-
dardized throughout the system. Several scales were used. In southwestern
Georgia, bordering the western third of the boundary zone, land lots were 250 acres
in area. The remainder of the Georgia-Florida land boundary lay within the grid
of south-central Georgia which utilized 490-acre lots. See Sam B. Hilliard, "An
Introduction to Land Survey Systems in the Southeast," Georgraphical Perspec-
tives on Southern Development, Vol. 12 of West Georgia College Studies in the
Social Sciences, edited by John C. Upchurch and David C. Weaver (Carrollton,
Georgia, 1973), pp. 3-5.

: The first documented use of the term "Georgia Fractions" discovered was in
1880, although it seems likely that it was already a familiar term. LeRoy B. Ball.
U.S. Surveyor General, Tallahassee, Florida, to J. A. Williamson, Commissioner,
General Land Office, Washington City, Sept. 27, 1880. Archives of Bureau of
State Lands, State of Florida. Tallahassee.

3 There are brief and not entirely accurate references to the boundary dispute
in standard histories of the two states. A slightly longer treatment is given in:
Amanda Johnson, Georgia as Colony and State (Atlanta. 1938). pp. 381-384.
Even this lucid coverage omits important steps in the development of the boundary
as do two published reports dealing specifically with the dispute: S.G. McLendon.
History of Georgia- Florida Boundary Line (Atlanta, 1923), pp. 5-18; and Fred
Cubberly. "Florida Against Georgia: A story of the Boundary Dispute," Florida
Historical Quarterly, Vol. 3, Part 2 (October 1924), pp. 20-28. The sequence
of events was drawn chiefly from archival materials such as survey plats and public
documents, many of the latter comprising reports, resolutions, and correspondence
relating to the boundary surveys and the issues surrounding them.

4 Article III of the Treaty of Friendship, Limits, and Navigation, signed at San
Lorenzo el Real, October 27, 1795. Hunter Miller (ed.). Treaties and Other Inter-
national Acts of the United States of America, Vol. 2 (Washington, 1931), pp.
320-321.

5 Andrew Ellicott, The Journal of Andrew Ellicott (Philadelphia, 1803; facsimile
edition, Chicago, 1962), p. 279. Ellicott's Mound is often referred to as "Mound B."
for it was the second of two observatory mounds established by the Ellicott-Minor
party on the St. Marys. "Mound A" having been erected on the inner edge of the
great southern bend of the river.

6 A later survey (J. R. Butts. 1854) and map of Georgia (J. R. Butts, 1859) indicated
that the point identified as being in "mid-channel" was actually located on a
"pine island" in the swamp.

7 Ellicott. Appendix, p. 140.

* Resolution No. 163 of the Senate and House of Representatives of the State of

Georgia, 19th December, 1816. Georgia Statues 1810-1819, p. 1168.

4 Generals Thompson, Floyd, and Blackshear to Governor Rabun, February 20,

1819. Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

111 John C. Calhoun, Secretary of War, to Governor Rabun, March 12, 1819.

Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

II Governor Rabun to the Georgia Senate, November 3, 1819. McLendon, p. 12.

71

12 William Greene to Governor Rabun, October 4, 1819. Archives, State of
Georgia, Atlanta.

13 See William Phillips, Map of the Boundary Line of Georgia and Florida
(Atlanta, 1923, Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta. The Green line is identified
as the "Old Florida Boundary inaccurately run." It is likely that he did not run his
line eastward of the 16th District of Irwin.

14 Daniel Sturges, Surveyor General of Georgia, to Governor Clark, March 6,
1820. Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

15 Governor Clark to the Georgia Legislature, November 7, 1820. McLendon,
pp. 14-15.

16 Field notes of John A. Henderson, Surveyor, accepted December, 1879. Field
Notes, Vol. 234, Bureau of State Lands, State of Florida (Tallahassee, n.d.) pp.
253-254.

17 George Graham, Commissioner, General Land Office to Robert Butler, U.S.
Surveyor-General for Florida, December 20, 1824. Archives of Bureau of State
Lands, State of Florida, Tallahassee.

18 Robert Butler, U.S. Surveyor General for Florida, to George Graham, Com-
missioner, General Land Office, February 12, 1825. Archives of Bureau of State
Lands, State of Florida, Tallahassee.

19 Not only were lands sold in violation of policy but records were unclear from
the beginning. George Graham, Commissioner, General Land Office to Richard
K. Call, Receiver, Tallahassee, Florida, April 14, 1826. Clarence C. Carter (ed.),
The Territorial Papers of the United States, 26 vols. (Washington, 1934-1962),
Vol. XXIII: The Territory of Florida, 1824-1828, pp. 519-520.

20 20th Congress, 2nd Session, House Doc. No. 140. March 3, 1829, p. 43.

21 Ibid., p. 26.

22 Ibid., p. 33.

23 John McBride to George M. Troup, Governor of Georgia, May 30, 1827.
Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

24 House Doc. No. 140, p. 41.

25 A report of the Committee of the Judiciary of the House of Representatives,
March 21, 1828, House Doc. No. 140. p. 74.

26 21st Congress, 2nd Session, Senate Doc. No. 28, January 11, 1831, p. 3.

27 The report of Crawford and Couper appears verbatim in the Annual Message
of the Governor of the State of Georgia to the General Assembly in the year 1 83 1 .
23rd Congress, 1st Session, House Doc. No. 152. March 6, 1834, pp. 1-11.

28 Thomas R.R. Cobb, A Digest of the Statute Laws of the State of Georgia in
Force Prior to the Session of the General Assembly of 1851, (Athens, Georgia:
1851), p. 152.

29 After a particularly bitter interchange, the Florida Governor expressed his
regrets "that an amicable settlement seems to be impossible." Thomas Brown,
Governor of Florida, to George W. Towns, Governor of Georgia, June 1, 1850.
Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

1(1 J.R. Butts, Map of the State of Georgia, 1859.

31 James E. Broome, Governor of Florida, to Hershel V. Johnson, Governor

of Georgia, September 28, 1854. Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

72

32 Governor's Message. Journal of the Senate of the State of Georgia, 1860. p. 27.

33 Gustavus J. Orr and Benjamin T. Whitner, Jr., to Joseph E. Brown, Governor
of Georgia, November 28, 1859. Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta. The line
being run to Ellicott's Mound rather than the 1.4 miles north of the mound as
established by the original surveyors resulted in Georgia acquiring over 70,000
additional acres of land from Florida.

34 Field Note Book 254A, G.J. Orr and B.F. Whitner Survey of Georgia-Florida
Boundary Line, 1859. On file in Florida Department of Natural Resources, Land
Records Division, Tallahassee.

35 Governor's Message. Journal of the Senate of the State of Georgia, 1860, p. 27.

36 Charles J. Jenkins, Governor of Georgia, to David Walker, Governor of
Florida, April 23, 1866. Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

37 W.W. Curtis, Acting Commissioner, General Land Office, to J.W. Gilbert.
U.S. Surveyor General for Florida, Nov. 26, 1873. Archives of Bureau of State
Lands, State of Florida, Tallahassee.

38 U.J. Baxter, Acting Commissioner, General Land Office, to James M. Smith,
Governor of Georgia. June 3. 1876. Archives, State of Georgia, Atlanta.

39 LeRoy D. Ball, U.S. Surveyor General for Florida, to S.S. Burdett, Commis-
sioner, General Land Office. June 15, 1875. Archives of Bureau of State Lands.
State of Florida, Tallahassee.

40 LeRoy D. Ball, U.S. Surveyor General of Florida, to J. A. Williamson, Com-
missioner, General Land Office, May 9. 1877. Archives of Bureau of State Lands,
State of Florida, Tallahassee.

4i J. A. Williamson, Commissioner, General Land Office, to LeRoy D. Ball, U.S.
Surveyor General for Florida, October 19, 1876. Archives of Bureau of State
Lands, State of Florida, Tallahassee.

42 M. Martin. U.S. Surveyor General for Florida, to N.C. McFarland, Com-
missioner, General Land Office, June 5, 1883. Archives of Bureau of State Lands,
State of Florida, Tallahassee.

73

74

THE DECLINE OF SMOKEHOUSES IN
GRAINGER COUNTY, TENNESSEE

By John B. Rehder, John Morgan, and Joy L. Medford

The traditional way of life is changing in rural upper East Tennessee,
an area recognized as a living museum of folk culture and architecture
in the Upland South. The area's economy has shifted recently from semi-
subsistence agriculture to a mixed economy in which manufacturing and
part-time farming are major components.1 The transition to a more in-
dustrial economy has had a profound impact on the rural landscape of
the region.2 Many of the structures traditionally found on the farms of
the area have been abandoned, destroyed or subjected to functional con-
version. For example, smokehouses, small but important outbuildings
in upper East Tennessee since the initial settlement of the area, are vanish-
ing from the landscape, and many of the extant structures are relicts.
This paper examines the character of smokehouses in Grainger County,
Tennessee, and offers reasons for their decline.

The need for the study of outbuildings has been stressed by several
students of the cultural landscape.3 Peter O. Wacker, for example, stated
that ". . . outbuildings are important components of any cultural land-
scape and, unfortunately, have all too often been slighted by scholars."4
Although smokehouses have been examined in several areas of the United
States, detailed field studies have not been undertaken previously in
upper East Tennessee.5 Because many of the smokehouses of the area
are relicts disappearing from the landscape, the opportunity to make
a comprehensive study of them is rapidly passing. The value of studying
relict features has been emphasized by H.C. Prince:6

Relict features, however defined, may be studied for the con-
tribution they make to the present landscape; as such, they
are the concern of all geographers ... In the study of the geog-
raphy of the present time relict features have a special signifi-
cance because they indicate the nature, extent and rate of changes
currently taking place.

Grainger County was chosen as the area of this study because data
on smokehouses had been gathered as part of an historic building survey
conducted in the county for the Tennessee Historical Commission. All
passable roads of the county were travelled. Characteristics of each log
smokehouse and many frame smokehouses were recorded. Interviews
with numerous residents of the county produced valuable information
on the role and status of smokehouses in the county.

Grainger County is a rural county located in upper East Tennessee
in the Ridge and Valley physiographic province (Figure 1). The county
is characterized by a strongly rolling to steeply sloping surface. Relief

75

GRAINGER COUNTY, TENNESSEE
/

KENTUCKY .<*-~" VIRGINIA

,-c'.C '~

' BRISTOL

)
(

/'

/

morristown /

/

,y^'\ J NORTH

KNOXVILLE J ~

(" CAROLINA

Figure 1. Location of Grainger County, Tennessee.

is dominated by Clinch Mountain, which rises to an elevation of 2,500
feet. Tributaries of the Clinch and Holston rivers form the drainage net-
work of the county.

Grainger County was officially established on April 22, 1796, but
the first white settlement of the area began about 1785, along the valley
south of Clinch Mountain. Most of the early settlers came from the bor-
dering counties and states to the north and east primarily from Virginia
and North Carolina.7

Agriculture maintained a predominant position in the economy of
rural upper East Tennessee until the middle of the twentieth century,
but has declined greatly since World War II.8 At present, the agriculture
of the area is characterized by small farms, part-time farming, and the
importance of tobacco, dairying, and livestock farming.9

In 1938 Robert M. Glendinning and E.N. Torbert characterized
Grainger County as an agricultural area in which the great majority of
the population was tied directly to the land.10 They viewed the county as
a "poor" one with ". . . too many farm families in relation to the ability
of the land to support them."" Whereas the population of Grainger
County is slightly more than in 1940, the percentage of families tied directly
to the land has diminished greatly. For example, the percentage of the
labor force employed in agriculture decreased from 77.5 percent in 1940
to about 14 percent in 1970. I2 Also, the percentage of part-time farmers
in the county increased from 16 percent in 1944 to 51 percent in 1969. I3
During the five-year period 1964 to 1969, the percentage of part-time
farmers jumped from 33 to 5l.14

76

Nearly all of the smokehouses of Grainger County correspond to
the type of outbuilding identified by Glassie throughout Appalachia:15

It has a rectangular floor plan, consistent with German and
Scotch-Irish traditions, a regular double pitch roof, and a door
in one gable end. . . Although not always present, its most dis-
tinguishing feature is a projecting roof, constructed on the
cantilever principle typical of Pennsylvania German con-
struction.

The great majority of the smokehouses of Grainger County are frame
structures, but 26 log smokehouses were located (Figures 2 and 3). The
log smokehouses average about 12 x 14 feet, whereas most of the frame
structures are slightly smaller. The smallest of the log smokehouses
measures 7'10" and 10'3", and the largest log structure is square with
dimensions of 16'9". Nine of the log smokehouses are square. Height to
the eaves of the log structures averages about 8 feet with a range of 6 to 12
feet. The smallest frame smokehouse is 8 x 8 feet and the largest is 1 5 x 18
feet.

The log smokehouses of Grainger County were carefully crafted
from timbers five to 16 inches wide. Nineteen smokehouses (73%) are
joined by half-dovetail corner notches, six (23%) are constructed with
"V" notches, and one building is square notched.16 Most of the structures
are constructed of yellow poplar timbers, though pine, oak, and chestnut
are found in several of the outbuildings. Timbers in all but one of the
smokehouses are hand-hewn. Most of the frame smokehouses are sided
with vertical boards, but some structures are weatherboarded.

Most of the smokehouses have metal roofs, but the original roofs of
nearly all of the log smokehouses and many of the frame structures were
made of wooden boards or shingles. Twenty-four (92%) of the log smoke-
houses have cantilevers and the others may have had them in the past.
The cantilevered roof projections of the log smokehouses range from one
to five feet with the average cantilever length being nearly three feet.
The cantilevers of the frame smokehouses are shorter than those of the
log smokehouses and some of the frame smokehouses do not have canti-
levers. On a few of the smokehouses, poles extend between the cantilevers;
hogs were hung from the poles to be "gutted." Most smokehouses rest
partially or entirely on low corner stones, but a few of the log structures
are supported solely by log sills (usually oak) on the ground. Sometimes
the corner stones were placed under the lower side of the structure and
thus serve as a means of levelling it.

Each smokehouse has a front door in the cantilevered gable end.
The front door is the only fenestration present in the log smokehouses,
but some of the frame smokehouses have side or rear windows. Fifteen
(58%) of the log smokehouses have earthen floors and the other eleven
(42%) have plank floors. Almost all of the frame smokehouses have plank
floors.

77

Figure 2. Cantilevered log smokehouse with "V" corner notches.

Figure 3. Frame smokehouse with vertical sidi

ng.

78

The smokehouses in the Upland South functioned not only as a
facility for smoking slaughtered pork but also as a structure in which
meat was salt or sugar-cured and subsequently stored prior to its con-
sumption.17 The most common method of processing pork in Grainger
County was salt-curing, and in several areas of the county, hickory-
smoking was very popular. Sugar-curing, common in some areas of the
South, was seldom practiced in Grainger County. Hogs were usually killed
between November 15 and January 1 each year. The fresh meat was usually
salt-cured for six to eight weeks, depending upon the size of the hog. Salt-
curing was carried out on a bench or in a salt box. where the meat was
completely covered with a salt preparation. Smokehouses had one to
three benches along the interior walls of the structure. The benches were
usually two to three feet wide and three-and-a-half to four-and-a-half
feet high. Meat benches in the log smokehouses often were made from wide
yellow poplar boards, wedged between the logs of the walls for support.
Most salt boxes were made of sawn boards, but early log smokehouses
often contained "troughs" made from large hollowed-out poplar logs.
Two of the log smokehouses contain such troughs. The salt boxes usually
measure about two-and-a-half feet wide, three to five feet long, and
two-and-a-half feet deep. Covered salt boxes protected the curing meat
from rodents and insects.

After the meat was cured, it was hung up on poles which usually ran
perpendicular to the length of the smokehouse at a height of about
five-and-a-half to six-and-a-half feet above the floor of the structure.
Three of the log smokehouses have two tiers of poles, whereas all the others
have one tier of poles. After the meat was salt-cured, it could be smoked
if desired. Smoking was accomplished by slowly burning hickory chips
or sticks, and even corncobs, under the hanging meat for about one week.

Swine production had become an important activity in East Tennes-
see by the late 1700s and hogs remained the primary source of meat for
the rural people of the area until recently.18 Smokehouses probably have
been common landscape features for as long as swine production has
been significant in the area.

Although it is not possible to precisely determine the past number
and distribution of smokehouses in Grainger County, elderly informants
indicate that nearly all the farms in the county had smokehouses at the
beginning of this century. Most of the smokehouses in existence at the
turn of the century were log structures, but the great majority of those
built during this century have been frame structures.19 Retired farmer
W.G. Hipsher stated that as late as 1910, nearly all the smokehouses in
the Thorn Hill community were log structures. He did not recall, however,
a log smokehouse built since that time.20 Although construction dates
for most log smokehouses were estimated, one of the structures was
traced to at least 1840. The most recently-constructed extant log structure
was built in 1918. The number of log smokehouses probably began to

79

diminish shortly after the turn of this century, but many log structures
remained on the landscape during the 1950s.

Frame smokehouses could be found adjacent to a great majority of
the dwellings of the county as late as 1960, but few smokehouses have
been built since that time. Many smokehouses disappeared during the
last two decades and at present perhaps no more than 40 percent of the
open-country homesteads have smokehouses. Today, only a small number
of these structures are used as smokehouses.

The decline in the total number of smokehouses and in the number
of functioning units is related to a decrease in the percentage of families
home-curing pork. Interviews with numerous residents of the county
indicate that only a small percentage of families now kill hogs and cure
pork, whereas the great majority of families perserved pork in a smoke-
house twenty years ago. Buddy Brantley, operator of a custom hog-
slaughtering business in Grainger County for 23 years, offered the follow-
ing observation on the decline in home-curing of pork:21

When I started killing hogs for people back in the fifties, 95
percent of the families cured their own pork in smokehouses.
Now I don't think ten percent of the families cure their own pork.

Evidence of the magnitude of the decline in the number of hogs killed
is found in hog production figures for Grainger County. From 1925 to
1959, the number of hogs raised in Grainger County did not vary greatly.
From 1959 to 1964, however, the number of swine raised in the county
declined by 54 percent, from 5,703 to 2,626. During the same period, the
number of farms raising hogs declined by 42 percent. From 1959 to 1974,
the number of farms raising hogs declined by 74 percent, from 1,137 to
295. 22

Numerous reasons can be cited for the decline in the number of
families killing hogs and home-curing pork, but perhaps the most impor-
tant factor was the increase in the percentage of the labor force holding
non-farm jobs. The purchasing power resulting from non-farm employ-
ment allowed families to choose not to cure pork at home.23 Many non-
farm workers state that their jobs do not allow enough time for raising
and killing hogs and curing pork. Others claim they can purchase pork
cheaper in grocery stores, especially if they do not raise corn for feed.
Some rural non-farm residents claim they do not have the facilities or
know-how to cure pork at home. Others, especially younger persons,
indicate a preference for meat that has not been salt-cured. Many elderly
persons are unable to raise and slaughter hogs, and finding neighbors
or relatives to help with the hog killing is difficult. In addition, some
residents have been advised by their physicians to refrain from eating
pork.

Another factor related to the decline in home-curing of pork was
a shift to the preservation of beef, and to a lesser degree, pork, in home

80

freezers. Twenty years ago, little beef was preserved by Grainger countians
because few families had freezers. By the middle, and especially the late,
1960s, however, many families had purchased freezers. The increase in
the amount of beef slaughtered has been of such a magnitude that, at
present, the amount of beef preserved in freezers may be greater than the
volume of home-cured pork.24 A relatively small amount of slaughtered
pork is preserved in home freezers in lieu of salt-curing.25 Many families,
however, freeze only certain pork items, but continue to salt-cure most
parts of the hog.

Some smokehouses have been converted into storage facilities, but
in many cases they have been abandoned or destroyed. Log smokehouses
have not been as adaptable to functional conversions as frame smoke-
houses. Smokehouses covered with vertical boards have not been con-
verted to substitute functions as often as weatherboarded structures,
which are usually sturdier.

Although there is a recent trend to preserve and restore log dwellings
in Grainger County, efforts seldom have been made to repair deteriorating
log smokehouses.26 They have frequently been destroyed rather than
repaired. Last year, for example, an elderly couple dismantled their log
smokehouse and burned it as firewood.

The recently-concluded survey in Grainger County revealed that
smokehouses and other outbuildings, especially log structures, are
rapidly disappearing from the landscape of upper East Tennessee.27 We
believe detailed studies are urgently needed throughout the Upland South
to record the character of outbuildings and to determine to what extent
and why they are vanishing. We plan to examine outbuildings as part
of a large study in several other East Tennessee counties in the near future.

NOTES

1 Billy J. Trevena and Lynn J. Garrett, "Industrialization and Part-Time Farming
in Upper East Tennessee," Tennessee Farm and Home Science, Progress Report
100 (October, November, December, 1976), pp. 19-21; and Edward Theodore
Freels, Jr., "A Geographic Study of a Cross Section of the Great Valley of East
Tennessee," unpublished Ph.D. dissertation. University of Tennessee, 1970,
pp. 111-157. Numerous scholars have examined tradition and change in Appa-
lachia in Thomas R. Ford (editor), The Southern Appalachian Region (Lexington:
University of Kentucky Press, 1967); and Bruce Ergood and Bruce E. Kuhre
(editors), Appalachia: Social Context Past and Present (Dubuque, Iowa: Kendall-
Hunt Publishing Company, 1976).

2 Freels, Jr., "A Geographic Study of a Cross Section of the Great Valley," p. 111.

3 See, for example, Fred B. Kniffen, "Neglected Chapters of Pioneer Life,"
Pioneer America Society Newsletter 2 (July, 1969), pp. 1-4.

4 Peter O. Wacker, "Cultural and Commercial Regional Associations of Tradi-
tional Smokehouses in New Jersey," Pioneer America, Vol. 3, (July, 1971), p. 25.

5 Ibid., pp. 25-34; Amos Long, Jr., The Pennsylvania German Family Farm
(Breinigsville, Pennsylvania: The Pennsylvania German Society, 1972), pp.

81

179-196, and "Smokehouses in the Lebanon Valley," Pennsylvania Folklife,
Vol. 13 (Fall, 1962), pp. 26-30; Terry G. Jordan, Texas Log Buildings (Austin:
University of Texas Press, 1978), pp. 177-179, and "Log Construction in the
East Cross Timbers of Texas," Proceedings, Pioneer America Society, Vol. 2
(1973), pp. 1 19-122; and Henry Glassie, "The Smaller Outbuildings of the Southern
Mountains," Mountain Life and Work, Vol. 40 (1964), pp. 21-25.

6 H.C. Prince, "Historical Geography," Section Report VI, in J. Wreford Watson,
editor, 20th International Geographic Congress Proceedings, 1967, pp. 165-167.

7 W.E. Holt (editor), Grainger County, 1796-1976 (Rutledge, Tennessee:
Grainger County Bicentennial Committee, 1976) pp. 4-8; and Goodspeed's History
of Tennessee (Nashville: Goodspeed Publishing Co., 1887), pp. 853-856.

8 Freels, Jr., "A Geographic Study of a Cross Section of the Great Valley," p. 1 1 1.
y Ibid, p. 113.

10 Robert M. Glendinning and E.N. Torbert, "Agricultural Problems in Grainger
County, Tennessee," Economic Geography, Vol. 14(1938), pp. 159-166.

11 Ibid., p. 166.

12 United States Bureau of Census, County and City Data Book, 1949 (Washing-
ton, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office, 1952); and University of
Tennessee Center for Business and Economic Research, Tennessee Statistical
Abstract 1977 (Knoxville, 1977).

13 Trevena and Garrett, "Industrialization and Part-Time Farming," p. 20.

14 Ibid.

15 Glassie, "The Smaller Outbuildings of the Southern Mountains," p. 23.

16 For a discussion of notching techniques, see Fred Kniffen, "On Corner-
Timbering," Pioneer America, Vol. 1 (1969), pp. 1-8; and Fred Kniffen and Henry
Glassie, "Building in Wood in the Eastern United States: A Time-Place Per-
spective," Geographical Review, Vol. 56 (1966), pp. 48-57. In the same article,
pp. 58-65, Kniffen and Glassie discuss the distribution and development of corner-
timbering in the Eastern United States.

17 Hog slaughtering in the Southern mountains is discussed and illustrated in
Eliot Wigginton (editor), The Foxfire Book (Garden City, New York: Anchor
Press-Doubleday, 1972), pp. 189-198.

18 William Flinn Rogers, "Life in East Tennessee Near the End of the Eighteenth
Century," East Tennessee Historical Society Publications, No. 1 (1929), p. 35.
For a study of pork production in the South before the Civil War, see Sam B.
Hilliard, "Pork in the Ante-Bellum South: The Geography of Self-Sufficiency,"
Annals, Association of American Geographers, Vol. 59 (1969), pp. 461-480.

19 The tradition of log construction in the Upland South has been recognized by
several students of the cultural landscape. See, for example, Fred Kniffen, "Folk
Housing: Key to Diffusion," Annals, Association of American Geographers,
Vol. 55 (1965), pp. 549-577; and Henry Glassie, "The Appalachian Log Cabin,"
Mountain Life and Work, Vol. 39 (1963), pp. 5-15, and "The Old Barns of
Appalachia," Mountain Life and Work, Vol. 40 (1965), pp. 21-30.

20 Interview with W.G. Hipsher, retired farmer, Rutledge, Tennessee, December
20, 1978.

82

21 Interview with Buddy Brantley, operator of B & B Packing Company, Helton-
ville, Tennessee, December 29, 1978.

22 United States Bureau of the Census, United States Census of Agriculture
(Washington, D.C.: United States Government Printing Office), 1925-1974.

23 Median family income in Grainger County rose from 2,500 dollars in 1960
to 5, 100 dollars in 1970. Frank O. Leuthold, "Commuting Patterns of the Tennes-
see Population," Tennessee Farm and Home Science, Progress Report 92 (Octo-
ber, November, December, 1974), pp. 8-9.

24 For a discussion of how beef has replaced pork as the preferred American meat,
see Marvin Harris and Eric B. Ross, "How Beef Became King," Psychology Today,
Vol. 12, No. 5 (October, 1978), pp. 88-94.

25 Brantley, interview, states that at least 95 percent of his customers who kill
hogs continue to salt-cure most of their pork.

2u An exception is the recent restoration of one of the log smokehouses in Grainger

County.

27 Log outbuildings have vanished from the landscape in Grainger County at a

greater rate than log dwellings. For example, we located more than 200 log

dwellings, but only 26 log smokehouses.

83

84

PROLEGOMENON TO FUTURE RESEARCH
ON BLACK AGRICULTURE IN THE SOUTH

By J. Brady Foust and Ingolf Vogeler

This prolegomenous essay suggests critical concerns about describing
and explaining black farmland ownership trends in the southern United
States. These questions provide the intellectual exercises necessary for
a comprehensive understanding of black agriculture which is needed for
meaningful public policies.

The decline of black agriculture was treated in a rather obscure fash-
ion until the Civil Rights movement and the rise of black awareness in the
1 960s. Recent studies on the topic have pointed to the substantial decrease
in black owned and operated farms. The trends indicate massive and rapid
decline throughout the South in the last fifty years.1 The demise of black
farm families is especially noteworthy today because most southern states
have fewer than 3,000 such operators left. If current trends continue, black
farm operators will vanish by the 1980s.2 This decline is shown for the
South for three land tenure classes for the periods 1954-64 and 1964-74
in Table 1.

PROBLEMS OF DESCRIPTION

Although the study of black farming is justified by its distinctive
human-environmental relationships and regional concentrations, the
topic must also be placed in a larger frame of reference to provide a truly
comprehensive description. Several major questions must be considered.

First, the decline of black farm operators needs to be compared to
white farm operators. Are black farmers declining at a faster rate relative
to white farmers in the South? White farm decline is given in Table 2 and
should be compared with Table 1. Black land tenure of all types declined
more rapidly than whites, but both groups decreased from 1954 to 1974.
How much of the decline in black farming is the result of the demise of
agriculture in general, and how much can be attributed to conditions that
affect only black farmers?

Second, farm size is critical in describing agricultural decline.
Throughout the United States, larger farms are increasing in number
relative to all other farms.3 Table 3 illustrates the average size of white
and black farm operations for three different census years. Although the
average size of black farms in the South almost doubled between 1964
and 1974, the average black farm remained under lOOacres and well below
the average size of white farms in 1954. In what specific size categories
are black and white farm operators in the South? Which size by race are
declining rapidly? Which sizes by race are increasing or remaining stable?
These questions are impossible to answer given the nature of the published

85

Table 1
BLACK LAND TENURE IN SOUTHERN STATES

Change: 1954-1964

Change:

1964-1974

Tenure Class

Tenure Class

Full-

Part-

Full-

Part-

State

Owners

Owners

Tenants

Owners

Owners

Tenants

VA

-60.%%

-31.28%

45.30%

49.21%

-59.64%

-89.62%

NC

45.33%

-33.53%

-61.83%

-82.79%

-68.89%

-91.97%

SC

-49.71%

49.00%

-73.82%

-59.86%

-69.58%

-93.79%

GA

-50.87%

41.88%

-81.54%

-58.58%

-60.27%

-92.13%

AL

42.40%

-37.52%

-63.79%

-63.64%

-79.95%

-94.21%

FL

-51.04%

-34.06%

-67.62%

-65.35%

-97.62%

-75.97%

MS

-31.65%

-34.48%

-74.63%

-56.02%

-76.13%

-96.41%

LA

45.85%

41.34%

-74.97%

-67.69%

-70.99%

-92.45%

TX

45.90%

-53.82%

-78.97%

-67.47%

-73.62%

-83.77%

TN

41.63%

-31.38%

-55.39%

43.91%

-73.54%

-94.87%

KY

-32.58%

-20.61%

-56.50%

-35.22%

-72.88%

-91.17%

AR

-53.77%

43.36%

-8227%

-70.59%

-96.68%

-93.12%

"South"

45.97%

-37.34%

-68.05%

-60.02%

-75.01%

-90.79%

Source: United States Census of Agriculture.

data in the Census of Agriculture because data by race and farm size are
not given in enough detail to make precise comparisons. Officials at the
Bureau of the Census have assured us that such information can be cross-
tabulated from future census computer tapes.

Third, farm size and type of farming are strongly correlated. Labor-
intensive farms, such as dairy, truck, and tobacco farms, are considerably
smaller than capital-intensive farms, yet may retain their viability. Are
certain types of farming associated more with black farms, which are
commonly smaller in size? Has black agriculture declined less in areas
that practice labor-intensive, small-scale farming than in those in which
capital-intensive, large-scale operations predominate? Average farm size
for each race, as indicated in Table 3, was lowest in North Carolina which
might be expected given the predominance of tobacco farming in the state.
The data in Tables 1 and 2, however, indicate that North Carolina had
the greatest decline in black full-owner operations between 1964-74, and
relatively high rates of decline for part-owner and tenant operations.

ALTERNATIVE EXPLANATIONS

An adequate description of black farmland change must at least
address the above questions. With this descriptive data base, explanations
can be provided and public policies formulated. Although a wide range

86

Table 2

WHITE LAND TENURE IN SOUTHERN STATES

Change: 1954-1964

Change

1964-1974

Tenure

Class

Tenure Class

Full-

Part-

Full-

Part-

State

Owners

Owners

Tenants

Owners

Owners

Tenants

VA

4293%

- 5.97%

-52.72%

-22.48%

-2260%

47.25%

NC

45.32%

- 4.93%

-55.91%

-10.12%

-32.22%

-57.68%

sc

47.32%

-14.08%

-68.98%

-31.01%

-2282%

-53.53%

GA

-37.63%

-14.48%

-71.62%

-2S.72%

-18.84%

-51.98%

AL

-39.65%

-24.73%

-71.45%

-17.80%

-28.03%

-63.24%

FL

-58.25%

- 7.93%

-31.95%

-15.22%

-11.90%

- 1.42%

MS

-30.33%

-14.30%

-72.80%

-35.48%

-28.11%

-55.24%

LA

-16.51%

- 9.01%

-58.30%

-56.25%

-24.68%

4278%

TX

-27.28%

- 3.35%

45.84%

-66.41%

-17.49%

-55.45%

TN

-29.06%

-1288%

-58.%%

-15.47%

-34.82%

-63.87%

KY

-32.90%

-10.59%

40.55%

- 9.73%

-30.89%

-60.80%

AR

-33.77%

-1202%

-6295%

-28.44%

-25.15%

48.94%

"South"

-36.7470

-11.18%

-57.66%

-22.76%

-24.79%

-56.18%

Source: United States Census of Agriculture.

of alternative explanations exist to account for the demise of black agri-
culture, only one predominates in the literature, and it has not been ade-
quately explored given the empirical questions we have posed.

The conservative explanation, the most common, blames individuals
for their failure to adapt to trends in agriculture in the United States. For
example, Fisher mentions many characteristic ones. "He (the Black
Farmer) commonly has a less advanced attitude towards improved
methods and commercial production, and therefore does not use his land
as effectively as he might. The inability of Negro farm owners to adapt
is reflected also in limited commercialism and social attitudes and his
own resistance have virtually excluded him from participation in the ad-
ministration of the programs (soil conservation, farm loan) which vitally
affect him."4 These kinds of explanations lay the problem of black farm-

87

land loss at the feet of blacks themselves. The social and economic context
in which these farmers exist is ignored. This conservative explanation
is particularly attractive because white institutions are not held account-
able for this black problem, and it allows whites to feel sorry for this
"unfortunate" minority since individual traits of adaptation and intelli-
gence can hardly be changed by society.

Table 3

AVERAGE FARM SIZE IN ALL SOUTHERN STATES
(ACRES)

Year White Black

1954 145.35 48.68

1964 282.60 56.60

1974 284.01 98.96

Source: United States Census of Agriculture

A liberal perspective explains the decline of black farmland as the
result of racist attitudes, behavior, and institutions in the United States.
Blacks are perceived as being passively impacted by white social groups
and institutions around them. [Very few geographers have explored this
type of explanation in the case of black agriculture, but this liberal view
has many implications which should be given attention because discrimi-
natory practices within the agencies and programs of the USDA have
limited the access of minority farmers to needed services and resources.

For example, minorities make up only 10.8 percent of all permanent,
fulltime USDA employees, while minorities constitute 20 percent of total
federal employment. Mississippi, with blacks making up 31.5 percent
of its rural population, had only 5.1 percent employed by the USDA in
the state in 1975. In the same year, North Carolina had only 7.2 percent
black USDA employees yet the blacks accounted for 19.8 percent of its
rural population. In 1975, minorities comprised only 3.2 percent of the
8,600 employees of the Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation
Service and only 7.2 percent of the more than 17,000 Cooperative Exten-
sion Service employees. Legal action was taken as late as 1974 in Missis-
sippi to get the first black appointed as a full county agent.5

Many federal policy decisions are made locally. Commodity support
programs, for example, are determined at the local level through the
Agricultural Stabilization and Conservation Service. Only eleven of the
9,097 ASCS county committee members in the nation were blacks in
1977, and only three blacks were included among the possible 3, 857 county
community members in the South. Of the 15,540supervisors on thedistrict
boards for the Soil Conservation Service, only 2. 1 percent were minorities

88

and, in 1976, there were only 95 minority group members of the 2,585
members of the boards of directors of Rural Electric Cooperatives in six-
teen southern states. Farmers' Home Administration county committees
included only 11.2 percent minorities in 1975, but the FmHA has made
significant strides toward greater minority representation recently.6

The bulk of agricultural innovation and expertise in the United States
originates in Land Grant Colleges. White land grant schools were created
by the first Morrill Act in 1862; those for blacks were not formed until
the second Morrill Act of 1890 and none of the seventeen black schools
offered college-level courses until 1917. The 1862 and 1890 colleges have
remained unequal even after the passage of the 1964 Civil Rights Act.
For example, white land grant colleges received eleven times more funding
than black schools in 1968. The federal government in 1968 gave $5.8
million to Clemson University and only $490,000 to predominately black
South Carolina State, an 1890 school. At this time, Clemson had only
about three times as many students as South Carolina State. Mississippi
State (1862 school), with only four and one-half times as many students as
Alcorn A&M (1890 school), received fourteen times more funding in the
same year. Federal and state aid in 1968 amounted to almost $2,300 per
student in the white land grant schools, but was less than $1,365 per student
in the predominately black 1890 institutions. The discrimination against
black colleges has limited the opportunities and services these schools
can offer to rural black farmers and youth.7

Similar discrimination or lack of opportunity is apparent in the
utilization of USDA programs. In the decade ending in 1976, the percent-
age of blacks receiving housing loans from the Farmers' Home Adminis-
tration declined from 19.4 to 9.5 percent. Ineligibility accounts for much
of the decline; by 1974, 50.3 percent of rural black families were too poor
to .qualify for the loans (up from 36.2 percent in 1969). White households
too poor to qualify, however, remained about the same over the decade.
Between 1966 and 1976, the percentage of FmHA farm ownership loans
made to black farmers declined from 5.7 to 1.5 percent. In 1975, only 40
percent of eligible black-operated farms participated in USDA soil and
water conservation programs while 59 percent of white-operated farms
were enrolled.

If racism, which has denied blacks equal opportunity, is the primary
reason for the demise of black farming, we might assume that it would
be most apparent in a "Deep South" state such as Mississippi. That state,
however, registered similar declines in number of farming operations for
both races from 1954 to 1964 and comparably low rates of decline between
1964 and 1974. Very careful research is required if the liberal hypothesis
of individual racism is to be documented. This hypothesis explains dis-
crimination as common human bigotry which can be overcome by the
education of whites and federal and state civil rights and equal opportunity
legislation.

89

The radical paradigm, the least known and developed, views discrim-
ination and the demise of black farm families as endemic to the present
economic system. Capitalism permits greater profits to be extracted from
black farm operators and pits white and black farmers against each other,
thus weakening white farmers as well. Without adequately sized farms,
both races are forced out of farming to provide cheap labor to urban
employers and especially in the South and Southwest, to provide inexpen-
sive land and labor to remaining Southern agriculturalists operating on
a larger-scale. x The two great labor migrations to Northern industrial
centers, blacks from throughout the South and whites from the Appala-
chian highlands, were related to farms which were too small to provide
an adequate living. Radicals do not believe generally that capitalism is
the originator of racism, but rather that it perpetuates and intensifies
racism because of the valuable function it serves. Similarily, the demise
of small family farms provides a labor force that can be easily exploited.

Black farm families are impacted as both a marginal race and a mar-
ginal occupation. Black farmers experience, along with most other farmers
(especially small-scale operators) in the United States, the marginalization
of their lives in an urban, industrial market exchange economy; but they
experience it to a greater degree.

Farm incomes, regardless of race, are substantially below those in
commerce and industry.9 The greater the exploitation of farm labor, the
higher the profits for agricultural input (fertilizers, machinery, bank loans)
and output (grain merchants, livestock markets) industries, and the lower
the food costs to urban consumers. Thus commercial interests and con-
sumer groups have a vested interest in maintaining the exploitation of
farm labor both black and white.

Radical analysts, who consider not only class and race antagonisms
but also consequent regional and urban/rural inequalities, employ the
concept of regional colonialism or regional underdevelopment.10 Gorz,
in his 1971 article, suggests that "the geographical concentration of the
process of capitalist accumulation has necessarily gone hand-in-hand
with the relative or even absolute impoverishment of other regions."
These latter regions have been used by industrial and financial centers
(higher-order urban clusters) as reservoirs of labor or of primary and
agricultural resources. Like the colonies of the great European empires,
the "peripheral" regions have provided the metropoles with their savings,
their labor-power, their men, without having a right to the local reinvest-
ment of the capital accumulated through their activity."

CONCLUSION

Existing data on black farmland trends can be analyzed from three
alternative frameworks. Most of the existing literature on the subject is

90

an incomplete description of the problem and utilizes the conservative
viewpoint, emphasizing individual decision-making and environmental
causation. In fact, most general studies of Southern agriculture have
concentrated on the environmental base despite the availability of alter-
native views.12 Agriculture is a social phenomenon; the physical base is
appraised and utilized within a particular political, social, and economic
system. It is this system which determines the pattern of agriculture in a
place. Any explanation of the pattern is, in fact, an analysis of the system,
and both liberal and radical analyses focus on the larger dimensions of the
problem. The demise of black agriculture is merely a symptom of larger
societal processes which should be explored.

Geographers must choose among conservative, liberal, and radical
perspectives. How can the choice be made? We should choose the approach
which gives the most accurate and complete explanation. The literature
on black agriculture in the South, however, suggests the conservative
framework is lacking in explanatory power and that the liberal and radical
viewpoints have received almost no attention but would, if applied, yield
better results. Future study of the problem must explore these viewpoints
if we are to understand the decline of black agriculture in the South.

NOTES

1 Black Economic Research Center, "Black Land Loss: The Plight of Black
Ownership," Southen Exposure, Vol. 2, No. 2& 3 (Fall 1974). pp. 112-121. Eleanor
Clift, "Black Land Loss: 6.000,000 Acres and Fading Fast," Southern Exposure,
Vol. 2, No. 2 & 3 (Fall 1974), pp. 108-1 1 1.

2 Lester M. Salamon, Black Owned Land: Profile of a Disappearing Equity Base,
Report to the Office of Minority Business Enterprise, U.S. Department of Com-
merce, Duke University, Institute of Policy Sciences and Public Affairs, 1974.

3 Robert Bildner, "Southern Farms: A Vanishing Breed," Southern Exposure,
Vol. 2, No. 2 & 3 (Fall 1974), pp. 72-79.

4 James S. Fisher, "Negro Farm Ownership in the South," Annals of the Associa-
tion of American Geographers, Vol. 63, No. 4 (December 1973). pp. 478-489.

5 United Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A.. Who Will Farm, New York: Church
and Society Program Area, United Presbyterian Church, U.S.A., 1978.

6 William C. Payne, "The Negro Land Colleges," The Civil Rights Digest, Spring,
1970.

7 Ibid.

8 NACLA, Latin America and Empire Report. Vol. II, No. 3 (March 1977),
whole issue devoted to "The Apparel Industry Moves South."

9 Richard Peet, "Rural Inequality and Regional Planning," Antipode, Vol. 7,
No. 3 (December 1975), pp. 10-24.

91

10 Joe Persky, "Regional Colonialism and the Southern Economy,"
Review of Radical Political Economy, Vol. 4 (Fall 1972), pp. 70-79.

11 Andre Gorz, "Colonialism, At Home and Abroad," Liberation, November
1971.

12 For example see John Fraser Hart, "Cropland Concentrations in the South,"
Annals of the Association of American Geographers, Vol. 68, No. 4 (December
1978).

92

v< \^

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE
STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XIX

June, 1980

SAPELO PAPERS: RESEARCHES IN THE

HISTORY AND PREHISTORY OF

SAPELO ISLAND, GEORGIA

Published by
WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

A Division of the University System of Georgia
CARROLLTON, GEORGIA

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE
STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XIX June, 1980

SAPELO PAPERS: RESEARCHES IN THE

HISTORY AND PREHISTORY OF

SAPELO ISLAND, GEORGIA

DANIEL P. JUENGST

Volume Editor

CONTENTS

Page
Contributors iii

Foreword John C. Upchurch iv

Preface Lewis H. Larson, Jr. v

The Occupation of Sapelo Island

Since 1733 Patricia D. O'Grady 1

Spalding's Sugar Works Site,

Sapelo Island, Georgia Morgan R. Crook, Jr. 9

and
Patricia D. O'Grady

The Spanish on Sapelo Lewis H. Larson, Jr. 35

A Model for Barrier Island

Settlement Pattern Alan E. Mc Michael 47

A Preliminary Report on Test
Excavations at the Sapelo Island
Shell Ring, 1975 Daniel L. Simpkins 61

Spatial Associations and Distribution
of Aggregate Village Sites in a
Southeastern Atlantic Coastal Area Morgan R. Crook, Jr. 11

Archaeological Indications of Community

Structures at the Kenan Field Site Morgan R. Crook, Jr. 89

Technological Analysis of Some Sapelo
Island Pottery: Social and/or Functional
Differences Marian Saffer 101

References Cited 109

i

TITLES IN PRINT

Vol. IV, 1965, The Changing Role of Government.

Vol. V, 1966, Issues in the Cold War.

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Vol. XII, 1973, Geographic Perspectives on Southern Development.

Vol. XIII, 1974, American Diplomatic History: Issues and Methods.

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Southeastern United States.

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in Inter-American Relations

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Copyright 1980, West Georgia College

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CONTRIBUTORS

MORGAN R. CROOK, JR. received his Master's degree from West
Georgia College and his Ph.D. from the University of Florida. Dr. Crook
is currently a Research Associate, conducting sponsored archaeological
investigations for West Georgia College.

LEWIS H. LARSON received his Ph.D. from the University of Michigan.
He joined the faculty of the Department of Sociology and Anthropology
at West Georgia College in 1971 where he is Professor of Anthropology.
He was appointed State Archaeologist in 1972. He has served as director
of the Sapelo archaeological project since its inception in 1974.

ALAN E. McMICHAEL received the B. A. degree in Anthropology from
West Georgia College and is now a graduate student in Anthropology at
the University of Florida. His research interests center around New
World archaeology and ethnohistory. He is currently a Research Assis-
tant at the Florida State Museum and is on the editorial staff of The
Florida Journal of Anthropology.

PATRICIA C. O'GRADY received her B. A. from West Georgia College
in 1977. She has participated in several prehistoric and historical arch-
aeology projects in Georgia and Tennessee. Her interests are in anthro-
pology and historical archaeology. Ms. O'Grady is currently completing
her Master's thesis at Florida State University and is employed by the
Southeast Archaeological Center, National Park Service in Tallahassee,
Florida.

MARRIAN SAFFER holds a M.A. in anthropology from the University
of Florida. Her research interests include ceramic ecology, the use of
multivariate techniques with archaeological data, and problems of coast-
al prehistory. She is currently serving as laboratory archaeologist for the
Kings Bay Testing Project in Camden County, Georgia.

DANIEL L. SIMPKINS received his B.A. degree in Anthropology from
West Georgia College. He is currently a graduate student at the Uni-
versity of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. His interests include the arch-
aeology of the southeastern United States and cultural ecology.

in

FOREWORD

This volume continues the precedent of utilizing the services of a
volume editor working under the loose supervision of a general editor, a
policy begun with the 1973 issue of Studies in the Social Sciences.
Responsibility for selecting the theme of the present volume, the essays
herein included, and initial editorial refinement was that of the volume
editor. The role of the general editor was limited to broad consultation
with the volume editor, final editing, and liaison with the printer.

The current volume brings together significant results of a six-year-
long program of archaeological survey of Sapelo Island, Georgia. Several
of the papers have been published previously in other journals; and
appreciation is extended to the editors of these publications for their per-
mission to reprint the articles. Specifically, acknowledgements go to: (1)
the Society for Georgia Archaeology, publishers of Early Georgia, for
permission to reprint Daniel Simpkins' "A Preliminary Report on Test
Excavations at the Sapelo Island Shell Ring, 1975"; (2) Graphmitre Ltd.,
publishers of Industrial Archaeology, for permission to reprint Morgan
R. Crook and Patricia D. O'Grady's "Spalding's Sugar Works Site, Sapelo
Island, Georgia"; (3) the Southeastern Archaeological Conference, pub-
lishers of Proceedings of the Southeastern Archaeological Conference,
for permission to reprint Marian Saffer's "Technological Analysis of
Some Sapelo Island Pottery: Social and/or Functional Differences," and;
(4)~the Florida Anthropological Society, publishers of The Florida An-
thropologist, for permission to reprint Alan E. McMichael's "A Model for
Barrier Island Settlement Pattern," and Morgan R. Crook's "Spatial
Associations and Distribution of Aggregate Village Sites in a Southeastern
Atlantic Coastal Area." Full bibliographic citations for reprinted papers
may be found on the title page of each article.

As in the past, Studies in the Social Sciences is financed partially by
the University System of Georgia. It is distributed gratis to libraries of
state supported colleges and universities in Georgia, and to selected
institutions of higher education in other southeastern states. Interested
individuals or libraries may purchase copies of the 1980 issue for $4.00
each to help defray printing and mailing costs. Standing orders for the
annual series are available at the current reduced rate of $3.00 Earlier
issues of the Studies series, listed on p. ii, may be obtained for either $2.00
or $3.00, as listed.

It is with considerable pleasure that the editors submit to you thic
volume on Sapelo Island.

John C. Upchurch
Professor and Chairman
Department of Geography
General Editor

IV

PREFACE

By Lewis H. Larson

Beginning in the summer of 1974 West Georgia College initiated a
program of archaeological survey on Sapelo Island, a barrier island on the
Georgia coast in Mcintosh County. The survey has continued for the past six
years and has resulted in the series of papers included here. Most of these
papers have been published previously in professional journals and are
reprinted here through the courtesy of those journals. It is thought that the
present volume will serve a useful purpose to have the results of the survey
brought together and presented in a uniform format.

An archaeological survey of a barrier island on the Georgia coast was
proposed for several reasons. The primary reason was to develop a much
needed model that could be used by the Georgia Department of Natural
Resources in the creation of the archaeological component of the State
Historic Preservation Plan and in cultural resource management strategies
for the coastal region. To the extent that Sapelo Island was representative of
the coastal environment; was apparently occupied during the entire range of
human history on the coast; had experienced minimal development in the
post-plantation period; and was owned by the State of Georgia, it offered an
excellent and convenient opportunity to collect the data necessary to de-
velop a model that could be used in predicting coastal archaeology.

A second reason, and one with a more immediate purpose, was to
provide information to the Game and Fish Division of the Georgia De-
partment of Natural Resources so that the development of the island as a
game management area could be planned to have a minimal effect on the
cultural resources.

The survey program has focused on the identification of the archaeo-
logical resources of the island and their evaluation. It has been known for a
long time that there was relatively little information, bearing on the arch-
aeology of the island, contained in the records dealing with Sapelo. The
limited documentary sources pertaining to its history, for the most part, have
been accessible but are only of limited application. Therefore, most of the
time and energy of the survey have been spent in the field. It was intended
that little effort should be expended on large scale excavation. Rather, sites
were to be located and, where it was possible and a productive endeavor,
detailed maps of the site were to be made. Again, where conditions per-
mitted, carefully controlled surface collections were to be carried out. Final-
ly, limited excavation was to be conducted in order to characterize the sites in
terms of the temporal positions, the relationships to other sites on the island
and in the coastal area generally, the type of subsistence pattern, the size and
configuration of the resident populations, and finally the seasonality and
function of the occupation. Obviously, an area the size of Sapelo with its

complexity of occupation would require considerable time to completely
survey in the manner required by the defined research goals. We have not
completed the survey, but we have come a long way in formulating our areal
model for coastal archaeology, and we have been able to assist in the
planning on the island by providing information and guidance as the game
management area development has gone forward.

The papers included here set forth the results of the survey. To date the
identification of sites on the island has been completed. They range in time
from late Archaic fiber tempered occupations through post-Civil War freed-
man's settlements and homesites. Because little of the island is now under
cultivation, controlled surface collection has been possible on only a single
site, Bourbon Field. The Shell Ring, the site north of the Shell Ring, Kenan
Field, the ruins at Chocolate, the house ruins at High Point, and Bourbon
have been carried out.

At this time, the mapping and test excavations at the Black settlement at
Raccoon Bluff and the remapping and further testing at Bourbon are both
major tasks that remain for the survey. But there are other large sites that also
await detailed definition and record. Included are sites on Johnson Creek and
Hanging Bull. In addition, an accurate record of the Spalding dock system
lying partially buried in the sediments of Post Office Creek at Long Tabby, is
programmed for the future.

The papers included here do not represent the complete research results
of the Sapelo survey effort. In 1978 Morgan R. Crook, Jr. wrote Mississippian
Period Community Organizations on the Georgia Coast. This study is based
primarily on the analysis of the map and test excavations of Kenan Field. This
major Sapelo Island site covers some 60 hectares and is characterized by 589
shell middens, two burial mounds, and appears to have one or two groupings
of platform mounds. Dr. Crook's research was submitted as a doctoral
dissertation, and while it is too lengthy to be included here it is available from
University Microfilms.

With the exception of myself, the authors of these papers all parti-
cipated in the Sapelo survey as graduate or undergraduate students at
West Georgia College and the University of Florida. Dr. Crook has been
a participant in the survey, not only as a graduate student, but also as a
faculty member at West Georgia College.

Funding for the Sapelo survey was carried out with matching grants
from the Office of the Governor; the Georgia Department of Natural
Resources; and grants-in-aid from the Department of the Interior, Heri-
tage Conservation and Recreation Service, under provisions of the
National Historic Preservation Act of 1966. Deep appreciation for this
funding must be expressed to the following individuals and the funding
programs that they administer: George Busbee, Governor of Georgia;
Joe D. Tanner, Commissioner, Georgia Department of Natural Resources;
and Elizabeth A. Lyon, Georgia State Historic Preservation Officer.

I only wish it were possible to acknowledge in a manner that fully

vi

reflects the extent to which the archaeological survey of Sapelo Island
depended upon the help and guidance of C. V. Waters, Coastal Regional
Supervisor for Game Management, Game and Fish Division, Georgia
Department of Natural Resources and his staff. Mr. Waters and his staff
were always willing and able to find solutions to the myriad problems,
great and small, that are a part of any archaeological field work. Mr.
Waters' knowledge of the island, his unfailing good humor, generosity
with his time, and his understanding of archaeology have made, over the
years, the survey possible.

The late Dr. James Wash, Director of Research Services and Mr. J. E.
McWhorter, Budget Officer of West Georgia College are responsible for
guiding me through a sometimes almost impenetrable fiscal thicket as we
strove to develop the contracts supporting the project. I am grateful to
them both.

I am equally appreciative of the valuable assistance that has been
given by Mr. Robert Townley and his staff at West Georgia College plant
operations.

Dr. Richard Dangle, Dean of the School of Arts and Sciences, West
Georgia College has not only assisted the project in many ways, but even
more importantly he has been uncommonly sympathetic to, and patient
with, its objectives and problems.

vn

THE OCCUPATION OF
SAPELO ISLAND SINCE 1733

By Patricia D. O'Grady

The sea islands of Georgia were largely uninhabited in 1686 when
Jonathan Dickenson made his memorable journey from St. Mary's to
Beaufort, South Carolina. Earlier Spanish attempts to possess and devel-
op the area between St. Augustine and Charleston had met with failure.
The Indians now were largely dispersed, the missions abandoned, and
agricultural fields lay dormant (Lovell 1933:15).

When Georgia was established as an English Colony in 1733, most
evidence of Spanish occupation had disappeared from the sea islands,
and the Creek Indians considered the Georgia coast as their own. Despite
continuing Spanish claims, the Creeks, in a treaty with James Oglethorpe,
granted to the British the coast land between the Savannah and Altamaha
rivers, reserving for themselves hunting rights on the islands of Ossabaw,
St. Catherines and Sapelo (Coulter 1940:38; Lovell 1933:19). These
islands were destined to play an important role in the developing history
of Georgia.

Shortly after Oglethorpe first landed at Yamacraw Bluff near pres-
ent-day Savannah, he engaged the half-breed niece of the Creek Emperor
of Coweta as his interpreter. This tribal princess, whose Indian name was
Coosaponakeesa and English name was Mary, had been educated as a
Christian in South Carolina. In 1717 she married the half-breed son of
Colonel John Musgrove of South Carolina (Coleman and Ready 1976:
257). Mary Musgrove and her husband operated a prosperous trading
establishment near Yamacraw at the time of Oglethorpe's arrival in the
Colony; and upon meeting the Englishman Mary turned her attention
from the trading establishment to working as Oglethorpe's interpreter
and as an Indian agent. Throughout this time, however, she occasionally
provided goods to the colonists on credit (Coleman and Ready 1976:257).
During the period Mary served Oglethorpe, she was widowed, remarried
a Captain Mathews, and was widowed once more. Mary's third husband,
the Reverend Thomas Bosomworth, proved to be an exceptionally am-
bitious man; thus, it possibly was under his influence that a Creek
Chieftain named Malatchi bestowed the islands of St. Catherines, Ossa-
baw, and Sapelo to Mary in 1747 (Lovell 1933:60; Vanstory 1956:11;
Coulter 1940:38). Bosomworth and his wife planned to develop the
islands into great plantations; however, Colonial authorities rejected the
claim based on their policy of limited land grants. Bosomworth took the
case to court and at the same time made claims for Mary's early services
to the Crown for which, he asserted, she had never been paid (Coleman
and Ready 1976:256-263).

1

This dispute remained a disruptive factor in local Indian relations
for over ten years and the Board of Trade was anxious to settle the claim
when Governor Henry Ellis arrived in the Colony in 1757. Ellis was
extremely adept in his relations with the Indians, and late that same year a
new treaty was made with the Creeks in which the Indians ceded to Ellis,
for the Crown, the islands of Ossabaw, Sapelo, and St. Catherines, with a
formal denial that they earlier had been given to Mary Musgrove (Abbott
1959:77).

Ellis' finesse in Indian relations was evident with his next move.
Rather than use the cession to devastate the Bosomworth claim and
prolong the friction caused by it, he urged the Board of Trade to make a
settlement with the Bosomworths to silence them in future Indian coun-
cils (Coleman and Ready 1976:89, 100, 158, 210). Owing to improvements
the Bosomworths had already made on St. Catherines Island, it was
agreed that they would be granted that island as their own, while Ossabaw
and Sapelo were to be sold, and the proceeds given to Mary to settle the
goods and services claim. She and Thomas were to receive450 for goods
and 1650 for services (Coleman and Ready 1976:254).

The Georgia islands were advertised in the Carolina Gazette on
December 10, 1759, and were put up for auction in 500 acre tracts. The
initial bids were low and thus unacceptable to Ellis; and on April 14, 1760
the islands were again put up for auction, separately and without being
divided into tracts (Coleman and Ready 1976:225). Ossabaw was sold for
1350 and Sapelo for 700. Both islands were purchased by Grey Elliott,
a land speculator and member of the King's Council in the Colony of
Georgia (Coleman and Ready 1976:243; Hart n.d.:l; Vanstory 1956:12,
45). This sum was accepted by the Bosomworths and a discharge of all
claims against the crown was signed. On June 27, 1760, following years of
controversy, Henry Ellis forwarded to the Board of Trade "A full account
of the sale of Sapelo and Ossabaw Islands and other Indian lands to satisfy
the Bosomworth claims against the Crown" (Coleman and Ready 1976:243).
His Excellency George II granted to Grey Elliott, Esquire, the islands of
Sapelo and Ossabaw on October 31, 1760 (Candler 1907:00; Coleman and
Ready 1976:331).

Sapelo changed ownership several times in the next few years.
Andrew Mackay, an Indian trader, purchased the island from Elliott in
1762 and was its first large-scale planter (Hart n.d.: 1). Mackay was linked
by marriage to the Mcintosh family. Mary Catherine Mackay had mar-
ried William Mcintosh, son of John Mohr Mcintosh, one of the original
Iverness Scotsmen to settle in the colony (Wylly 1916:6; Counter, 1940:4).
Although Andrew Mackay died in 1769, William Mcintosh and his
brother, Lachlan, apparently continued planting on the island, as it was
still under cultivation at the time of the Revolution. Even as late as 1776
Lachlan Mcintosh had complained that a British schooner had taken
slaves and other valuables from Sapelo (Vanstory 1956:45).

Upon the death of Mackay in 1769, ownership of Sapelo advanced to
Mackay's widow and stepson; both wished to sell the island (Wylly 1916:
6-7). However, lack of communication and the war had caused a long
delay in its sale. John McQueen, a South Carolinian, eventually pur-
chased Sapelo from the Mackay Estate in 1784. Educated in England,
McQueen had first brought ribbon cane to the United States from Jama-
ica and distributed it among his Georgia friends (Coulter 1940:113).

McQueen lived in plantation splendor far beyond his means. Finally,
debts forced him to flee to East Florida where he became a Spanish
citizen (Hart n.d.:l). The island again changed hands in 1789 when
McQueen sold Sapelo, Little Sapelo, Blackbeard, and Cabretta Islands to
Francis Marie Loys Dumoussay Delavauxe for 10,000. Shortly after-
wards, in 1790, a petition was filed in the Liberty County Court to divide
the islands into equal shares among Dumoussay Delavauxe, Julien Joseph
Hyacinth De Chappedelaine, Pierre Caeser Picot DeBois Feuillet, Chris-
topher Poullain Dubignon, and Grand Clos Mesle (Wilson 1969:103). In
this agreement the islands were to be divided into five parts. Each co-
partner could live anywhere on the islands and enclose from 600 to 800
acres of land for his own use. General accounts were to be kept and all
bills and accounts were to be exhibited and paid by a manager. In
addition to escaping the French Revolution, the purchase was made for
speculative purposes, one of which is purported to have been the breed-
ing and sale of slaves; however, there are no records to indicate that this
plan was ever developed (Coulter 1940:39). In 1793 a French deed of sale
was filed in Liberty County from Francis Marie Loys Dumoussay Dela-
vauxe and Julien Joseph Hyacinth De Chappedelaine to Nicholas Francis
Magon De Ville Huchet and Grand Clos Mesle (Wilson 1969:101).

The French attempt to further develop Sapelo was doomed from the
start. DeVille Huchet was unable to adjust to island life, and soon
returned to France (Hart n.d.:2). Dubignon distrusted Dumoussay Dela-
vauxe, left Sapelo, and eventually became the owner of Jekyll Island to
the south (Coulter 1940:39; Vanstory 1956:176-177; Hart n.d.:2; Wylly
1916:9). Picot De Bois Feuillet remained on Sapelo but not without some
contentions. Before leaving France for the island, De Bois Feuillet had
sent large sums of money to his nephew, De Chappedelaine, with instruc-
tions to purchase lands and slaves and to build a home for De Bois
Feuillet's family. Response from De Chappedelaine described glowing
progress in all areas. Not until De Bois Feuillet wrote of his impending
arrival did his nephew finally purchase the fifth individual share of
Sapelo. The remainder of De Bois Feuillet's money reportedly went to
gambling (Wylly 1916:8). When De Bois Feuillet reached Savannah in
1789 with his wife and only daughter, Natalie, he found only the most
meager house, a few slaves and no facilities for the household servants he
had brought from France. Furious, De Bois Feuillet order De Chappede-
laine off his property, threatning to kill him if he ever returned. De Chap-

pedelaine nevertheless did return in De Bois Feuillet's absence, perhaps
to ask his aunt to intercede for him or to see the beautiful Natalie ( Wylly
1916:8). When De Bois Feuillet unexpectedly returned home, a duel
followed. De Chappedelaine was badly wounded in the fight, and De Bois
Feuillet was placed under arrest for assault with intent to kill. He was rep-
resented by Joseph Clay of Camden County and was acquitted. De Bois
Feuillet was so grateful to Clay that he offered the attorney Natalie's hand
in marriage. Clay was already married, however, but mentioned that he
had an unwed brother, Ralph. Years later Natalie married Ralph Clay of
Bryan County and bore him five children.

Dumoussay Delavauxe died on Sapelo in 1794 at the age of forty.
Though he never saw his dreams for Sapelo materialize, he anticipated
success right up to the time of his death. De Chappedelaine also died that
same year (Coulter 1940:39; Hart n.d.:2). Picot De Bois Feuillet and his
wife remained on Sapelo at their home called Bourbon for many years
but finally returned to Bryan County to be near Natalie.

The original share owned by Grande Clos Mesle was sold to the
Marquis De Montalet, a former planter from Santo Domingo ( Vanstory
1956:46; Lovell 1933:97; Coulter 1940:39). Upon the death of his young
wife, the Marquis moved from the mainland to Sapelo and resided in his
home called "Le Chatelet" with his companion, the Chevalier de la
Home. Remains of "Le Chatelet," a name transformed to "Chocolate" by
island slaves, still stand today (Figure 1). Monsier de Montalet and his
friend lived quietly at Chocolate. These elderly Frenchmen occasionally
entertained, but much of their time was spent cultivating their gardens
and training Cupidon, their black chef. Montalet was so delighted with
Cupidon that he eventually placed the cordon bleu over the kitchen door
(Vanstory 1956:46; Lovell 1933:98). Lengen describes the two old gentle-
men as spending many morning and evening hours leading a pig on a
lease through the thicket, searching for truffles, because "the eating of
these make man more gentle and women more tender" (Wylly 1916:10;
Lovell 1933:113).

In 1802 Thomas Spalding purchased 4000 acres on the south end of
Sapelo and for a time was neighbor to the Marquis. After the Marquis and
the Chevalier died, Chocolate was sold to a Danish seaman, Captain
Swarbeck. The Captain replaced or restored many of the tabby struc-
tures and lived at Chocolate until the early 1830s when a northerner, Dr.
C. W. Rogers took up residence (Lovell 1933:114-116). A slab or marble
purportedly from the Marquis' grave was placed above the door of Dr.
Rogers barn, which still stands today. Spalding eventually purchased all
of Sapelo with the exception of 650 acres on the eastern side of the island
at Racoon Bluff.

The name of Thomas Spalding is tightly bound to the name of Sapelo
Island. Born March 25, 1774 on St. Simons Island, Thomas was the only
child of James and Margery Mcintosh Spalding and was heir to the wealth

On'

Figure 1
Sapelo Island: Chocolate Field.

and reputation of two of the most influential families on the Georgia
coast. Well educated in his youth, Thomas developed a diversity of
interests and took seriously his responsibilities as a leading citizen. He was
admitted to the bar in 1795 and in that same year married Sally Leake,
only child of Richard Leake, a distinguished coastal planter. The Spald-
ings lived on St. Simons Island at their estate called Orange Grove, where
Thomas accumulated land and slaves. In 1800 the Spaldings traveled to
Europe, where Thomas spent much of his time observing the organi-
zation and economic life of the people. He regularly attended sessions of
Parliament in London (Coulter 1940:20). These experiences deeply im-
pressed him, and throughout his life Spalding often referred to what he
had learned during his overseas trip.

Upon his return from Europe, Spalding purchased Sapelo and served
in both the Georgia Senate and the United States Congress between 1803
and 1806. Resigning from Congress in 1806, Spalding returned to Georgia,
and though always active in local events, he never again left his Sapelo
home for extended periods of time (Coulter 1940:15-35). He devoted his
time to plantation business and writing and became one of the leading
agriculturalists of his day. Although Spalding was well read on cotton
production and published several articles on its growth and development,
he also was an experimenter and believed that crop diversification was
necessary; dependence on cotton alone, he reasoned, would lead to
financial ruin.

Spalding developed an agricultural program that stressed not only
growth of staple crops but the importance of secondary crops and the
promotion of new products. He encouraged his neighbors to diversify by
his own example and through publications (King 1966:122). He experi-
mented with indigo and silk, olives and oranges, and with crop rotation
and reversible plows.

Spalding's highest hopes for diversification lay in sugar cane. He first
began experimenting with cane in 1806 (Coulter 1940:111). Although
Major Butler, John McQueen, and a few others earlier began planting
sugar cane, Spalding was looked upon as the father of the sugar industry
in Georgia (Coulter 1940:121). By 1816 he was able to write a detailed
description of sugar production, complete with itemized cost estimates
and specifications for the sugar works (Coulter 1940:230-247). The re-
mains of the Sapelo sugar works were archaeologically investigated in
1976 and generally followed Spalding's descriptions with a few excep-
tions. Spalding possibly was describing ideal operations, modifying in-
adequacies from his experience (Crook and O'Grady 1977:385).

Spalding's success in sugar production steadily increased through
the 1820s, partially due to the tariff placed on raw sugar during the War of
1812. Though the tariff was reduced soon after the war, prices continued
to run high until the early 1830s when sugar production slowed down. By
the 1840s no more than twenty planters in Georgia raised sugar commer-

cially, all of these coastal planters. Spalding believed the reason for this
decline to be low prices and lack of tariff protection (Coulter 1940:124-
127). During this period Spalding had not neglected cotton, and was one
of the largest sea island cotton planters on the Georgia coast. He also
grew substantial amounts of rice, and in 1835 developed a method of
transporting rice bundles from the fields using wooden rollers and tracks,
which proved to be particularly beneficial in lessening the labor of his
slaves.

Spalding accepted the institution of slavery with misgivings. His
response to such a fixed institution in the social and economic order of
the time was to moderate it as much as possible. He developed incentive
programs and allotted to his slaves some free time for private interests.
Supervision was handled by himself or black overseers and managers.
Unique among Spalding's slaves was a black Mohammedan named Bu
Allah. Patriarch of the Sapelo slaves, Bu Allah was considered second in
command on Sapelo. Traditions and legends which persisted after his
death inspired Joel Chandler Harris to base two fictional works on Bu
Allah's life (Coulter 1940:83-84; Vanstory 1956:49-50). Spalding's trust
and respect for Bu Allah was such that during the War of 1812, he secured
muskets which he gave to Bu Allah, with orders to drill the slaves and
protect Sapelo in the event of a British attack (Coulter 1940:82-86;
Vanstory 1956:49). Bu Allah also was responsible for saving many lives in
the hurricane of 1824.

Hurricanes were a cause of great concern on the coastal islands and
Spalding believed they were becoming more frequent in his time. In 1804,
1813, and 1819, gale forces struck the coast, causing death and destruc-
tion. The hurricane of September, 1824 was one of the worst to hit the
coast of Georgia, and it struck hardest on the exposed coast of Sapelo,
causing a wall of water six feet high to sweep across much of the island.
Spalding's entire crop, all his sheep, 250 head of cattle, and twenty seven
horses and mules were destroyed. In addition, eight or nine lives were lost
(Coulter 1940:48). Other fierce gales were to hit Sapelo later, but none
was as devastating as the hurricane of 1824.

In spite of Spalding's driving interest in his work, he was a devoted
family man, and soon after going to Sapelo he built his south end
mansion. Constructed of tabby, the structure was solid and low, built to
resist summer heat, winter cold, and the hurricanes which blew in from
the sea; the structure withstood the 1824 hurricane. Spalding planned his
home for future generations as well as his own. He and Sarah produced
sixteen children, suggestive of a certain guarantee that Spaldings would
occupy "the big house" for many years to come. Ironically, this was not to
happen.

For nearly half a century the Spaldings lived on Sapelo. Sarah died in
1834; the living children had reached adulthood by this time and had
moved to the mainland. Spalding outlived five of his seven sons. Of his

remaining two sons, Charles had no children, and his only hope for a
continuation of the Spalding name rested with Randolph. Spalding died
in 1851, and willed the plantation to Randolph's son, Thomas Spalding II.
For the next ten years Sapelo was a part-time home for the Spalding
children.

Civilians vacated Sapelo at the outbreak of the Civil War. Confed-
erate soldiers were stationed on the island for a short time in 1861, but
they too were soon evacuated. After the war Sapelo was occupied during
Reconstruction by outsiders. When the Spalding heirs finally regained
their property, the deteriorated mansion was uninhabitable. The family
lived in smaller houses for some years but eventually sold off parts of the
property to various owners (Vanstory 1956:49-50). Fields were allowed to
overgrow to provide cover for birds and game.

In 1911 Howard Coffin, the Hudson automobile manufacturer, visit-
ed Sapelo, became intrigued by its beauty, and in 1912 bought the island.
The south end home was restored by Coffin and was used as a vacation
retreat for nearly ten years, when he decided to rebuild and remodel the
mansion. Coffin's cousin, Alfred W. Jones was in charge in Coffin's
absence, and between them they rebuilt the island empire. Wells were
drilled, and roads and bridges were built. The mansion was remodeled
and enlarged. Eventually the "big house" became Coffin's permanent
home, and once again Sapelo offered hospitality to its visitors. Among
these visitors were Charles Lindbergh, Calvin Coolidge and Herbert
Hoover (Vanstory 1956:51-52; Hart n.d.:2).

Twenty five years after the Coffins bought Sapelo, Howard Coffin
died. Its next owner was tobacco magnate Richard J. Reynolds of North
Carolina. Reynolds continued Coffin's practice of large scale farming,
cattle breeding, and experimentation. He promoted the growth of wild-
life and bird retreats on uncultivated parts of Sapelo and sponsored
several educational programs, including the establishment of a Marine
Research Foundation in 1954 (Vanstory 1956:63; Hart n.d.:2).

In 1969 the northern portion of Sapelo was purchased by the State of
Georgia from Reynold's widow and presently served as a wildlife refuge.
The southern end of the island, which was utilized by the Marine Re-
search Foundation, was later acquired by the State and is now the
location of the University of Georgia Marine Institute. Descendents of
Thomas Spalding's slaves make their homes at Hog Hammock; and
Sapelo continues today much as it did in Thomas Spalding's time, with
research and experimentation as major themes.

SPALDING'S SUGAR WORKS SITE,
SAPELO ISLAND, GEORGIA*

By Morgan R. Crook, Jr. and Patricia D. O'Grady
INTRODUCTION

Production of sugar and molasses was a major enterprise in the
southern United States during the first decades of the 19th century.
Louisiana was the prime area of the industry, followed by Florida, then
Georgia and South Carolina. Much information is available from docu-
mentary sources for this period, however little is known archeologically
of construction details and material culture associated with the early
sugar industry. Archaeological investigations consisting of structural
mapping and exploratory excavation at Spalding's Sugar Works Site on
Sapelo Island, Georgia, provides some detail of sugar operations ( Figures
1 and 2). The investigations were conducted during the summer of 1976
as a portion of a West Georgia College Archaeological Field School
under the supervision of Lewis H. Larson, Jr., Professor of Anthropology,
West Georgia College.

This report represents an attempt to integrate the archaeological
and historical record to address questions of the history of sugar oper-
ations at the site. First a brief examination of the economic matrix of
which sugar production was a part is made to determine the influences
which gave rise to the industry, fostered its continuance, and eventually
led to its demise. Next the operations associated with sugar production
are examined, looking at their productive advantages and concomitant
problems. Results of the archaeological investigations are then discus-
sed, followed by a concluding section which summarizes the documen-
tary information and recovered archaeological data.

THE ECONOMIC MATRIX

During the 18th and first half of the 19th centuries, market values of the
agricultural staples (indigo, sugar, Sea- Island cotton, and rice) of the South-
ern Atlantic Coast fluctuated depending on trade relations, foreign compe-
tition, and market competition between the staples themselves. Sugar pro-
duction developed and fell as a result of these economic circumstances.

*Reprinted by permission from Industrial Archaeology, Vol. 13, No. 4, Pp. 318-
385. Published by Graphmitre Ltd., 1 West Street, Tavistock, Devon, England.

SOUTHERN END OF SAPELO I8LAND

SOUTHERN ATLANTIC COASTAL
AREA, SHOWING THE SITE
LOCATION AND RELATED AREAS

scale:

50 100

MILES

Figure 1
Sapelo Island and the Sugar Works Site.

10

magnetic North

Figure 2
Spalding's Sugar Works.

11

Indigo was commercially grown in the Southern States during most of
the 18th century. Produced in Louisiana as early as 1725, the crop became an
important staple until the last decade of the century when competition with
superior Guatemalian indigo along with pressures of rivaling cotton and rice
production led to its decline. Indigo was produced along the South Atlantic
Seaboard; however, only in Florida where wild indigo was found in abun-
dance and climatic conditions were well suited, did the crop develop eco-
nomically. Here the industry also declined under the pressure of Guate-
malian and new crop competition. Early production experiments were made
in Georgia and the Carolinas, but the crop never gained a secure market
because of a limited growing season and inferior crop quality (Gray 1933:73,
74).

Commercial rice cultivation developed along side indigo and continued
long after the ingido industry had collapsed. Employment of irrigation in
inland swamp areas increased production during the first half of the 18th
century. Production increased most dramatically during the last decades of
the colonial period with the utilization of tidal swamps and marsh areas,
which allowed effective weed control, insect control, and fertilization through
daily flooding and draining of the prepared rice fields. However, areas well
suited to tidal irrigation were limited to river areas from the lower Cape Fear
River to around Jacksonville, Florida Portions of South Carolina and Georgia
were less favourable for tidal irrigation because of labour scheduling prob-
lems resulting from exceptionally high tides which occurred twice daily
(Gray 1933:289, 721).

Whereas the indigo market declined, rice production continued with
developing cotton and sugar. The rice market often fluctuated with the
cotton market. When prices were good for cotton, planters tended to neglect
food-crops, increasing the demand for rice. The cotton industry began to
develop commercially during the last decades of the 18th century in response
to the declined indigo industry and peaked around 1805, after which prices
were sporadically lower. Cotton depended heavily upon a foreign market.
The embargo of 1808 and trade restrictions imposed by the War of 1812 led to
decreased production. Conversely, the war had an advantageous effect on
the rice market, owing to increased demands for foodstuffs (Gray 1933:725,
738).

Rice and cotton prices were sporadically higher following the war. Rice
production increased from 1820 until 1835, leading to depressed market
prices. Cotton production suffered from a tariff imposed from 1827 to 1833.
Removal of the tariff resulted in a 45% increase in cotton prices. Prices were
more or less stabilized at a high level from this time until the Civil War (Gray
1933:739). Market prices for rice were briefly elevated around 1835, however
competition with inexpensive East Indian rice returned prices to low levels
until 1860 (Gray 1933:726).

The sugar industry developed in relation to the other staples. Com-
merical production began around 1795 in Louisiana after indigo production

12

was commercially abandoned. By the first years of the 19th century the
industry had grown substantially, depending heavily upon an American
market. Price depressions in cotton from 1805 until after the War of 1812
provided new impetus for sugar production. Thomas Spalding began his
milling operations during this period. He first planted cane in 1806 and
between then and 1813 he initiated milling operations (Spalding 1937:230).
Trade restrictions preceding the War of 1812 made the purchase of his
milling machinery, available from English factories, very expensive. Spalding
writes, "My progress to successfulness was obstructed by the non-importa-
tion act, by the embargo act, and finally by the war up to the year 1814. My
Sugar works, in consequence of these obstructing causes, were very costly
..." (Spalding 1829a:55).

The sugar industry expanded following the war due to protection from
foreign competition by a stiff revenue duty on imported sugar, growing home
market demands, and unstable rice and cotton markets. The conditions
favorable to increased production are noted in an 1828 letter printed in the
Southern Agriculturalist:

"If all those who could make Sugar, would commence and quit the
Cotton business, those who could not make Sugar, would get a
better price for their Cotton .... There is no danger of glutting
the Sugar market, for our country has too little Cane land, to supply
the growing demand, which increases faster than the population.
The Tariff of three cents per pound is ample protection." (McCoy
1828:182).

As a consequence of the protected home market afforded the sugar
industry, prices were much more stable than cotton or rice. This provided the
planter a predictable income source which complemented the fluctuating
prices of his other crops.

Sugar prices remained stable until 1832, when import duties were lowered
to about 60% of the American market value. This, along with deflated foreign
markets and increases in cotton and rice prices, led to the abandonment of
the sugar industry on many estates (Gray 1933:745).

SUGAR PRODUCTION

When the sugar market was healthy, cane cultivation offered the planter
several advantages, but production was not without complications. One
important advantage was that sugar operations did not conflict with the
planting and harvest of other plantation crops. Rice was usually planted
between the middle of March and the middle of May, and was harvested by
September (Knapp 1900: 12-13). Sea- Island cotton was planted between the
middle of March and the first week of April. Picking the cotton began around
the last week in August, and re-picking continued until about the middle of
December (Hammond 1896:230). Cane planting began in mid-October. It
could be continued over a five-month period and finished prior to rice and
cotton planting. The cane crop was harvested in October and November,

13

after rice harvest and the first heavy cotton picking (Spalding 1828:553).
Gregorie (1829:99) notes that,

"the cane harvest arrives at a time when the planter's attention
can be fully given to his plantation affairs .... Even after frost,
if another crop requires immediate care, as for instance, picking
in Sea-Island Cotton, the canes can be laid in matresses and in that
state will keep during the Winter, producing nearly as much as
ever."

The successful preservation of cane for seed was a crucial development
for the planter. Otherwise planting the next crop and processing the present
one would have had to occur simultaneously. This problem plagued Spalding
in his early attempts at sugar production. He wrote in 1816 that before cane
mattressing was employed, it was "impossible to plant more than a portion of
your Cane, before you had to employ all your people in Manufacturing, and
preparing your Sugar for Market" (Spalding 1937:231).

Once cane was ripe for sugar, harvesting and processing had to be
accomplished in a short period of time, for cold-damaged cane produced
inferior sugar if any at all. Fields were divided by roads in high lands and
canals in low to allow expeditious cutting and loading of the cane on ox carts
or flats bound for the millhouse. Milling operations were constantly supplied
with fresh cane from the fields, the mill and boilers being worked night and
day.

Expressed cane juice from the mill was passed through a gutter to the
nearby boiling-house. Here the juice was clarified with lime, then passed into
the largest of four successively smaller copper boilers (Spalding 1937:243-
241). At first successful reduction of cane juice to sugar was dependent upon
the skill and experience of the supervisor (Spalding 1937:241-242); however,
by 1828 thermometers were used to determine the correct final boiling
temperature (Spalding 1828:555).

The hot sugar- molasses mixture was placed in coolers, then transported
in barrels to the adjoining curing-house. Molasses drained from the cooled
mixture, leaving raw sugar in the barrels (Spalding 1937:243). The raw sugar
was judged to be of good competitive quality, proper boiling resulting in light
coloured grains. Refinement to pure white sugar was considered prohibi-
tively expensive, therefore processing ended with the raw product (Spalding
1829b: 101).

Nearby Darien, Georgia, was at least one market for the manufactured
sugar and molasses. The molasses also supplied a distillery operated in
Darien for the production of rum. "Darien sugar soon became such a staple
that quotation of the market for that commodity there began to appear in the
Savannah newspapers in 1818" (Floyd 1937:95).

Thomas Spalding published fairly detailed descriptions of the facilities
associated with his sugar works. He gives us the following of his millhouse: It
was,

14

"forty-one feet in diameter, of tabby, and octagonal in its form . . .

the outer walls of this building are sixteen feet high. Upon these

walls run a well connected plate, and over it is erected an octagonal

roof, meeting in a point. Within about seven feet distance from the

outer wall, is a circular inner wall, which rises ten feet; and from this

wall to the outer one is a strong joint work, which is covered with

two-inch Planks for a Tread for the Mules, Horses, or Oxen, that

work the Mill .... there are two several [sic] doors, at opposite

sides of the Mill-House in the lower story; the one for bringing

cane to the Mill, and the other for carrying out the expressed cane;

and these doors are six feet wide. There is also a door in the upper

story with an inclined plane leading to it, to carry up the Mules,

Horses, or Oxen that work the Mill." (Spalding 1937:236)

The mill was a vertical type, consisting of three wrought-iron covered

wooden roolers. The machinery was elevated above the ground surface on a,

"strong foundation of masonry, eight feet high, so as to be within two feet of a

level with the Horse-way . . ." (Spalding 1937:237). Cane was fed through the

rollers from the lower level and initially the expressed juice flowed through a

gutter into receivers located in the boiling-house where it was clarified with

the addition of lime. Later the juice was clarified in wooden vessels located in

the millhouse (Spalding 1828:555), then transported to the boiling-house.

The boiling-house contained a set of graduated copper boilers, cypress
coolers, and initially the clarifiers. The boilers,

"are built into a solid mass of brick-work on one side of the boiling-
house. The fire being lead [sic] from the smallest boilers, under which
it burns, upon grating-bars, which admit the ashes to fall into the
ash-pit below. The heat is so kept in by the Mason-work, that the
second and third boilers boil as furiously as the first, and so would
the fourth but for the frequent supply of cold juice which is drawn
from the receiver into it.

Opposite to the Boilers, on the side and end of the house, are ranged
eight Coolers, made of cypress two inch plank, of an oblong form,
and ten inches deep, which contain a tierce of Sugar each. These
coolers receive the syrup out of the track or smallest boiler, and in
them in granulates as it cools." (SPalding 1937:241).
The cooled sugar and molasses mixture was then transported to the
adjoining curing-house to separate.

"The curing-house is united to the boiling-house, and makes with
it the form of and [sic] L or T ... In the curing-house, strong joists
cross from side to side, at fifteen inches apart, resting at the end upon
an abutment wall. The bottom of the house, is two inclined planes,
of two feet descent, that discharges the molasses into a gutter in the
middle. This gutter also inclines a little to one end, where it empties
itself into a close cistern containing two thousand gallons. The

15

cistern may be made of cypress plank, rammed at the bottom and sides
with clay." (Spalding 1937:243).

THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL DATA

The structural remains of the Sugar Works Site were mapped as a
portion of the archaeological investigations (Figure 2). In addition, two
exploratory units (five feet by ten feet) were excavated in the mill-house and
the area immediately east of the boiling/ curing-house was probed for founda-
tion remains.

The recorded structural remains of the mill-house generally support
Spalding's descriptions; however, some of his measurements seem exag-
gerated (see Figure 3). The mill-house had an outer octagonal wall; each
length 18 feet long, one foot wide, and approximately 13 feet high. The wall
was constructed of form-poured tabby zones, 1 1 inches high and one foot
wide, which extended the full length of each wall (18 feet). The wall form,
evidently consisting of two planks, was held in place by one-inch diameter
wooden dowels and occasionally metal pegs. The dowels were placed through

UNIT 1030 R942

JOINT-WORK ORIENTATION

PLAN OF THE MILL- HOUSE AND
PORTION OF THE BOILING/
CURING-HOUSE, SHOWING THE
LOCATION OF EXCAVATION
UNITS

scale:

Figure 3

30

_i

FEET

16

the planks near the top and base, each pair separated from the other by one
foot, eight inches. Tabby was poured into the form to the level of the upper
dowels and the surface was smoothed. After the tabby was set, the form was
dismantled and the upper dowels were used in the base of the next form. This
procedure continued until the walls reached their full height. The wall then
received an l/4 inch to V2 inch plastered veneer (Plate 1).

One opening, probably a door-way, remains in the southern portion of
the octagon wall. The door-way is two feet, six inches wide and sue feet, six
inches high. Presumably other door-ways were located north of the remain-
ing one, through the circular inner wall and in the northern portion of the
octagon wall (Plate 2).

Plate 1
Southwestern section of the Octagon Wall (outer face). View to the northeast.

17

The circular inner wall is connected to the outer octagon by a tabby wall
five feet, six inches long, constructed in the same manner as the octagon wall.
The circular inner wall was constructed following the same procedure as that
used for the octagon wall, however some details differ. The tabby was poured
into forms two feet high and of undetermined length. These curved forms
were held by rectangular wooden pieces (% inch by 2 inch), spaced at three
feet, six inch intervals. Only two of the poured zones remain, however the
wall was originally about eight feet, six inches high, based on the height of the
connecting wall and the position of support-beam holes in the inner face of
the octagon wall.

Plate 2
Southern section of the Octogon Wall (inner face). View to the south.

18

The animal tread of the mill-house connected the inner and outer walls.
Spalding states that the tread was made of two-inch planks covering a strong
joint-work. The holes remaining in the inner face of the octagon wall indicate
that the joint-work consisted of four inch by six inch beams. One end of th
beams was placed in the octagon wall as the form was being poured The
other end apparently rested in or upon the inner wall. The orientations of the
beams as indicated by the angles of the remaining holes are shown in Figure 3.
The tread was elevated about eight feet, six inches above the mill floor, based
on the height of the beam holes.

Spalding states that access to the tread was by an inclined plane. The rec-
tangular appendage at the southern end of the mill-house is interpreted as the
foundation for this inclined plane. Construction details of the appendage are
the same as those of the octagon wall (Plate 3).

Plate 3
Probabie foundation of inclined plane leadint to the animal tread View to
the northeast.

19

One exploratory unit (Unit 1005R932) was excavated in the interior of
the mill-house, approximately two feet east of the circular inner wall. Two
structural features were encountered in the unit (Figure 4). The northern face

V*Z6M SOOI 326H 0001

IIVM NU31S3M 2

Figure 4

Structural features in the interior of the Mill-House.

See page 26 for profile symbol key.

20

of a tabby construction was located along the southern wall of the excavation
unit (Plate 4). The feature was constructed of poured tabby and had a thin
plastered veneer upon its surface. A narrow discoloration line was observed
on the plastered face of the feature, possibly indicating the position of a floor.
A layer of shell was located immediately beneath the feature which would
have served as a footing when the tabby was poured. This construction is
probably part of the mill machinery foundation described by Spalding.
Beneath the western end of the foundation the shell deposit increased in

Plate 4
Excavatiorrunit 1005R932. Possible clarifying vat in upper central portion of
the photograph and probable mill machinery foundation to the left. View to
the west.

21

depth to about one foot, six inches beneath the base of the feature. This
deposit extended across the excavation unit, roughly perpendicular to the
foundation. The function of the shell deposit is uncertain, however it may
have provided a bed for the gutter than Spalding mentions to have carried
expressed cane juice to the boiling- house.

The other feature encountered in the excavation unit was a curvate
stone and tabby-mortar construction with a plastered floor roughly eight
inches below the present top of the stone and mortar wall (Plate 5). The
junction of the plastered floor and wall received an extra coating of the
plaster mixture, suggesting the structure was designed to hold a liquid. The
function of the feature is undetermined, but it may have been a clarifying vat
for the expressed cane juice.

Plate 5
Excavation unit 1030R942. Northern face of Octagon Wall foundation.

The artifacts recovered from the excavation unit were generally
confined to a tabby rubble zone which extended two feet beneath the
present surface. The artifact frequencies and distribution are summar-
ized in Table 1 . With the possible exception of two sherds, the aboriginal
pottery recovered certainly represents pottery which accompanied the
shell borrowed for tabby construction from aboriginal shell middens.

22

TABLE 1

EXCAVATION UNIT 1005 R932
ARTIFACT FREQUENCIES AND DISTRIBUTION

Feet below the surface

0.0

0.5

1.0

1.5

2.0

2.5

3.0

3.5

Description

0.5

1.0

1.5

2.0

2.5

3.0

3.5

4.0

Total

Aboriginal Pottery
Wilmington Residual
Grit Tempered Plain
Grit Temp. Stamped
Plain Gr/Sa Temp.
Sand Temp. Residual

2

5

2

1
1

1

2
5
1
2

European Ceramics
Whiteware

Polychrome trans.
Lustreware

4

1

4

1

Plain

7

7

Glassware

Bottle Fragments
Pepsi, modern
Coca Cola

1

1

body sherd '1915'
base sherd

1
1

1
1

Tableware

Pink pressed glass

2

2

Miscellaneous Frag.

Clear

20

22

1

43

Clear, patinated
Green

18

1

1

19
1

Amber

1

1

Aqua

Tubing, 1/4 in o.d.
Tubing, 1/8 in o.d.
Tubing, 1/16 in o.d.

3
2
2

1

3
2
2
1

Light bulb

3

1

4

23

Iron
Nails

Round, wire

Square, cut

Clinched
Spike

Round
Wire

Light Bulb Base
Wedge

6
3
1

1
1
1

3

5

2
1

1

11
9

Door Bolt
Door Hook
Punch-Out*
Stove Door**
Corregated Fragment
Miscellaneous Frag.

1
1

2

1

1
1

1

3

Bone
Long Bone Frag.

1

1

Miscellaneous
Charred Wood Frag.
Charcoal Frag.
Wood Fragments
Brick Fragments
Mortar Chunks
Mortar, Flatsided
Quartz Pebble
Diabase Frag.
Sandstone Frag.
Unid. Lithic Frag.
Modern Pocket Knife

2
4

3

5

+
2

+

2#

+
4

+

2+
8

2# +
5
5

*electrical utility
**sheet-metal, round
+ fragmented
#2-1/2 pounds

The whiteware sherds recovered were restricted to the humus and
rubble zones of the excavation unit. The English flooded American
markets with transfer-printed cream and white earthenware until tariffs
were raised in the 1800s (Ketchum 1971:120-121). Whiteware material
was in use throughout the 19th century and could date to the early 1800s;
however, since all the sherds were associated in or above the tabby rubble
zone, they appear to have been deposited after milling operations were
suspended.

24

The glassware recovered was also from the rubble zone and appears
to post-date milling operations. Two pink fragments of pressed glass were
recovered from the rubble zone. Pressed glass was first produced around
1827 and began to be fire-polished after 1850 (Lorrain 1968:38, 39). It was
impossible to determine if the glass had been fire-polished because the
rubble contained numerous charred materials and ash, evidencing a fire.

The machined nails represented were first produced in the early
1850s (Noel Hume 1969:254). The remainder of the artifacts, excepting
the wood fragment,, appear to be post 1850 in origin. The wood frag-

NORTHERN FACE OF
WALL FOUNDATION

1026.7 R937

1026.2 R942

PLAN VIEW

1030 R937

1030 R942

'\/'V'\/>\/"'\

1020 R937

PROFILES

I020R942

EXCAVATION UNIT 1030 R942

scale:

FEET

Figure 5

Structural features in the northern face of the circular inner wall.

See next page for legend.

25

KEY OF PROFILE SYMBOLS

I^^^B ROOT ZONE, HUMUS

". .,..< i' 11

POURED-TABBY CONSTRUCTION

oo9-

o

CZ STONE AND TABBY-MORTAR CONSTRUCTION

* -

TABBY RUBBLE

SHELL MIXED WITH TABBY-MORTAR

SHELL

ASHY GREY SAND

ss

ASHY BROWN SAND

rdjjuLiL

BROWN SAND

STERILE TAN SAND

26

ments recovered from the 1.5 to 2.0 foot level were located at the base of
the level along with sections of poorly preserved planks. The remains of
floor or possibly roof materials may be represented by these fragments.

The second exploratory unit (Unit 1030R942) was excavated just
north of the northern face of the circular inner wall. One structural feature
and a dog interment were encountered in the unit (see Figure 5 and Plates 5 and
6). The structural feature consisted of the stone foundation of the octa-
gon wall. The foundation was constructed of four layers of stone set in
mortar. Stones used in the second layer were considerably smaller than
those of the other layers. The foundation rested on a thin layer of mortar.
The stone used may have been obtained from one of the ballast dump
areas located just south of Sapelo Island.

A mature dog had been buried just north of the octagon wall. The
burial pit was intrusive into the ashy brown sand zone from the above
tabby rubble zone. The pit contained tabby rubble fill, indicating the dog
was buried after the mill-house wall had fallen. The dog was left in situ.

The artifacts recovered from the unit were not confined to the tabby
rubble zone as in the other excavated unit. This probably indicates that

Plate 6
Excavation unit 1020R942: dog interment. View to the east.

27

the wall fell at a later date in this area rather than association of the
artifacts with milling operations. Stratigraphically the area appeared
quite disturbed. The depressed areas of ashy brown sand north and south
of the wall foundation probably represent areas dug for trash disposal
before the octagon wall collapsed.

The recovered artifacts are summarized in Table 2, A through C.
The artifacts generally date from the middle of the 19th century to
modern times (presence of aboriginal pottery probably due to shell
borrowing activities). A single lusterware fragment, two ironstone frag-
ments, one yellowware fragment, and four porcelain fragments were
found. These wares were in sure during the early 1800s; however, manu-
facturing continued throughout the century (Ketchem 1971: 120-122).
The hand-pointed overglazed porcelain was manufactured during the
second half of the 18th century (Noel Hume 1969:259). The remainder of
the procelain was undecorated and could date as late as the 20th century
(Ketchum 1971:145).

TABLE 2

EXCAVATION UNIT 1030 R942

ARTIFACT FREQUENCIES AND DISTRIBUTION

(Table 2A)

Feet below the surface

Description

0.0-0.5

0.5-1.0

Total

Aboriginal Pottery

Deptford check-stamped

1

1

Savannah check-stamped

1

4

5

Savannah complicated-stamped

1

1

Irene complicated-stamped

5

5

San Marcos com. -stamped

1

1

Unidentified grit-tempered

1

6

7

Unidentified sand-tempered

4

4

Unidentified

3

3

European Ceramics

Porcelain insulator

1

1

Glassware

Amber fragments

2

1

3

Clear bottle fragments

7

7

Clear bottle frag, patinated

3

3

Panel bottle frag. "Califig"

1

1

Iron Nails

Square, cut

10

10

Non-ferrous metal

Square sheet

1

1

28

Bone
Deer long-bone fragments

2

3

5

Shell
Conch
Periwinkle

1

5

1

5

Miscellaneous
Charred wood
Tabby Mortar
Brick
Stone

2
4

3
4
2
3

5

8

2
3

EXCAVATION UNIT 1030 R942
AREA NORTH OF THE OCTAGON WALL FOUNDATION

(Table 2B)

Feet below the surface

1.0

1.5

2.0

2.5

3.0

3.5

Description

1.5

2.0

2.5

3.0

3.5

4.0

Total

Aboriginal Pottery

Wilmington Plain

1

1

Savannah Check-Stamped

1

1

1

Unident. Grit-Tempered

3

3

Unident. Grit/Sand Temp.

1

1

Unidentified

1

1

European Ceramics

Porcelain, Plate Base

1

1

Yellow-ware, Annular

1

1

Ironstone, Plain

1

1

Glassware

Two Part Molded Fragment

Califig syrup bottle

Clear, neck and lip

1

1

Aqua, neck and lip

1

1

Square, base and side

2

2

Aqua Window Pane

1

1

Lamp Chimney

25

25

Miscellaneous Fragments

Clear

1

11

12

Clear, patinated

1

3

4

Dark green

4

2

6

Green, patinated

1

1

Amber

1

1

Aqua, patinated

1

2

3

White, frosted

1

1

29

Iron Nails

Square, cut

1

1

Square, cut, Fencing
Fragments

3

6
1

6

4

Bone

Squirrel Long Bone Frag.

Squirrel Fragments

Deer Fragments

Dog Fragments

Raccoon Fragments

Possible Young Pig Fragments

4
1

62

1

2

214

1
100

4

63

1

101

2
214

Miscellaneous

Long Bone Fragments
Scapula Fragment
Vertebra Fragment

1

1

1

1

2
1
1

Radius Fragment

1

1

Shell

Conch

1

1

Miscellaneous

Charred Wood Fragments

31

31

Brick Fragments
Tabby Mortar Fragments
Shist Fragments
Slate Fragments

1

2
3

5
8

1

5

4
1

11

5
2
12

Sandstone Fragments
Slag Fragments
Tile Fragment
Cartridge Case

1

1
1

1

3

7

3

11

3
1

1

EXCAVATION UNIT 1030 R942
AREA SOUTH OF THE OCTAGON WALL FOUNDATION

(Table 2C)

Feet below the surface

Description

1.0
1.5

1.5
2.0

2.0

2.5

2.5
3.0

3.0
3.5

3.5
4.0

Total

Aboriginal Pottery
Savannah, Check-Stamped
Unidentified, Grit-Tempered
Unident. Grit-Tempered, with
orange paste

European Ceramics

1

3

1

1

3
1

30

Whiteware

Lustreware Fragment
Ironstone Fragment

1
1

1
1

Porcelain Fragments
Hand-painted Overglaze
Plain

1

2

1

2

Glassware

Bottles

Three part hinged molded
Two part hingedmolded

1*

1*

1*
1*

Molded Fragment

1

1

Tableware

Clear, leaf design

1

1

Miscellaneous Fragments
Clear

2

5

1

8

Clear, patinated
Green

14

3

9

3

2

25
6

Amber

1

1

Amber, patinated

Aqua

Dark green

Dark green, patinated

112

6

5
1

5

3
3

11
13

8
4

Iron

Nails

Round, wire

1

1

Square, cut

2

3

2

7

Tack

1

1

Fragments

1

1

Kettle Fragments

2

2

Flat Fragments

5

2

2

9

Strip Fragments

1

1

Plunger, Spray Gun Type
Wire Handle

1

1

1
1

Bone

Squirrel Mandible Fragments

1

4

5

Squirrel Long Bone Frag.
Squirrel Pelvis Fragments
Squirrel Sacrum Fragment

13

2
1

5

18
2
1

Squirrel Vertebra Frag.

7

2

9

Squirrel Skull Frag.
Molar Root

1

1

1
1

Long Bone Fragments
Unidentified Fragments

2

2

124

65

4
189

31

Miscellaneous

Charred Wood Fragments

24

24

Tar, Petroleum Based

1

1

2

Brick Fragments

3

3

Sedimentary Lithic Frag.

1

1

indicates intact bottles

The glassware recovered includes bottles and fragments, some table-
ware, windowpane glass, lamp chimney fragments, and miscellaneous
fragments. A three-part molded bottle (possibly a bitters bottle) and a
two-part molded bottle (probably a small medicine bottle) were found
south of the octagon wall. The three-part mold was introduced around
1810 and continued to be used after the development of the two-part
mold, which occurred in 1840 (Lorrain 1968:38, 40). One fragment of
clear pressed glass was also recovered from this location. The fragment
appeared to be fire polished which would date it post-1850 (Lorrain
1968:39); however, evidence of fire in the area makes this uncertain. A
partial Califig Syrup bottle was recovered north of the wall. This lettered
panel bottle dates to after 1867 (Lorrain 1968:40). The remaining artifacts
date from after 1850 until essentially modern times.

The slate fragments recovered north of the octagon wall may repre-
sent fallen roofing material. The fact that these fragments were located
outside the wall rather than inside provides some support for the argument.

The numerous animal bone represented seems to reinforce the
assertion that the area was used for refuse deposit after milling operations
were abandoned. The articulated remains of a single squirrel were found
in the area south of the wall foundation. The articulated condition of the
squirrel indicates that the animal either died there or was for some reason
buried, however, a burial pit was not recognized during excavation. Some
of the other faunal material could represent subsistence remains asso-
ciated with the milling operations, however this is uncertain because of
their disturbed context.

The boiling/curing-house complex bears little resemblence to
Spalding's description other than being located near the millhouse. The
structure is presently used for offices by the Georgia Department of
Natural Resources, and has apparently undergone considerable modification
since it was originally constructed. For this reason the area east of the
building was probed to determine the existence of additional structural
features which would support Spalding's descriptions. The probing results
were negative.

The remaining recorded structure was not mentioned in Spalding's
accounts. The remains of a tabby structure 31 feet wide and 56 feet long
were located adjacent to Post Office Creek. This building was aligned
perpendicular to the other structures and was apparently associated. The

32

building may have been a storage-house/dock facility for the processed
cane products. The presence of numerous slate fragments around the
structure suggests the roofing material.

The only other sugar works site archaeologically investigated is the
ruins of the Elizafield Plantation located 15 miles north of Brunswick,
Georgia, near Darien (Ford 1937). The sugar works here consisted of an
octagonal mill-house and a T-shaped boiling and curing house. Unlike
Spalding's works, the mill-house at Elizafield may have lacked a circular
inner wall and a foundation for the inclined plane (Ford 1937:195). The
upper story of the mill was evidently supported by short tabby walls
extended from the octagon wall towards the interior of the mill-house.

Many of the sugar processing facilities were still present at the Eliza-
field site when Ford visited it in 1934. The boiling-house contained the
fire grate and two vats, probably clarifying vats. One of the vats was oval-
shaped with a tabby floor. This feature seems to resemble the stone and
mortar, plastered floor construction located in the mill-house at Spalding's
works. The mill foundation was also defined at Elizafield. It was construc-
ted of tabby and closely resembles the mill machinery foundation at
Spalding's works. Debris possibly associated with milling operations was
recovered at the site, including hand-wrought nails, nuts, and bolts. The
cast-iron rollers and gear rack of the mill were also located (Ford 1937:
208-213).

It is difficult to determine if many of the artifacts reported from the
site were temporarily associated with the sugar works. A portion of the
material probably post-dates mill operations, for Ford notes (1937:196-
197) that a tabby floor had been constructed over the interior features of
the boiling-house, suggesting the structure had been put to some other
use, perhaps as a dwelling.

CONCLUSIONS

Production of sugar and molasses at Spalding's sugar works began
between 1806 and 1813 in response to unstable rice and cotton markets.
The cultivation, harvest, and processing of cane was carried on without
conflict with rice and cotton production, and unlike rice and cotton the
sugar market was relatively stable and protected by a stiff import duty.
This allowed the planter to supplement his fluctuating rice and cotton
income with a predictable and profitable income from his cane crop.

The sugar market remained stable until the import duties were
lowered in 1832. This, combined with deflated foreign sugar markets and
a rise in cotton and rice prices, led to the abandonment of milling
operations on many estates, and probably also marked the close of
Spalding's works. The artifacts associated with the site generally support
this date. Most of the artifacts recovered were post 1850 in origin. Those
dating before this time were probably discarded with the later items.

33

Further, most of the material (including early items such as the hand-
painted overglazed porcelain) was associated with the rubble of the fallen
tabby walls, indicating they were deposited after milling operations had
ceased. The mill-house area was in all probability used as a garbage dump
beginning shortly after milling operations had been suspended.

Excavations in or around the other structural remains at the site
would certainly provide additional information on sugar operations,
including for example, details of subsistence and material culture asso-
ciated with the slaves who operated the sugar works. Based on the results
of the present investigation, sugar operations continued for at least 19
years at the site. Certainly material associated with the individuals who
operated the works was lost and discarded during this period.

The structural remains of the site generally support Spalding's des-
criptions, with a few important exceptions. His published reports do not
mention the existence of a storage-house/dock structure. This is perhaps
because his writings focused on processing operations and facilities
rather than facilities important once processing was completed. Also the
door-way of the mill-house was much narrower tha stated in his descrip-
tion, and the boiling/curing-house complex did not correspond to his des-
criptions. It is likely that Spalding was describing ideal sugar operation
facilities, modifying the inadequacies of his own as needed.

34

THE SPANISH ON SAPELO

By Lewis H. Larson

In Havana, on March 20, 1742, Antonio de Arredondo completed his
Demonstration Historiographica del Derecho de Espana a Nueva Georgia
in an attempt to establish, "... the right that the Catholic King has to the terri-
tory in the Provinces and Continent of La Florida, held today by the
British King under the name New Georgia1' (Bolton 1925:223). In June of
that year Arredondo was to attempt to press the claim of his sovereign
while acting as Chief Engineer of the Spanish expedition mounted to
drive the English from the Georgia coast. The Spanish failed in this effort
during the Battle of Bloody Marsh on St. Simons Island on July 18, 1742.
Thus ended over two hundred years of Spanish control of the coastal area
of Georgia, an area known as the Province of Guale.

Sapelo Island had long played a role in the Spanish control of the
coast as they sought to protect their sea routes between Mexico and
Europe and to Christianize the Indians of La Florida. However, Sapelo,
like the other parts of the Georgia coast, was never the scene of a serious
colonial undertaking on the part of the Spanish. No New World criollos
were settled in the Province of Guale, much less immigrants from Spain
itself. Instead of the farmsteads of colonists, Sapelo was the locale of one
or more of the missions established in order to, ". . . convert the pagans to
the adoration of the Holy Cross and to the subjection of Spain" (Bolton
1925:245). The island was probably the site of a mission at least as early as
1597, the year of a major rebellion by the Guale against the Franciscan
priests who had been in the Province preaching the Holy Faith for over
twenty years.

Father Luis Geronimo de Ore came to Florida in 1614 and again in
1616 to conduct visitations to the Order on instructions of the Minister-
General of the Franciscan Order. Following his 1616 visit, Father Ore
wrote a history of the 1597 revolt and of the Franciscans who were
martyred during the first few days of its bloody action.

Father Ore's Relation apparently was based on interviews with those
Spanish who were involved in the initial events of the uprising and in the
subsequent incidents leading to the restoration of Spanish control. Pri-
mary among the informants of Ore may well have been Father Avila, the
only Franciscan in the entire Province of the Guale to survive the attacks
on the missions and their priests. Father Avila was taken captive, and
although he was subjected to cruelty and indignities he persevered and
was ransomed after several months. In addition to the informants, Ore
certainly had access, in the presidio at St. Augustine, to those govern-
ment and church records that related to the Guale Revolt.

In his account of his visit, in December 1616, to the Province of

35

Guale, Ore tells us that on his return from Santa Isabel, an inland mission,
". . . we descended by a larger river than the Tagus in canoes to the people
of the land of Guale. We visited the towns and the six priests in the
convent of San Jose de Zapala where (the Indians] had martyred one of
our five martyrs" (Geiger 1936:130). The river, larger than the Tagus,
down which Ore came to Guale was probably the Altamaha, the only
river that would have carried the priest to or near Sapelo Island.

It would seem that the clergy of San Jose de Zapala served a number
of towns in the area of the doctrina or mission. Perhaps all of these towns
or visitas were on Sapelo, but then they might well have been on the main-
land or on some of the larger islands that lay surrounded by marsh
between Sapelo and the mainland. In any event, the Ore statement offers
a strong argument that Sapelo was the site of a mission at the time of the
Guale Revolt in 1597 and that by the time of the 1616 visit of Ore the
mission had been reestablished and was an important center for Francis-
can activity in the Province of Guale, with six priests in residence.

San Jose de Zapala (it is also cited in the documents as Sapala and
Caala), presumably on Sapelo Island, continued to be listed as a Guale
mission up to 1680. The abandonment, about 1686, of Santa Catalina de
Guale on St. Catherines Island immediately to the north, across Sapelo
Sound, probably brought about the desertion of San Jose at the same time
or shortly thereafter. Jonathan Dickinson sighted, ". . . an Indian town
called Appataw," but makes no mention of a mission or other Spanish
activity located there or in the vicinity as he made his way from St. Augus-
tine to Charleston in December of 1696 (Andrews and Andrews 1945:90).
Although the mission of San Jose is on lists compiled for 1655 (Swanton
1922:322, but with the source unidentified), 1659 (Chatelain 1941:123,
from manuscripts by Juan Diez de la Calle in the Biblioteca Nacional,
Madrid), 1675 (Wenhold 1936: 10, in a letter of Gabriel Diaz Vara Calderon,
Bishop of Cuba to the Queen the list was probably compiled prior to
June 1675; a second list of that same year is to be found in Boyd 1948:182,
in a letter from Don Pedro de Hita Salazar, Governor of Florida to the
Queen and dated August 24, 1675), and 1680 (Chatelain 1941:124, from
Archives of the Indies, 54-5-11, dated December 8, 1680). There are no
references to the Spanish on Sapelo after 1680, and the statement of
Dickinson is the only indication we have of an Indian occupation of the
island continuing after that date.

Unfortunately, we are able to identify, by name, but a single priest
from what must have been a rather substantial group of religious persons
who served on Sapelo during the long history of its mission. That one
priest, Father Juan Bauptistas Campafia, is identified at the mission of
San Jose de Sapala during the year of 1675 (Boyd 1948: 182). It is of some
interest to note that the mention of Father Campafia in the 1675 mission
list is accompanied by the only information that we have regarding the

36

population of a Spanish establishment on Sapelo. Don Juan de Hita
Salazar, Governor of the presidio at St. Augustine and compiler of the
mission list observes that at San Jose, "In round numbers it may have,
between men, children and women and pagan, fifty persons" (Boyd
1948:182).

I will not attempt here to describe Guale culture or the effect of
Spanish control upon it. I have made this effort elsewhere (Larson 1969
and 1978) and I have little to add to those summaries at this time.

The extended archaeological survey program carried out from 1974
through 1979 on Sapelo by West Georgia College has located a number
of sites on the island with evidence of the Spanish presence. In all
instances, however, the evidence is limited to ceramics. No architectural
remains attributable to the Spanish have been defined; nor have there
been any metal artifacts found that are recognizably Spanish. The Span-
ish ceramic types that have been recovered include a limited number of
olive jar sherds and a very few majolica sherds. They have been found
both on the surface and in excavated test units. In number, these sherds
are a meager representation indeed for what appears to have been over
one hundred years of mission activity.

The sites where Spanish ceramics have been found are the very
largest sites on the island and are those that are characterized by Savan-
nah, Irene, and San Marcos types of aboriginal pottery. These sites
include Kenan Field, Bourbon Field, the area north of the Shell Ring, and
High Point. In terms of their aboriginal ceramics, soil type, location with
respect to the marsh and tidal creeks, and drainage, there are other sites
on the island similar to those just named, but there are not Spanish
ceramics in the limited surface collections from them. Interestingly, the
locations of these sites are largely coincident with the locations of build-
ings (houses?) shown on the DeBrahm map of Sapelo dated 1760 ( Yonge &
DeBrahm:1760). While the structures that DeBrahm has shown on his
map are in all likelihood the product of settlement that had occurred
after the founding of the Georgia colony by Oglethorpe in 1733, they cer-
tainly appear to have been placed where there may already have been
clearings or old field situations.

Beyond Sapelo, on the adjacent mainland, and on hammocks and on
islands in the marsh, other aboriginal sites with Spanish ceramics have
been identified (Figure 1). These sites have not only produced olive jar
and majolica sherds, but in at least one instance, native Mexican wares,
apparently imported by the Spanish, are represented in the sherd col-
lections. The presumed Mexican sherds are from the site on St. Cath-
erines Island. The presence of these Indian sites in the general vicinity of
Sapelo (they are in relatively large numbers) suggests that not only was
the locale a focus of considerable missionary attention, but that it was
also an area with a sizable aboriginal population. Undoubtedly, there was
more than one mission in the Mcintosh County area during most of the

37

Spanish Period; in addition to the mission on Sapelo there must have
been a mainland mission. The most logical site for the mainland mission
would have been on the bluff at the place that was to be occupied by Fort
King George. This fort, built by the Carolinians in 1721, commanded
access to the interior via the Altamaha River.

W*'

MAP LEGEND

Figure 1
The central Georgia coastal area and the sites of the Spanish Period that have
been identified archaeologically.

38

Excavations at several of the Spanish Period sites in the tidewater
portion of the mainland provide some information about what might be
expected to be the cultural characteristics of the Indian occupations in
the Sapelo Island area. Presumably, this information enables us to formu-
late a general, if not a specific, description of the Sapelo sites of the

Figure 2
Wall trench outlines of Spanish Period aboriginal xlomestic structures found
atrthe site on the north end of Harris- Neck. The structures are shown in their
proper relationships to ~one another. An apparent uniformity or orientation
and alignment suggest residential patterning in the village.

39

Spanish Period. Excavations at the site on the north end of Harris Neck
(Figure 2) and at Fort King George (Figure 3) provided a number of
examples of what are surely domestic structures, in all likelihood houses,
from the seventeenth century. These Indian Buildings are not large and
all provide unquestioned association of aboriginal sherds and Spanish
sherds with the construction features.

The aboriginal houses of the Spanish Period at both the Fort King
George site and the site on the north end of Harris Neck utilize closed
corner, wall trench construction. The floor plans are characterized by
walls that divide the interior space into rooms. Some of these walls
partition off corners of the house into separate rooms, others cut across
the center of the house creating two equal sized rooms. Entries were
apparently located where short walls jut out from the exterior wall line of
the house in order to form a covered passage. There do not appear to be
any structures that contained interior hearths. This suggests that cooking
may well have been carried on out-of-doors, or that perhaps the struc-
tures served other than a residential function. Wall trench configurations
which appear too small to have formed a house may have had storage
functions.

The Pine Harbor site, a site that I presently feel was occupied at the
beginning of the Spanish mission activity on the Georgia coast, produced
little information on houses. The evidence that we now have suggests that
the houses did not employ wall trenches in their construction, but rather
used individually set posts. The one set of post holes that were exposed at
Pine Harbor is the only evidence for what may have been a house at that
site (Figure 4). While many other post holes were found at the site, it was
impossible for me to separate out any coherent alignments from the mass
of post holes encountered. And although the one set of post holes found
at the site that could be interpreted as a structure was buried beneath a
shell midden and had never been disturbed, there was, again, no evidence
for a hearth to be found on the floor.

There are massive architectural elements from Kenan Field that are
associated with Irene ceramics and are probably contemporary, there-
fore, with the Pine Harbor site and the early phase of the Spanish
presence (Crook 1978:173 et seq., 203 et seq.). Unfortunately, the structures
to which these elements, large and long wall trenches, belong have not been
completely excavated so we do not have a good idea of the nature of the
structure, or structures, of which they were a part. They appear to have
been either portions of large communal buildings or palisades defining
socially significant areas within the town.

Nowhere on Sapelo do we have evidence of architecture that can be
attributed to Spanish activities, rather than Indian activity, during the
mission period. There is good reason to believe that the structural features
excavated by Sheila Caldwell in the early 1950s at the Fort King George

40

Figure 3
Wall trench outlines of Spanish Period aboriginal domestic structures at the
Fort King George Site. The drawing is based upon an incomplete tracing ofa
field map by Shiela Caldwell, and the scale may be inaccurate. The structure
outline shown in the inset was executed by the author in 1966.

41

Figure 4~
'The post hote pattern beneath the northern edge of midden number 5 at the
Pine Harbor Site.

site are the remains of a building, perhaps a mission, built and used by the
Spanish (Figure 5). The configuration of the structure and the con-
struction elements all appear to be European rather than Indian. The
building features were intruded by the graves dug to bury soldiers who
died during the occupation of Fort King George prior to the founding of
the Georgia colony. Thus any occupation employing European style
buildings would have to have been a Spanish occupation.

Beyond the identification, on Sapelo, of those sites of the Spanish
Period we are able to provide little information regarding the nature of
these sites. Limited testing at Bourbon Field and at the site north of the
Shell Ring indicates that the exploitation of esturine resources was an
important subsistence activity. Quantities of oyster, conch, mussel and
clam shell, as well as fish bone, characterize the middens of both sites.

42

Figure 5
Partial plan of the presumed Spanish structure at Fort King George. This
drawing like figure 3, is based upon an incomplete tracing of a field map by
Shiela Caldwell. All of the excavated features probably are not shown, and
the scale may be inaccurate.

Although at the present time the analysis of food remains from these sites
is largely incomplete, oyster shell comprises, by far, the most abundant
remains of any of the shellfish species. Catfish, if not the largest number of

43

individual of any fish species included within the midden, are at least a
very well represented species. Crook summarizes more complete the
available data on the fauna from Bourbon Field in his paper on the south-
eastern coastal settlement pattern included in this volume.

Plant remains from the midden areas at Kenan Field, Bourbon Field,
and the site north of the Shell Ring include the remains of a variety of
plant species. The identifications that have been attempted to date
indicate that these remains are, without exception, wild species and in all
likelihood the product of gathering activity. The absence of cultigens,
particularly maize, is surprising and contrasts markedly with other mis-
sion period sites in the area. The presumed mission site at Fort King
George, the Pine Harbor site, and the site at the north end of Harris Neck
in Mcintosh County and the Wamassee Head site on St. Catherines
Island in Liberty County have all produced charred maize. Peach seeds
have also been found at Wamassee Head and on the basis of meager and
inconclusive evidence beans may be present at the Pine Harbor site. The
absence of cultigens in the mission period middens on Sapelo cannot be
explained. It is assumed that a complete analysis of the excavated test
samples will reveal this presence.

In 1721, Colonel John Barnwell was sent by the colonial authorities
in South Carolina to the mouth of the Altamaha River to construct a fort
on the English-Spanish frontier. The journal that Barnwell kept of the
enterprise contains an entry of at least passing interest in connection with
Indian agriculture on Sapelo during the Spanish period. On July 1 1, while
in route to the proposed site of Fort King George, Barnwell records that,
I prevailed with the Men to make the best of their way this day,
without waiting for tide or vituals, to reach Alabama River
[Altamaha River], to put me on board the Sloop, being very
ill, wch they did, just putting ashoar at Sapola for Spanish Gar-
lick & to look for figs; they got garlick but the figs were green . . .
(Barnwell 1926:196).

Apparently by the time of the Barnwell expedition Sapelo was
without an Indian population as well as Spanish missionaries. In any
event there were at least the remnants of Indian and Spanish gardens on
the island. In his 1760 map, William DeBrahm noted the presence of
"oranges and limes garden" at the extreme northeastern corner of the
island at a point overlooking the marsh separating Sapelo from Black-
beard Island (Yonge and DeBrahm 1760).

Although the DeBrahm map reference is possibly to cultivation that
occurred after the establishment of British authority oh the Georgia
coast, Barnwell was most certainly referring to garlic and figs that ante-
date that authority in the area.

It is to be expected that the archaeology of the mission period on
Sapelo would produce evidence of Spanish-introduced domesticated

44

plants as well as the native American cultigens. Beyond peaches, the pits
of which provided solid archaeological evidence of their presence on St.
Catherines, it is difficult to anticipate what other plants derived from pre-
British European sources might be found on Sapelo.

In summary, there is no doubt that the Spanish were present and
exercised dominion over Sapelo Island during the more than one hun-
dred years in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries when the Francis-
can missionaries preached in the Indian towns of the Province of Guale.
The meager documentary evidence from the period argues for the Span-
ish occupation of Sapelo. The archaeological evidence, equally limited,
provides solid support for that argument. The archaeological data need
to be expanded however, and the nature of the Spanish presence needs to
be more carefully defined. The chronological framework also should be
refined more critically.

Only more fieldwork employing extensive testing can provide the
data necessary to site definition and chronological refinement. Because it
was relatively underdeveloped in the past and is presently protected from
the destructive development that currently characterizes much of the
coastal area, Sapelo Island is perhaps the most promising area for the
investigation of Spanish occupation on the Georgia coast. It is to be
hoped that work will continue and that many of the questions concerning
the mission period will be answered by this work.

45

A MODEL FOR BARRIER ISLAND
SETTLEMENT PATTERN*

By Alan E. McMichael

In a paper presented before the thirty-second Southeastern Arch-
aeological Conference the author summarized the results of two seasons
of archaeological survey of Sapelo Island, Georgia (Simpkins and
McMichael 1976). The paper presents a model for barrier island settle-
ment pattern based on a probability sample obtained on Sapelo Island
and suggests its application to other barrier islands on the Georgia coast.

The term settlement pattern is used here in the sense of Trigger's
(1968:54-55) "macrosettlement patterns." Trigger distinguishes between
the internal layout or patterning of a settlement, the microsettlement
pattern, and the size, nature, and location of settlements on the land-
scape, i.e., the macrosettlement pattern. The terms are derived from
Changs (1968:6-7) distinction between the sociocultural "microstructure"
and "macrostructure" of communities. Sears (1961:226) has invoked a
similar dichotomy. For the most part, the macrostructure of a settlement
pattern reflects the articulation of technology and environment whereas
the microstructure is more often determined by factors of kinship or
political organization, although as Trigger (1968:61-62) points out, eco-
logical and sociocultural factors are not totally independent.

Sapelo Island (Figure 1) is one of six barrier islands on the Georgia
coast composed of Pleistocene sediments with Holocene additions (Hoy t
and Hails 1967). The barrier islands are composed of parallel rows of
successive beach ridges which were isolated by submergence during the
Holocene. The beach ridges have undergone erosion, losing their dune-
like relief, to become sand ridges, uniformly high and level. The lagoons
were partially filled with eroded sands and exist today as sloughs, elon-
gate fresh or brackish water swamps paralleling the ridges (Figure 2).

For the first two field seasons on Sapelo, archeological survey was
informal. No systematic coverage plan was employed other than a deter-
mination to survey as much of the island as possible. A considerable
amount of ground was covered in this fashion and several large sites were
discovered (Figure 3). An apparent relationship between sites and areas
of certain topography, soils and vegetation led me to state at the SEAC
conference in Gainesville:

*Reprinted by permission from The Florida Anthropologist, 1977. Vol. 30, No. 4.
Pp. 179-195.

47

Figure 1
Location of Sapelo Island, Georgia.

.... habitation sites on the island appear to be strategically

located with respect to natural features rather than uniformly

spread over the island or occurring purely at random.

.... sites appear to be concentrated in areas contiguous to the

marsh, i.e., the western side of the island and the northeast

corner.

.... within these areas, sites tend to occur closest to points at

which tidal creeks approach the shore. (Finally,) .... sites are

encountered most frequently on the perimeter of the island,

those areas of greatest elevation. Sites appear to be lacking in

the low-lying interior (Simpkins and McMichael (1976:97).

48

1

s

1

J

It
8

49

Informal survey had indicated that archaeological sites are difficult
to detect unless the surface of the ground is exposed. Further, while
with only two exceptions, all of the sites located were on high ground, this

SAPELO SOUND

SAPELO ISLAND
MclNTOSH CO., GA.

INFORMAL SURVEY

3"'* SUIVIYID

AIORI
OITIfl

LOMITIRS

Figure 3
Informal survey, Sapelo Island.

50

was also the area which had been most intensively surveyed. These
problems, combined with a desire to test the hypothesis stated above,
prompted me to employ a stratified random sample combined with
systematic subsurface testing.

In stratified sampling the research area is ". . . subdivided, or strati-
fied, on the basis of some prior knowledge, into various groups called
strata. The purpose of stratification is to insure that sampling units are
selected from each stratum, and, therefore, that the full variability that
exists within a survey area is expressed in the sample" (Mueller 1974:32).
In this case, stratification also serves to facilitate testing relationships of
archaeological sites to each stratum.

Basic to any survey report is the investigator's definition of a site. For
the purposes of this discussion a site is defined as any evidence of aborigi-
nal activity with no differentiation as to chronological position. Unless
augmented by test excavation, archaeological survey is seldom suitable
for addressing changes in settlement patterns through time, due to the
tendency of surface collections to emphasize the later components of
multicomponent sites. In this regard, the settlement model presented
here may differ from Trigger's macrosettlement pattern in that Trigger
( 1968:54-55) and Chang ( 1968:3) define settlement patterns as consisting
of contemporary settlements. A settlement model is advanced here for
the entire range of prehistoric occupation on Sapelo Island.

The target population (Mueller 1974:28) for the sample consisted of
all of Sapelo Island owned by the State of Georgia as of summer, 1976. No
areas of marsh were included in the population, nor were any of the
hammocks with the exception of Moses' Hammock which is connected to
the island by a causeway. The south end of the island, under private
ownership at the time, was excluded, introducing an arbitrary boundary
into the sampled population (Mueller 1974:28).

Environmental stratification was based on three variables: eleva-
tion, soils, and vegetation. Rather than test each variable independently,
they were combined to create five discrete environmental zones, fol-
lowing the suggestions of Blalock ( 1972:400-401 ) and Mueller (1974:65).

Soil boundaries as mapped by the Soil Conservation Service ( Byrd et
al. 1961) were transferred onto U.S.G.S. topographic maps which show
elevation in five foot contours (1.5 meters). A false color infrared trans-
parency of Sapelo was then projected onto the map and gross, observable
differences in vegetation were delineated. The three variables coincided
to a considerable degree, as would be expected given the interrela-
tionship of elevation, soils and vegetation. Where the boundaries of the
three variables coincided, they were bundled together to form the bound-
aries of the sampling strata. Where a marked divergence occurred be-
tween boundaries, a single variable was emphasized, usually soil type
because of the great amount and detail of information contained in the
soil survey.

51

Stratification resulted in five discrete environmental zones which
account for practically the full range of variability on the island and are
easily recognized in the field by an untrained observed. These zones,
which correspond in size and scope to the microenvironments of Coe and
Flannery (1964), were chosen as the sampling strata (Figure 4).

Figure 4 '

Formal survey, Sapelo Island.

52

THE SAMPLING STRATA

Stratum A consists of a series of relict Pleistocene beach ridges
which appear today as elongate sand ridges of relatively high elevation.
Elevations range from a low of about seven feet (2 meters) to a maximum
height of sixteen feet (5 meters) with the majority of the stratum lying
between the ten (3 meter) and fifteen foot (4.5 meter) contour lines.

Soils are a combination of several associated sandy series commonly
found on level or gently sloping sand ridges. They range from poorly to
excessively drained and are generally friable. The series in order of abun-
dance within Stratum A are: Ona, Scranton, Palm Beach, Kleg and
Galestown. Limited areas of Leon fine sand, a poorly drained soil, are
also found in Stratum A (Byrd et al. 1961).

Vegetation within Stratum A is described as the Maritime Live Oak
Forest (Johnson et al. 1974:44), an association dominated by live oak
(Quercus virginiana) and Laurel oak (Q. laurifolia) with smaller amounts
of Magnolia spp. and pine (Pinus spp.) laced with a network of grape
(Vitus supp.) and Smilax vines.

The dense live oak canopy limits the amount of sunlight reaching the
ground, resulting in a sparse overstory and understory. Dominant species
in the overstory include red cedar (Junipems silicicola), holly (Ilex opaca),
mulberry (Moms rubra), and yaupon (Ilex vomitoria), with small amounts
of redbay (Persea borbonia), sweetbay (Magnolia virginiana), hickory
(Carya, spp.) and cabbage palm (Sabal palmetto). Important species in
the understory include wax myrtle (Myrica cerifera), gallberry (Ilex
glabra), saw palmetto (Serenoa repens) and, in areas of greatest sunlight,
three species of blueberry (Vaccinium spp.) plus various grasses and
sedges.

Stratum A consists largely of two sand ridges, one extending along
the western edge of the island and a second along the eastern edge. While
Stratum A is rather homogenous, its two main components are not con-
tiguous but are widely separated, a condition essentially unique to Strat-
um A. Further, the east ridge faces the extensive Duplin estuary and the
mainland beyond the east ridge faces a thinner stretch of marsh, a
Holecene strand, and the Atlantic Ocean. This contrast could have been
manifest in terms of aboriginal subsistence technology.

In order to increase the homogeneity of the strata and to prevent
clustering of Stratum A sampling units on only one side of the island,
Stratum A was subdivided into A, the west ridge and A', the east ridge.

Stratum B is composed of a large two-pronged slough system, ex-
tending the length of the island parallel to the sand ridges. Elevations are
low, generally less than ten feet (3 meters), with substantial areas occur-
ring at less than five feet (1.5 meters). Soils consist almost entirely of a
single type, Rutledge fine sand, with smaller amounts of St. Johns fine
sand. Rutledge soils are very poorly drained, extremely acid soils occur-

53

ring in drainageways and bays (Byrd et al. 1961). Several areas within
Stratum B appear to be flooded year around.

Natural vegetation in sloughs varies according to age and degree of
sedimentation, undergoing successional change from an aquatic plant
community (Georgia Department of Natural Resources 1975:73). to a
grass-sedge savannah (Braun 1967:286), and finally to a forested swamp
(Johnson et al. 1974:51).

A map of Sapelo prepared in 1760 by Yonge and DeBrahm and now
on file at the Georgia Department of Archives and History shows the
slough system as a "large savannah of fresh water" between the sand
ridges.

In the 1920s Howard Coffin drained the sloughs, drastically chang-
ing the vegetational communities. An elderly resident of Sapelo stated
that the island was "wet, wet, wet " before Coffin drained the sloughs. The
informant described an area that today is covered by a mixed pine-hard-
wood forest as a treeless plain, extremely wet, and completely planted in
rice. The water was fresh and potable.

Stratum C combines the high elevations of Stratum A with the poor
drainage of Stratum B. Elevations, for the most part, are between ten (3
meters) and fifteen feet (4.5 meters). Soils within Stratum C are of a single
type, St. Johns fine sand. St. Johns soils are poorly drained to very poorly
drained, and are formed in sands on low marine terraces (Byrd et al.
1961:19).

Stratum C is dotted with numerous ponds, bays and swamps. As in
Stratum B, water was often encountered within 40-50 cm. of the surface.
Although Stratum C appear to represent a Pleistocene beach ridge
flanked by low lying flats, its inland location would result in interior
drainage which could account for the high ground water level. St. Johns
soil contains a hardpan layer within one meter of the surface, which could
also contribute to the poor drainage (see Braun 1967:286).

Vegetation consists basically of a light to medium understory of
slash fPinus elliottii), pond (P. serotina), and longleaf pine (P. palustris)
exhibiting variation according to drainage. Wet or dry, the understory is
dominated by saw palmetto with monotonous regularity.

Stratum D is the Holocene strand, separated from the island proper
by a narrow salt marsh lagoon. The Strand exhibits high relief, elevations
ranging from 0 to fifteen feet (4.5 meters). Soils are fine quartz beach
sands with varying amounts of small shell fragments (Byrd et al. 1961).

The strand vegetation has been characterized as the salt spray com-
munity because of the limiting effects of salt spray, constant winds, and
extremes of sunlight and temperature on the vegetation. The strand
exhibits a floristic zonation extending inland from the beach. The beach
is colonized by sandspur (Cenchrus tribuloides), saltwater cordgrass
(Spartina patens), and sea rocket (Cakile spp.). The foredunes support

54

sea oats ( Uniola paniculata), Yucca spp., prickly pear (Opuntia spp.), and
yaupon. The stabilized backdunes support a dense, ingrown canopy of
live oak, red bay, wax myrtle, Sabal palmetto and saw palmetto.

SAMPLING DESIGN

Within the strata, simple random sampling was employed. A grid
was superimposed over the map, oriented along the long axis of the
island. Each grid unit represents a square on the ground 120 meters on a
side.

The sampling units were numbered and a sample was drawn from
within each stratum by consulting a table of random numbers (Blalock
1972:table B). The relatively small sample size precluded the necessity of
sampling with replacement (Blalock 1972:396). The sample is propor-
tional in that a sampling fraction of 1/44.82 was employed for all five
strata. Thus the percentage of each stratum tested is proportional to the per-
centage of the sampled population contained within each stratum (Blalock
1972:399-401; Mueller 1974:32-33).

The number of units to be tested within each stratum was computed
to two decimal places, totalling 39.98. These figures were rounded off,
reaching a new total of 41 units. Assuming adequate testing of each unit,
sample size is slightly over 2 percent.

The units were located in the field with the use of a Brunton compass
and a 50 meter chain. Starting from some feature recognized on the topo-
graphic map, a compass line was projected to the nearest corner of the
unit. Once at the corner, a compass line was projected along the diagonal
of the unit. The line was cut through and ten postholes were placed at
seventeen meter intervals. The postholes were dug to a depth of one
meter and the stratigraphy recorded.

The advantages of subsurface testing must be weighed against the
additional time involved. The necessarily limited number of postholes
had to be placed in a manner that would maximize their effectiveness and
allow for adequate coverage of a unit 14,400 square meters in area.
Testing only along the diagonal is a logistic compromise but was consid-
ered the most efficient subsurface testing technique possible in the
limited time available.

RESULTS

The results of the test were rather dramatic. Out of four units tested
in Stratum A, two contained sites. Out of three units tested in Stratum A',
two contained sites. No sites were found in any of the 37 remaining tests in
Strata B, C, and D. All four sites encountered were shell middens. Irene
and San Marcos complicated stamped sherds, along with one unidenti-
fied grit tempered plain sherd, were found in two of the sites, indicating a
late Mississippi period to proto-historic or historic occupation.

A chi square test was employed to determine the probability of such

55

a site distribution occurring by chance alone. Because several of the
expected frequencies were low, Yates' correction for continuity was
applied. A null hypothesis, stating that there are no significant dif-
ferences between the strata, was tested. A chi square statistic of 17.24
with four degrees of freedom resulted. The null hypothesis of no dif-
ference cannot be accepted even at a level of significance of .001 (Table

1).

When Strata A and A1 are combined and tested against the other
strata an almost identical chi square statistic results. For the remainder of
this discussion, Strata A and A' will be discussed as one.

observed frequencies

Strata

A

A'

B

C

D

2

2

2

1

0

26

0

7

0

1

17.24 at 4df
p = < .001

+ = positive indications of sites
- = negative indications of sites

Table V
Chi square analysis of site distribution. Yate's correction for continuity
applied.

The results of informal and formal archaeological survey on Sapelo
Island indicate that aboriginal occupation was limited to the Pleistocene
sand ridges. The ridges offer elevation and the best compromise between
poor and excessive drainage that is to be found on the island. This is not
to imply that the aboriginal inhabitants never ventured out of Stratum A.
The other strata could well have been exploited for particular resources
and, in fact, subsistence oriented, task specific sites may be found outside

56

of Stratum A. However, while there is no reason to doubt that Strata B, C,
and D were exploited, they do not seem to have been suitable for
residential use.

It is important to note that sites are not continuous throughout
Stratum A. Sites do appear to be concentrated in areas contiguous to the
marsh, particularly where tidal streams approach the shore. This may
indicate the importance of the estuary to subsistence.

APPLICATION TO OTHER BARRIER ISLANDS

Considering the geological similarity of barrier islands, it is pre-
dicted that similar settlement patterns are manifest on all of Georgia's
Pleistocene barrier islands. Application of the Sapelo model can be made
with less assurance to Pleistocene marsh islands and perhaps not at all to
Holocene islands. Supporting evidence can be drawn from several re-
ports of island surveys, many of which unfortunately have not been pub-
lished.

Archaeological survey on Ossabaw Island, Georgia has been re-
ported by DePratter (1974) and Pearson (1977). In contrast to the Sapelo
survey, the Ossabaw survey included a large Holocene formation. On
Sapelo, Holocene sediments included within the target population are
limited to Stratum D, the narrow strand. The Holocene formation in-
cluded in the Ossabaw survey is comparable to Blackbeard Island, im-
mediately northeast of Sapelo.

The Pleistocene portion of Ossabaw consists of sand ridges com-
posed of Lakeland and Chipley soils. These are flanked by more poorly
drained flats composed of Olustee and Leon soils, similar to Stratum C
soils on Sapelo. Between the ridges lie the sloughs, composed of Ellabelle
soils, plus stretches of high marsh described as Capers soils and fresh
water tidal marsh. Soils on the Holocene formation are described as be-
longing to the Kershaw-Osier complex. The strand is composed of Coast-
al beach sand (Wilkes et al. 1974).

DePratter's (1974) site map shows 116 aboriginal sites on Ossabaw,
excluding the outlying hammocks. When these sites are plotted on the
soil map, 58 sites, or 50% appear to be located on sand ridges in Lakeland
or Chipley soils. Eighteen sites, 16%, appear to be located on flats
adjacent to the ridges on Olustee and Leon soils. Fourteen sites, 12%,
appear to be located in or immediately adjacent to sloughs, on Ellabelle
soils. Twenty-six sites, 22%, appear to be located on Holocene ridges on
Kershaw-Osier soils.

Half the sites located in or near sloughs appear also to be located in
immediate proximity to the marsh. Although 26 sites are located on Holo-
cene sediments, no sites are reported from the strand or "beach front"
(Pearson 1977:69). It would appear then that site distribution on Ossabaw
resembles the model presented here, i.e., the majority of sites are located
on the Pleistocene sand ridges with fewer sites reported on the poorly

57

drained flats, few sites reported in the sloughs, and no sites reported on
the strand.

Pearson (1977) has analyzed the environmental factors influencing
settlement during the Irene phase on Ossabaw. Known Irene sites were
arranged in a site size hierarchy generated by cluster analysis. Site fre-
quencies were then cross tabulated by size class, forest communities, soil
types, distance from the marsh and distance from the nearest tidal
stream. These environmental variables were quantified by ranking them
in order of their assumed importance to aboriginal settlement (Pearson
1977:65-98).

The results indicate that the larger Irene sites are more often asso-
ciated with a "Mixed Oak-Hardwood" forest community and well drained
soils, i.e., Lakeland and Chipley. Also, these large sites are usually within
100 meters of the marsh and frequently within 200 meters of a tidal
stream. As site size decreases, there is decreasing correlation with "de-
sirable" environmental variables (Pearson 1977:tables 1-7). Pearson(1977:
97-98) interprets with variation as indicating functional differences be-
tween size classes: "A decrease in site size corresponds to a selection for
location in areas of decreased environmental value. This is interpreted as
indicating increasing exploitive specialization as site-size decreases with
a corresponding decrease in a site's functional variability."

Lakeland sand and Chipley find sand, on which the majority of large
Irene sites occur, are formed on Pleistocene sand ridges (Wilkes et al.
1974:15, 23). The poorly drained soils flanking the ridges and in sloughs
tend to contain fewer and smaller sites. The environmental variables
associated with the largest sites, i.e., sand ridge soils, mixed Oak-Hardwood
forest, proximity to marsh and proximity to tidal streams, represent the
variables which constitute Stratum A on Sapelo Island.

A recent survey of Cumberland Island, Georgia, has been reported
by Ehrenhard ( 1976). Site distribution on Cumberland seems generally to
fit within the model presented here with some interesting exceptions:
The physical location of prehistoric cultural remains on

Cumberland Island are, as on the mainland, along the edge of

the marsh. The sites begin at about the 2 meter contour line and

extend inland.

. . . Sites more often than not, are located within the oak-palmetto

or oak-pine forest community (Ehrenhard 1976:43).

The majority of the sites appear to be located on Lakeland, Chipley,
or Leon soils with some sites extending onto adjacent poorly drained
soils. Six sites are located entirely on poorly drained soils and one site, 9
Cam 36, is located on the north end of the Holocene strand.

DePratter (1973) accomplished almost total coverage of Black Is-
land, Georgia, A Pleistocene marsh island west of Sapelo. Six shell
midden sites were discovered on the island and two adjacent hammocks.

58

DePratter noted the correlation between sites and Ona and Scranton
soils. No sites were found in areas of St. Johns soils. The site bearing areas
on Black Island fit the parameters established for Stratum A on Sapelo.
All sites reported are located near the edge of the marsh.

Portions of Skidaway Island, Georgia, another Pleistocene marsh
island, were surveyed in the course of cultural resource assessment.
Initially the perimeter of the island was surveyed revealing twenty sites
(Caldwell 1970). Of these, seventeen appear to be located on sand ridge
soils, i.e., Lakeland sand and Chipley fine sand. The three exceptions
occur on Ellabelle soil, typically found in drainageways, bays and sloughs
(Wilkes et al. 1974).

A second survey was conducted on a small peninsula on the south-
eastern corner of Skidaway Island. The peninsula was first surveyed
along the marsh edge then transected east to west at 200 foot (61 meter)
intervals (DePratter 1975:6-10). Again, the site distribution reported
appears to conform with the Sapelo model with some exceptions. The
occasional location of sites in sloughs or low areas seems to be deter-
mined by proximity to the marsh edge.

Sheldon (1976) has recently conducted a survey of Colonel's Island
in Glynn County, Georgia, where he identified a "live Oak Zone" above
ten feet (3jneters) in elevation, and a "Pine-Oak-Palmetto Community"
below ten feet. All of the sites located were within the Live Oak Zone
along the edge of the marsh.

The soil survey of Glynn County has not been published, therefore
no comparison can be made between archaeological sites and soil types.
However, Sheldon's Live Oak Zone shares the elevation and vegetation
of Stratum A on Sapelo. The Pine-Oak-Palmetto Community resembles
Strata B and C. Sheldon also noticed the association of sites and the
marsh edge, particularly at points close to tidal streams.

On Green Island, a Pleistocene marsh island near Skidaway Island,
Crook (1975) first surveyed the marsh edge then transected the island at
50 meter intervals. Out of 57 sites discovered on Green Island and two
nearby hammocks, 56 are on Chipley or Lakeland soils, well drained soils
formed on sand ridges (Wilkes et al. 1974), and all are adjacent to the
estuary. The correlation of sites and tidal streams is quite high on Green
Island.

CONCLUSIONS

The reports cited above seem to support the model for barrier island
settlement pattern based on the Sapelo Island Survey. However this does
not constitute a test of the model's application to other barrier islands. It
is hoped that future investigations will provide a means of testing the
hypothesis stated here. Where possible, future surveys should address
site distribution with respect to environmental variables, utilizing a proba-

59

bility sampling technique to provide a statistical measure of reliability of
the settlement data obtained. Environmental variables can be quantified,
as Pearson (1977) has shown, to develop an index of the environmental
factors influencing settlement.

60

A PRELIMINARY REPORT ON TEST
EXCAVATIONS AT THE SAPELO ISLAND
SHELL RING, 1975*

By Daniel L. Simpkins

In the summer of 1975, a six man crew, working under the direction
of Lewis H. Larson, Jr., spent six weeks delineating the Sapelo Island
Shell Ring site through contour mapping and limited testing. This paper
is intended as a preliminary report on the field work and the results of the
laboratory analysis conducted thus far.

ENVIRONMENTAL SETTING

Sapelo Island occupies a central position on the Georgia coast
directly north of Saint Simons Island and south of Saint Catherine's
Island. Sapelo is a barrier island, separated from the mainland by an
extensive salt water marsh lagoon. The island is composed of a series of
Pleistocene and Holocene beach ridges isolated by the transgressing
ocean which flooded the area behind the ridges, creating a lagoon. The
marsh was formed by sedimentation and colonization by salt-tolerant
grasses (Hoyt 1967). The present day floral community developed per-
haps as late as 5000 B.P. (Cameron 1976). The island in cross-section is
slightly concave, and as a consequence, the interior tends to remain
boggy throughout the year.

Larson (1969) has divided the southeastern coast into three major
ecological sections. From east to west they are: The Strand section,
where the ocean meets the land in a shoreline, beach, and/or dune
sequence; the Lagoon and Marsh section, which includes the islands and
the tidal marshes; and the Delta section, where fresh water rivers drain-
ing the coastal plain enter the ocean, creating an estuary. Sapelo Island
occupies the Strand and the Lagoon and Marsh zones. Of the two, the
Lagoon and Marsh section, with its high degree of ecological diversity
and biomass, was of greater economic importance to aboriginal popu-
lations (Larson 1969:13).

ARCHAEOLOGICAL SURVEY

McMichael (Simpkins and McMichael 1976) has tentatively grouped
aboriginal sites located by the archaeological survey on Sapelo into six
general areas (Figure 1). Of these, the Shell Ring lies in the Mud River
area which extends along the west side of the island from Chocolate, an
historic plantation site, to High Point. The vegetation in this area resem-
bles what Shelford has called the Magnolia Forest (Shelford 1963:63-64).
Middens are small, averaging about six meters in diameter, and are scat-

"Reprinted by permission from Early Georgia, Vol. 3, 1975. Pp. 15-37.

61

tered along the edge of the marsh, extending inland as far as 500 meters,
where the elevations begin to drop.

PELO ISLAND

NTOSH CO., GA.

I ABORIGINAL OCCUPATION
AS DETERMINED BY 1974-75
SURVEY

1. MOSES* HAMMOCK

2 CHOCOLATE

3 BOUBBON FIELD
4, SHELL RING

MARSH

SCALE 124000

KILOMETERS

Figure 1
Sapelo island

62

Although the archaeological survey of Sapelo is only partially com-
pleted, McMichael has made several tentative statements as to the nature
and extent of aboriginal occupation.

First, habitation sites on the island appear to be strategically
located with respect to natural features rather than uniformly
spread over the island or occurring purely at random.
Second, sites appear to be concentrated in areas contiguous to
the marsh, i.e., the western side of the island and the north-
eastern corner.

Third, within these areas, sites tend to occur closest to points at
which tidal streams approach the shore.

Fourth, sites are encountered most frequently on the perimeter
of the island, those areas of greatest elevation. Sites appear to
be lacking in the low-lying interior (Simpkins and McMichael
1975:5).
The Shell Ring site conforms well with these observations.

THE SAPELO SHELL RING

Among shell rings, the Sapelo Ring, or possible ring complex, with a
radiocarbon date of 3700+/-250 B.P.:1750B.C. (Crane 1956:665) has
been one of the best documented. Previous research includes the ex-
ploration of the Shell Ring and three burial mounds on the north end by
Clarence B. Moore in 1897 (Moore 1897:55) and a test excavation at the
ring by Waring and Larson in 1950 (Waring and Larson 1968:263). Past
exploration had concentrated upon the midden and interior of the ring
with a brief reconnaissance of the site area exterior to the ring (Figure 2).
Waring and Larson had concluded in their report on the 1950 excavation
that:

The excavation definitely established the fact that no matter
to what use the ring ultimately may have been put, it was com-
posed of occupational midden in primary position which was
deposited as the result of habitation sites located on the ring
(Waring and Larson 1968: 273).
It was hoped that investigation exterior to the ring would reveal the
nature of land utilization in that area.

Shell midden containing plain and ornamented pottery have been
reported in the literature pertaining to the site (Waring and Larson
1968:268; McKinley 1873:432). Two 2X2 meter squares were therefore
excavated in middens immediately south of the ring to establish that they
were contemporary with the ring.

Sq. 488R439. This test pit was located on a small, low, well consoli-
dated shell midden near the edge of the marsh. The 20 cm. thick midden
contained low fired brick and fragments of oxidized, free-blown lipped
bottle in association with Irene, San Marcos and possibly earlier wares.

63

Figure 2
Sapelo Shell Ring

64

Beneath the midden, the sandy soil contained St. Simon's Plain sherds
and Poverty Point object fragments.

Sq. 505R524. This square was located in a disturbed midden with
Mississippian and protohistoric wares overlying thinly scattered Wil-
mington, and deeper fiber-tempered wares. Several faint features were
examined, but root impressions and leached sand made positive strati-
graphic interpretations difficult.

Sq. 508R500. This test pit was located on the south-eastern exterior
edge of a scalloped portion of the shell ring on a small rise above the
generally level adjacent plain. Dark, humic soil interlaced with shell
reached a depth of 40 cm. Features apparently resulting from slumpage
were encountered as the ceramic sequence graded from a thin covering
of Irene wares into a zone of Saint Simon's wares. This area may repre-
sent a remnant of the ring pulled away during the collection of shell for
tabby.

Sqs. 489R500 and 502R500 and Unit 494R503. Artificats in this
section of the site trended from Irene wares to increasingly predominant
fiber-tempered wares. A small fire pit was encountered at 45-50 cm. in the
center of the 2X5 meter unit. A nearly sterile lens of chalky, white sand
containing a single concentration of Deptford Geometric Stamped sherds
was located between the dark brown sand of an Irene horizon and a fiber-
tempered horizon lying at 74-88 cm. in a zone of leached gray-tan sand
(see Figure 3). A small refuse pit was located in a shell- free context at 80-
135 cm., and contained small concretions, fish bones, charred and frag-
mentary hickory nut shells, seeds of still unidentified plants, and a fiber-
tempered pot-sherd. A radio-carbon date of 4120+/-200B.P.:2170B.C.
(Lab No.: RL-580) was obtained for the feature from 2.6 grams of charred
hickory nut shells (Genus Carya) and unidentified seeds. At the northern
end of the unit a shattered portion of a Saint Simon's Plain bowl was en-
countered at a depth of 80-100 cm. Assuming a hemispherical shape from
the rim and body arcs, the volume of the bowl was computed to have
been approximately 12.2 liters or 2.9 gallons. Profiles from adjacent test
squares indicated more lensing and less clear soil horizons than the 2X5
meter unit.

The stratigraphy recorded in the 2X5 meter unit may be significant
in regard to varying results within the ring. Moore (1897) had reported
that:

Excavations made within the enclosure gave varying results.
At one point yellow, undisturbed sand was reached about 1
foot beneath the surface. Another excavation went through
loam and midden refuse to a depth of 2.5 feet. Earthenware
in fragments, shattered bones of the deer and a fragment of a
temporal bone from a human skull were met with (Moore 1897:
71-73).

65

Z i-

< O

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< I

_ o

_ i O 0

6 *

w 5 5

o 2 S2

EUSf

Q

O Z

< "

1/1 UJ

II

(X <

< X

- *

Q Q

UJ Z

z <

O o

1^1

O

z a

_. o

_i a:

X i-

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V !=

< z

Figure 3
Profile of Shell Ring

66

Unfortunately, it is not known where Moore was working within the ring.
In contrast, Waring and Larson (1968) had observed:

Unit 1 was excavated to a depth of two feet. The midden material
throughout was very thin. There was an almost total absence of
shell. That cultural material and shell which did occur seemed
to be the result of slumping from the ring. The evidence from
Unit 3 would seem to bear this out.

Unit 2 was even more noticeable in its lack of midden deposit.
Not more than a handful of sherds were recovered and little or
no shell was to be found (Waring and Larson 1968:270).
The zone from 2 feet to 2.5 feet or about 61-76 cm. depth is just above
the zone represented in Figure 3 by the chalky-white, nearly sterile sand.
The implication may be that a thin, but widespread, fiber-tempered
occupation zone, perhaps buried by aeolian deposits, lies beneath this
level, and squares adjacent to the 2X5 meter unit may have been ter-
minated prematurely.

An interesting sidelight to the investigations was the discovery of
two tabby remnants exposed on the surface. These lay 35 degrees east of
north and approximately nineteen meters away from the western edge of
the 1950 excavation. The larger of the exposed remnants lay adjacent to
the steep western face of the ring and measured approximately 125 cm.
by 30 cm. A second remnant lay 275 centimeters to the west and measur-
ed 40 cm. by 10 cm. Both remnants aligned generally north and south
along their long axes. These could represent a portion of a dock and the
steep, eroded western edge of the ring may therefore be the result of the
collection of shell for tabby rather than erosion of the ring by Mud River.

"RING NUMBER II"

Willima McKinley's ( 1873:422-3) 1872 description of the Sapelo ring
area as being composed of three individual rings was considered to
require veritifcation. As a result of a surface survey in 1974, a large, very
disturbed midden was located in the general vicinity of McKinley's Ring
No. II. The area had been subject to rather extensive borrowing, but
several areas of undisturbed midden still exist. It was felt that if ring
deposits had been removed, leaving the area beneath not greatly dis-
turbed, the site might provide an excellent opportunity to learn more of
the basal structure of shell rings without first excavating intact midden.
Consequently, three 2X2 meter test pits were placed in areas where the
top strata were obviously disturbed, but where it was hoped that the
lowest strata of the midden had remained intact.

Middens explored by Test Pits 1 and 3 can be briefly described as
consisting of a high concentration of artifacts in a matrix of highly
organic soil and shell, which affords excellent faunal preservation. In the
first fifteen-centimeter level, large quantities of late aboriginal sherds

67

were found in context with historic materials, including a molded spher-
ical lead object, low-fired brick, hand-wrought laminated square and
rose-headed nails, a white clay pipe stem, and tin- and lead-glazed Euro-
pean ceramics indicating a date at least prior to A.D. 1850. These mater-
ials overlay and were mixed with the original Archaic midden below.

Test Pit 2 was terminated above a refuse pit after obtaining a Saint
Simons Plain sherd from the feature. The upper levels of the midden
exhibited an historic component in the form of olive jar and tabby frag-
ments, and hand-forged nails in association with Irene and San Marcos
wares. Savannah and Saint Simons sherds increased in abundance with
depth.

All pits at WGC 718 were closed while still in heavy midden which
was determined by artifactual comparison to be approximately contem-
porary with Ring No. 1 (WGC 717).

The general context of WGC 718 is that of at least one Archaic
midden of undetermined shape and size overlain and mixed in the upper
levels with Mississippian, protohistoric, and historic components. No evi-
dence of Ring No. Ill was found in either 1974 or 1975, and McKinley's
description implies that both Rings No. II and III, assuming they actually
were rings, were already disturbed in 1872. The strong historic compo-
nent at the site re-awakens speculation pertaining to the location of the
Spanish Mission at Sapelo and may also account for some of the early
descriptions referring to the site as the "Spanish Fort" (Floyd 1937).

RECOVERED MATERIALS

Faunal and floral material was obtained from the midden matrix by

water-screening, passing the matrix through a series of stacked screens,

and hand sorting.

Faunal analysis is being conducted by the Florida State Museum and

preliminary observations by Dr. Rochelle A. Marrinan of material from

Test Pit 1 indicate that:

. . . Mammals and fish seem dominant, but turtles and birds
seem to be important in this sample.

One facet of the sample that I have noticed is the predominance
of catfish otoliths and the exclusion of other types. Hemmings'
Fig Island sample also showed high numbers of catfish otoliths.
It is difficult to know if this represents aboriginal availability
conditions or food preference or is a function of recognition
. . . Catfish have easily recognized otoliths but your sample
contains other fish (e.g., drum) which have large and easily
recognized otoliths (Marrinan 1976).

One human deciduous tooth, crab claws, and fragments of polished,

undecorated bone pins were also encountered in Archaic midden.

Floral analysis is being conducted by Ms. Marguerita Cameron of

the University of Alabama. In addition to the hickory nut husks already

68

mentioned, seeds from Smilex glauca, a briar with edible roots, was
present in Sq. 488R439 (0-15 cm.). Several types of seeds from the
Archaic Feature #8 were recovered, but have not yet been positively
identified.

An initial typology of the aboriginal ceramic population from the
site yields the following approximate percentages: fiber-tempered wares,
33%; Deptford and Wilmington, V2 of 1% each; Savannah, 3%; Irene,
47%; San Marcos, 5%; with 11% remaining unidentified. Stratigraphi-
cally, the distributions tended to confirm the established coastal ceramic
sequence. The first levels were disturbed, but lower levels trended to-
ward increasingly unmixed and probably undisturbed fiber-tempered
wares which often amounted to 100% of the total ceramic population of a
level.

Hematite, limonite, and calcite impregnated sands forming con-
cretions around tree roots and in the sand were common. Although their
dates of origin probably post-date the archaeological context of the area,
they were recovered. Lithics, which are quite rare on Sapelo, consisted of
a fragment of pecked and ground steatite, a small fragment of chlorite
schist, a small Mississippian triangular point of chert (perhaps a Madison
point) recovered from an Irene association, and a few quartz and chert
fragments.

Shell, of course, is the predominant recovered material; the great
majority of which is Eastern oyster (Crassotrea virginica). Other repre-
sentatives include Southern Quahog (Mercenaria campechiensis), peri-
winkles (family Littorinidae), Knobbed Whelk (Busycon carica), Chan-
neled Whelk (Busycon cancliculatum), and an occasional olive shell
(family Oliviade).

WHELK ANALYSIS

The only shell which might constitute culturally altered material is
whelk in the form of Busycon hammers, picks, hoes, or pounders. These
represent a line of evidence for diffusion of Formative Period traits from
Latin America; specifically, Puerto Hormiga in Colombia, to the south-
eastern United States.

Stoltman (1972) has summarized the evidence for contact between
these widely separated areas in three categories:

1) The fiber-tempered pottery is associated with middens reflecting
similar subsistence patterns.

2) Radiocarbon dates indicate an overlap in age with the Puerto
Hormiga material being older and Southeastern pottery persisting longer,
and

3) The prevailing winds and oceanic currents could have facilitated
movement of people from the south to the north. Stoltman further states
that:

Given these shared general conditions, plus at least a few specific
resemblances in content such as the fiber-tempered pottery

69

itself, ring-shaped shell middens (which are rare or absent in both
areas at other times), and marine shell "hammers" or "picks"
(conch or other large marine shells with the end of the columella
rounded or beveled and the body of the shell carefully broken
then perforated to facilitate halfting) that are also found both
at Puerto Hormiga and in the Southeast, and one is led to con-
clude that the probability of contact is indeed high enough to
warrant serious further investigation (Stoltman 1972: iii).
Altered Busycon shells were probably first described by Moore in
relation to primarily post-Archaic sites in Florida (Moore 1905:315-325).
Many of these clearly represented hoes and other implements. Since
Moore's time, however, the terms Busycon pick and hammer seem to
have become increasingly imprecise and have been applied to an increas-
ingly diverse assemblage of altered shells. Today, the term often seems to
be applied to any whelk or conch exhibiting deformation of the columella
or outer whorls.

Plate 1
Possible Busycon Picks or Hammers

70

The whelk exhibited in Plate 1 include some of the forms which were
first separated from the entire collection and examined as possible Busy con
picks or hammers. Although some of the shells seemed well-suited to the
category, others required a more general "lumping" to fit the term. In some
cases the dorsal hole appeared to be out of alignment for proper shafting.
Erosion of shell material from the beaks and the edges of the dorsal hole was
common during washing, and in one case a specimen was excavated with a
root entering the aperture and exiting through the dorsal hole. These ano-
malies led to a suspicion that factors such as erosion, weathering produced
by acid in the soil, varying thicknesses and structural strengths of different
portion of the shells, unintentional brekage, midden weight, or root damage
may have been as important in producing the excavated forms as any delib-
erate attempt to manufacture a tool.

Another form appeared to represent a valid taxonomic unit. The whelk
exhibited in Plate 2 (hereafter referred to as Group I) were selected from the
total sample of 166 intact shells and fragments of Busycon collected from
the site. However, associated pottery indicated a possible chronologic range
from the Wilmington Period through the proto- historic or even historic
periods. Such persistence of an artifact type seemed problematic.

In order to help clarify the taxonomic relationships between the vari-

Plate 2
Busycon Shells: Group 1

71

ous forms taken by the Busy con shells, thirty specimens from a single level
containing 69% Saint Simon's sherds were compared on the basis of 45
morphologic characteristics. These characteristics included species, shell
length (above or below the group median), alteration of the siphon, manifest
weathering, the number of discrete alterations of each shell, and distinctions
between internal and external beveling produced by the alterations. In
addition, the percentage removal of shell from each of the six largest, most
recognizable whorls and the columella were estimated to the nearest 20%.
Of these traits, combinations of the types of beveling accounted for five
characteristics, and removal of shell from the whorls and columella ac-
counted for 35 characteristics. The remaining five traits are as mentioned
above. These characteristics were then quantified on the basis of presence
or absence and analyzed by cluster analysis.

Cluster analysis is a multi-variant procedure or organizing a large
number of samples (N) on the basis of many variables (m) into a smaller
number of statistically significant groups. A computer program compares
each sample to every other sample and calculates a similarity matrix (N X N)
based on the Jaccard Coefficient. This coefficient is defined as Jc=P/P+M
where P is the number of characteristics present in both of any two samples,

CLUSTERING OF BUSYCON SHFLLSQ 508R500, 8-23 CM.
WGC 717

}

-t I I I I h-

LEVEL Of ASSOCIATION

mean expected value of association 0 53*9

Clustering by unweighted pair-group metmoo

Cluster program er gf bonham-carter university of toponto

Figure 4
Dendrogram depicting clustering of Busy con Shell, Sq. 508R500, 8-23CM.

72

and M is the number of characteristics present in one sample and absent in
another. The Jaccard Coefficient varies from 1 to 0 with the former signify-
ing a "perfect correlation" and the latter signifying "no correlation." From
the correlation matrix the samples are grouped into the least number of
statistically significant classes or clusters. Results of this type are expressed
as a dendrogram as illustrated in Figure 4. A discussion of this technique is
given in several recent texts, as for example Everitt (1975) and Johnson
(1968).

Arranging the shells and fragments as suggested by the dendrogram,
several clusters were indicated.

Cluster A consisted of nearly intact shells.

Cluster B consisted of shells with altered siphons.

Cluster C consisted of shells with some removal from the outer whorl
and altered siphons. Unfortunately, the whorl alteration was not in the
form of a dorsal hole and the cluster could not, therefore, be directly
compared to the whelk exhibited in Plate 1.

Plate 3
Busy con Shells, Cluster E.

73

Cluster D consisted of outer whorl fragments.

Cluster E, illustrated in Plate 3, will be described below.

Cluster F consisted of shells with beak material removed.

Cluster G consisted of a single specimen with shell removed from the
beak, and a small amount removed from the anterior whorls.

The large break between Clusters A, B, and C and Clusters D, E, F,
and G was apparently produced by the heavy reliance placed upon the
percentage of shell removal from the whorls.

Cluster E (Plate 3), most closely resembled Group I (Plate 2). Beaks,
siphons, and outer whorls were altered. The sub-cluster represented by
specimens 2 and 17 most closely resembled Group I although specimen
#17 is only 2.8 centimeters long. Although similarities between the
groups were evident, several important differences were also observed.
Group I consisted of shells of fairly uniform size (8.8-12.8 cm.), predomi-
nantly smooth and regular contours, and predominantly smooth edges
along altered sections of the shell. A gradual seriation of traits was
exhibited by shells intermediate between the two most dissimilar forms.
In contrast, Cluster E consisted of shells of varying sizes (w.8-9.5 cm.),
irregular deformation contours, and predominantly battered edges. Vari-
ations between individual specimens and between sub-clusters was often
accomplished without evident intermediate stages. Whereas the method
of formation of Group I was difficult to interpret by observation. Cluster
E exhibited manifest instances of weathering, peeling, and other struc-
tural weaknesses; that is, the forms assumed by Cluster E were ap-
parently derived through natural processes. Yet, the general morphology
of several of the shells, especially specimens 2 and 17 resembled speci-
mens of Group I quite closely. Therefore, the most economical explana-
tion for the formation of Group I is that this group was also formed
naturally. Since the columella presumably represents the most resistant
portion of a Busy con shell, it would be the last portion of the shell to be
altered when subject to various forms of natural stress. As shells had
increasing amounts of their whorls and beaks removed, and as they were
smoothed by erosion and weathering, they would increasingly approach
the morphology represented by Group I.

Of course, this analysis does not demonstrate, and is not intended to
demonstrate, that Busycon picks and hammers are imaginary artifact
types, nor does it conclusively prove that Group I is not an artifact type.
However, if Busycon picks and hammers are to persist as possibly valid
evidence for contact between Colombia and the Southeast, more caution
seems warranted in future analysis and nomenclature of the shells. Direct
comparisons between collections from different sites, experiments with
live animals to determine if various forms of deformation facilitate re-
covery of the whelk meat, and tests designed to determine natural break-
age patterns of empty shells may elucidate this interesting problem.

74

SUMMARY AND CONCLUSIONS

Without becoming enmeshed in the complex subsistence problems
inherent in midden analysis, West Georgia College hoped to contribute
new data concerning a little known area of the site; the area immediately
surrounding the ring proper.

Test excavations indicate that middens south of the Sapelo Shell
Ring are of late aboriginal and historic origin. A shell-free Archaic
feature encountered at a depth of 80-135 cm. in Unit 494R503 has been
interpreted as a refuse pit or midden concentration associated with a
possible house floor. This interpretation is supported by the fiber-tempered
bowl in the northern end of the unit and the unit's profile which does not
indicate intrusions. The radiocarbon date of 4100+/-200B.P.:2170B.C.
obtained for the feature overlaps with the date of 3700+/-250B.P.:1750
B.C. obtained from the ring itself. It is possible that a thinly scattered, but
widespread occupation zone, perhaps buried by aeolian deposits, is
present throughout the site.

The large disturbed midden, referred to as WGC 718 on the northern
parameter of the site, was determined to be of Archaic origin overlain by
proto-historic and historic materials. Contour mapping did not deter-
mine if the midden originally constituted an additional ring at the site.
Although somewhat disturbed on their surfaces, both WGC 717 and 718
retain much intact sub-surface area.

It is hoped that the analysis of Busycon shells from the site will
encourage more precise description and analysis of these shells in the
future so as to establish their true significance.

The Sapelo Shell Ring is a fascinating, multi-component site certain
to provoke further speculation and entice additional investigation.

75

SPATIAL ASSOCIATIONS AND

DISTRIBUTION OF AGGREGATE VILLAGE

SITES IN A SOUTHEASTERN ATLANTIC

COASTAL AREA*

By Morgan R. Crook, Jr.

Several sites located on the barrier islands of the southeastern
Atlantic coast share a distinctive set of characteristics that may be seen as
defining a particular type of archaeological site, referred to here as the
aggregate village (the word, aggregate, is used here only in a spatial
sense). Defining characteristics of an aggregate village are:

(1) Spatial clustering of circular shell middens.

(2) Association with two or more mounds.

(3) Large site size (from 10 to 60 hectares recorded).

(4) Mississippian provenience.

The intent of this paper is to focus on the spatial associations and dis-
tribution of aggregate village sites. The research area is limited to those
barrier islands located between the Savannah River in Georgia, and the
Nassau River in northeast Florida (Figure 1). Analysis is directed towards
definition and explanation of locational similarities and differences with-
in this area.

OSSABAW ISLAND AGGREGATE VILLAGE SITES

Two sites located on Ossabaw Island, along the northern portion of
the Georgia coast, exhibit the defining characteristics of aggregate vil-
lages (Figure 2). These two sites, Middle Settlement and Bluff Field,
contained burial mounds excavated and reported by C. B. Moore in the
late 19th century (Moore 1897:89-130). His published data indicate Sa-
vannah and Irene period utilization of the mounds, and by extension sug-
gest a Mississippian period occupation of the associated village areas.

Charles Pearson (1977) included Middle Settlement (9 Ch 158) and
Bluff Field (9 Ch 160) in a settlement pattern analysis of sites with Irene
components on Ossabaw Island. The two village sites are by far the
largest reported on the Island. Middle Settlement covers an area of about
41 hectares (100 acres) and Bluff Field covers about 12 hectares (30
acres).

The Bluff Field and Middle Settlement sites share essentially identi-
cal environmental locations. Pearson (1977:121) proposes that these sites

*Reprinted by permission from The Florida Anthropologist, Vo. 31, No. 1, March
1978, Pp. 21-34.

77

22

SKIDAWAY

ISLAND

ATLANTIC
OCEAN

SOUTHEAST ATLANTIC
COASTAL AREA

0 10 20 30 40 60
KILOMETERS

Figure 1
Research Area

78

form the apex of the settlement hierarchy for the island. The village sites
are highly correlated with a set of ranked environmental variables, which
include forest community, soil type, distance from the marsh, and dis-
tance from tidal creeks. While these factors may have influenced loca-
tion of the aggregate village sites, an essential factor appears to have been

ST. CATHERINES
SOUND

OSSABAW ISLAND
Aggregate Village
Sites Indicated

KILOMETERS

Figure 2
Ossabaw Island, Georgia

79

location with respect to tidal stream systems and their resources. Each of
the sites is located at the accessible midpoint of a tidal stream system.
This particular location provides optimal access to the dendritic tidal
stream system. More tidal stream length is accessible within a given
distance from this point than from any other location on the island.

Pearson (1977:128) points out that, "site location and archaeolog-
ically recovered food remains indicates that Irene phase peoples relied
heavily on marsh-estuary exploitation." Tidal streams near the village
sites may more accurately define this exploitation zone. While the tidal
streams are accessible at other points along the island, optimal access is
offered only at the central location.

Pearson (1977:42) states that fish remains recovered from "Irene
phase Middens" on Ossabaw Island indicate that small fish were being
taken, possibly from small tidal creeks. Today, and presumably in the
past, the small tidal streams provide a nursery and spawning area for
many fish species (Johnson et al., 1974:94). All of the recovered fish listed
for "Various Ossabaw Island sites" (Pearson 1977:59) are common in the
tidal streams, particularly during the warmer months of the year (Dahl-
berg 1975; Johnson et al., 1974; Larson 1969).

Central location of the aggregate village sites with respect to the
tidal streams also provides central access to the land that borders the
march. Three faunal species commonly identified in animal bone re-
covered from Ossabaw and other coastal sites are white-tailed deer,
racoon, and rabbit. The edge area facing the marsh provides an impor-
tant habitat for deer and rabbits, and is regularly transversed by racoons
entering the marsh to feed (Golley 1962; Larson 1969).

Aggregate village location would have offered the inhabitants de-
fensive advantages as well. Water access to the villages was possible only
at a restricted point, the tidal stream. Movement through the marsh to the
village would have been essentially impossible. If one considers some of
the smaller sites on Ossabaw to have been contemporary with the large
villages, then the small settlements north and south of the villages would
have offered a warning system of impending attack from these directions.
The villages were naturally protected at their rear by a virtually impas-
sable slough that paralleled the length of the island.

SAPELO ISLAND AGGREGATE VILLAGE SITES

Two sites on Sapelo Island, Bourbon Field and Kenan Field, are the
type sites for aggregate villages. The sites occur in locations identical to
those found on Ossabaw Island (Figure 3).

Bourbon Field was mapped by the author in 1974. The resulting map
is considered incomplete. Dimensional information for most of the indiv-
idual shell middens was unavailable because of dense grass cover. The
location and elevation of each of 196 disturbed shell middens and one
small earthen mound (35 meters in diameter; 75 centimeters high) was

80

Figure 3
Sapelo Island, Georgia

81

recorded with a transit and stadia rod.

The shell middens cover a roughly rectangular area measuring 10
hectares. Rather obscure linear patterns of shell middens and circles of
shell middens defining open areas are shown on the map, almost certainly
reflecting structural and activity areas. However, the overall pattern is far
from clear, due to the lack of shell midden dimensional data. Bourbon
Field is scheduled for re-mapping when surface conditions permit.

C. B. Moore excavated two mounds at Bourbon Field (Moore 1897:
55-67). Ceramic and mortuary information from the mounds suggest
Savannah and Irene period utilization. Preliminary analysis of pottery
from a 45 centimeter thick shell midden, tested during the summer of
1974, tends to support a Mississippian period provenience. High fre-
quencies of Irene Filfot Stamped and cord-marked wares, and smaller
numbers of Savannah Check Stamped wares were encountered in the
shall midden. The few sherds encountered in the soil zone beneath the
shell midden were almost exclusively cord marked (Daniel Simpkins,
West Georgia College Archaeology Laboratory, personal communication).

Given small sherds and small sample size, it is difficult to determine
if the cord-marked sherds should be classified as Wilmington or Savan-
nah I ware. Sherd tempering and cord marking are dominate character-
istics of Wilmington period pottery; however, these traits continue with
frequency in the later Savannah I wares (Caldwell and Waring 1939a,
1939b; Caldwell 1952). If the occupation below the shell midden was
Wilmington, it could date as late as ca. A.D. 1000, based on carbon-14
dated Wilmington contexts on neighboring St. Catherines and St. Simons
Islands (Caldwell 1970; Milanich 1977).

Faunal material from one two-meter square excavated in the Bour-
bon Field shell midden was analyzed by the author. The basal fifteen
centimeter level of the shell midden was fine screened (window screen) to
recover a sample of small faunal material. This procedure recovered a
quantity of material, most of which remains unsorted. A small sample of
the screened faunal remains was analyzed.

The species identified from the shell midden commonly inhabit
either the marsh-edge area or the tidal streams. Oyster shell made up the
bulk of the midden deposit. Oysters are found in beds upon the firmer
portions of the tidal stream canals, where there is minimal sedimentation
(Larson 1969:123). The mammals represented in the midden include the
following minimum numbers of individuals from marsh-edge habitats:
one rabbit (Sylvilagus sp.), two raccoons (Procyon lotor), and two white-
tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus).

Identified reptiles include at least one diamond-backed terrapin
(Malaclemys terrapin) and one turtle (Chrysemys sp.). Diamond-backed
terrapin are able to tolerate fresh water, however their preferred habitat
is salt marsh and tidal streams. Archie Carr ( 1952: 176) states that capture
of this turtle is productive when a stop net is placed "across the deeper

82

parts of good-sized tidal creeks (50-100 yards wide) over shell bottom and
near oyster banks." Four species of Chrysemys (C. pictapicta, C. scripta,
C. cocinna, C. floridana) occur on the Georgia coast. These aquatic
turtles prefer shallow, quiet, fresh waters, but may occasionally enter the
marsh (Carr 1952:214-218; Ernst and Barbour 1972:138-164).

At least two blue crabs (Callinectes sapidus) were represented in the
shell midden. Blue crabs seem to live in the shallower estuarine waters
during the warmer months, and retreat to warmer deep waters during the
colder part of the year (Larson 1969:134-136).

All fish identified from the shell midden, except one of the sea cat-
fishes, were recovered from the fifteen centimeter thick fine-screened
portion. It should be remembered that material from only a small section
of this level was analyzed. One cartilagenous fish was identified, a small
skate or ray (Rajiformes). The remainder were boney fish, including at
least nine sea catfishes lAriidae sp.), two gafftopsail catfish (Bagre mari-
nus), two red drum (Scianops ocellata), one black drum (Pogonias cromis),
six mullet (Mugil sp.), and thirteen unidentified boney fish.

The red drum were the largest fish. The two individuals had live
weights of around fourteen kilograms each. The black drum was some-
what smaller, but still a substantial individual. The two gafftopsail catfish
weighed about 900 grams each, while the remaining catfish, mullet, and
unidentified fish weighed far less.

Most of the fish represented in the fine-screened sample appear to
have been quite small. The most common skeletal element were tiny
vertebrae. There should be a direct relationship between vertebra size
and the life weight of individuals within a species, however this relation-
ship seems to be undefined at the moment for estuarine fish. In the ab-
sence of such information, the number of vertebrae needed to weight one
gram may be used as a convenient measurement of relative size differ-
ences between archaeological and laboratory specimens. Laboratory
specimens of a sea catfish (Arius felis) and a gafftopsail catfish (Bagre
marinus), each having a life weight of around 900 grams, averaged 9.6
vertebrae per gram. A greatly reduced size is indicated for individuals of
the Ariidae family represented in the archaeological sample; the average
number of vertebrae was 126.7 per gram (418 vertebra, 3.3 grams). Sim-
ilarly, a mullet (Mugil cephalus) laboratory specimen with a life weight of
about 450 grams averaged 8.9 thoracic vertebrae per gram, while arch-
aeological specimens (Mugil sp.) averaged 53.6 thoracic vertebrae per
gram (59 vertebra, 1.1 gram). Vertebrae from unidentified boney fish
measured 71.0 per gram (667 vertebra, 9.4 grams). Although the size of
the archaeological specimens cannot be stated exactly, exceedingly small
individuals are indicated.

In summary, the species identified from the Bourbon Field shell
midden indicate the exploitation of tidal stream and marsh-edge fauna.
The identified fish share a number of important characteristics. They are

83

predominantly bottom feeders, occur in schools or at least large groups,
and are available in the tidal streams during the warmer months of the
year (Dahlberg 1975; Dahn 1950; Larson 1969). The small individuals
suggest that aboriginal procurement was by some sort of impoundment
technique, perhaps nets or seines.

The other aggregate village located on Sapelo Island, Kenan Field, is
situated on an extension of land that juts out briefly about midway along
the western side of the island. The site was mapped and tested during the
1976 West Georgia College Archaeology Field School, under the direc-
tion of Lewis H. Larson, Jr. No previous archaeological investigation at
the site had been accomplished. C. B. Moore (1897:73) knew of the site,
but was denied permission to excavate.

Kenan Field was mapped using controlled transit-stadia transects.
Nearly ideal mapping conditions existed due to fire that had removed
most of the surface debris. The only obstructions were the numerous
planted pines that cover this former agricultural field. The site extends
over an area of 60 hectares and contains 591 plow-disturbed shell mid-
dens, one large earthen mound (Mound A), and one small earthen mound
(Mound B). The shape of the village, as defined by the shell midden dis-
tribution, is rather rectangular, corresponding to the shape of the land
upon which it is located (Fig. 4).

The spatial arrangement of the shell middens and mounds suggest a
rather complex village plan. At least four distinct areas may be observed
on the map: ( 1 ) a separate clustering of shell middens in the northeastern
portion of the site; (2) linear arrangements in the central area of the site;
(3) an arc-shaped pattern of large shell middens defining an area to the
west of Mound A; (4) an area containing fewer shell midden in the
southern portion of the site, near Mound B. Archaeological investi-
gations designed to test specific locational and cultural hypotheses were
conducted at the site during the summer of 1977. Once analysis is
completed, the cultural sssociations underlying the pattern formation
should become more clear.

Most of the pottery encountered in the Kenan Field excavations were
Savannah Check Stamped and Savannah Cord Marked ware. Lesser
amounts of Irene Filfot Stamped pottery were also present. Qualification
of the ceramic components must await complete analysis; however a
strong Mississippian period association is certain.

Kenan Field and Bourbon Field, like the Ossabaw Island aggregate
village sites, are located strategically with respect to the tidal streams
facing each village, as well as the marsh-edge area north and south of the
settlements. This location minimizes distance to these environmental
zones. The faunal analysis for Bourbon Field supports the view of these
areas as primary animal exploitation zones.

The defensive advantages of village location are the same as those
proposed for the Ossabaw Island sites. Restricted access to the village

84

Figure 4
Kenan Field

85

from the water, a slough system to the rear of the village, and perhaps
smaller settlements to the north and south of each village, are the
common characteristics. Smaller, contemporary settlements are undem-
onstrated on Sapelo Island, however McMichael (1977) has statistically
shown that prehistoric sites on the island are associated with the high,
well drained soils that front the marsh (i.e., that area north and south of
the aggregate villages).

LOC ATIONAL VARIATION AND GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION

Aggregate villages are apparently restricted to the northern half of
the Georgia coast. Available information (Moore 1897), indicates that
the aggregate village settlement type and locational pattern might extend
to Skidaway and St. Catherines Islands. Moore was interested in mounds
and their contents rather than the kind of locational data needed to de-
monstrate this. More recent investigtions conducted by archaeologists
from the University of Georgia on Skidaway and St. Catherines Islands
should provide the data needed to determine if the aggregate village
pattern is present.

The Cannons Point area of St. Simons Island (Wallace 1975) and the
High Point site on Cumberland Island (Ehrenhard 1976) are locationally
the same as the aggregate villages. However each is associated with only
one burial mound. These sites appear transitional between the aggregate
village pattern and an entirely different pattern to the south.

The sites on the rest of Cumberland Island (Ehrenhard 1976) and
those on Amelia Island (Bullen and Griffin 1952; Hemmings and Deagan
1973) are locationally and typologically distinct from the northern village
sites. They lack multiple mounds associated with large areas of circular
shell middens and appear to be spread along the marsh edge without the
locational regularity seen in the northern sites. This reinforces a previous
contention that the large consolidated shell middens of the Northern St.
Johns area reflect a different settlement pattern from that of the smaller
scattered middens to the north (Larson 1958).

Larson has also suggested, on the basis of ethnohistoric and ceramic
evidence, that the Timucua extended as far north as Cumberland Island
and the pre-Spanish Guale from St. Simons to St. Catherines Island (Lar-
son 1958). The distribution of the aggregate village pattern suggests that
the prehistoric Guale extended at least as far north as Ossabaw Island. St.
Simons Island and the northern end of Cumberland Island may represent
the southern fringe of prehistoric and early historic Guale occupation.
The Cumberland Island site could be Timucua rather than Guale, the
common locational pattern reflecting contact between the two groups.

86

CONCLUSIONS

Aggregate village sites suggest a particular cultural adaptation. Most
features of this adaptation remain archaeologically obscure. However,
one part is reflected in the location of the large villages. All other things
remaining equal, a single household or small groups of households re-
quire a smaller exploitation range in a given environment than many
households in the same environment. Thus, strategic location would
have been an important condition for the establishment and maintenance
of large villages on the barrier islands. Exploitative range was effectively
broadened and exploitative distance kept to a minimum.

A more productive technology for the procurement of tidal stream
resources may have been a prerequisite for the establishment of large
villages on the barrier islands. The small fish recovered from the sites are
the strongest indication we have for an impoundment technology on the
Georgia coast. It would seem impossible to catch small fish in a produc-
tive way with hood and line, spears, or other individual fishing techni-
ques. That the fish occur in schools or large groups and are bottom feed-
ers are characteristics productively exploited by impoundment techniques.
Additional support for impoundment is offered by the presence of mul-
let, which are seldom taken on hook and line.

Towns were the residential and political base of the chiefs reported
in the area during the 16th and 17th centuries. Dealings with the Guale
were through the mico of each town. There also seems to have been a
higher office, the position of head mico, that exerted some influence in
the Guale province (Swanton 1922:80-84). Aggregate village sites are
surely the archaeological manifestation of certain of these towns and
their prehistoric counterparts.

Definition and explanation of the similarities and differences be-
tween aggregate villages, and their functional and social position within
the total settlement system requires more secure archaeological data
than is now available. Reliable spatial information is absent for most sites
reported in the coastal area. Shell midden sites, so frequent on the coast,
offer an opportunity to record the patterns of refuse deposition associ-
ated with their occupation. Detailed maps of refuse deposition are nec-
essary to discern locational variations and to formulate spatial, anthro-
pological hypotheses that may be tested archaeologically.

87

ARCHAEOLOGICAL INDICATIONS OF

COMMUNITY STRUCTURES AT THE

KENAN FIELD SITE

By Morgan R. Crook, Jr.

Aboriginal community structures are documented along the Atlan-
tic coast of southeastern North America in 16th and 17th century narra-
tives (e.g. Garcia 1902; Andrews and Andrews 1945). Community life and
its organization for the Guale of the Georgia coast included periodic as-
semblies in council houses which were circular in shape and usually quite
large. Individual apartments or cabins were elevated above the floor,
lining the walls along the interior of these buildings, and in the center was
an open space for a fire and activities.

Archaeological evidence of two large structures, which are perhaps
Mississippian Period antecedents of the protohistoric council houses,
were encountered at the Kenan Field site during the summer of 1977.
Kenan Field is located on Sapelo Island, Georgia, upon an extension of
land which juts out briefly along the western side of the island. Cultural
features visible on the surface of the site include at least two earthen
mounds, a long earthen enbankment, and 589 discrete shell middens. The
site area measures 60 hectares (Figure 1).

It is my intention here to provide arguments for and a descriptive
and interpretative summary of the community structures at Kenan Field.
These structures were archaeologically complex, and many descriptive
and methodological details are omitted for the sake of brevity. A com-
plete discussion is available elsewhere (see Crook 1978).

The two community structures evidently were portions of a planned
structural complex. The southern structure (Structure # 1) is separated
from the northern structure (Structure #2) by a plaza. A large earthen
mound (Mound A) is located immediately east of Structure #2 and was
probably a functional part of the complex.

Structure #1 appears to have been a large, low platform constructed
over a low earthen mound (Figure 2). Based upon construction elements
now exposed by excavation, the platform extended at least 29 meters
along its north-south axis and at least 36 meters along its east-west axis.
Primary construction elements of the structure are denoted by 17 evenly-
spaced lines of rectangular post holes. These lines are spaced 1.5 meters
apart and are oriented approximately 95 east of north. The lines waver
slightly through their course, but retain constant spacing, suggesting that
construction of each post-hole line was in reference to one previously
constructed. The length of individual post holes is far more variable than
the width, which ranges from 18 cm to 40 cm with over 90% measuring
about 20 cm across, length varies from 15 cm to 60 cm with most post
holes measuring around 40 cm. The rather constant width indicates that

89

Figure 1
90

an implement measuring no more than 18 cm wide was employed to con-
struct the post holes.

Only the basal portions of the rectangular post holes were present
and these never extended more than a few centimeters into undisturbed
subsoil. Walls of the post holes along their width were straight; the
eastern wall inclined gently from an indented base, and the western wall
was usually straight to slightly sloped. The bottom of most post holes was
deepest at the base of the inclined eastern end near the center of the post
hole. These deepest points probably mark post positions; however, no
post molds were apparent. Judging from those cases where enough of the
shallow post holes remained to allow an adequate determination, the
form was consistent from one line to the next. The western, rather than

Figure 2
91

eastern, end was inclined in a couple of instances, but these were excep-
tions without persistence and lacked an apparent pattern. In one case a
shallow depression connected three post holes within a line, indicating
that the post holes may have been constructed in the base of a wall
trench.

The maximum depth of the post holes varied slightly in relation to
surface elevation. Where surface elevations were around 4.35 meters or
less, the bases were from 26 cm to 35 cm below the surface. Bases ranged

Plate I
92

from 30 cm to 40 cm below the surface where elevations were around 4.50
meters, in the vicinity of the low mound and in the eastern portion of the
excavation area. Assuming that the post holes were dug to a rather
uniform depth, this suggests that some surface alteration has taken place
since the post holes were constructed.

Several inferences may be drawn from the post-hole data. The form
indicates the holes were dug with an implement with straight sides and
flat edges. Field experiments conducted with a heavy "No. 2" agricultural
hoe, having a blade 20 cm wide and 15 cm deep, virtually duplicated the
post hole form (Plate 1). The tool used in construction of the post holes
probably was either a hoe or other implement of very similar shape. The
persistent sloping eastern sides of the holes indicate that most were dug
from the west in a rather consistent fashion, and the equal distance
between post-hole lines indicates spacing was an important consideration.

The immediate interpretation which comes to mind is that the "post
holes" are the result of hoe agriculture of the plantation period. Several
details may be explained by following this argument. Hoe agriculture was
prominent on the Georgia coast during the plantation period, and groups
of slaves often hoed together, in the same direction, down the crop rows
(e.g. Bascom 1941). The regular spacing and slightly wavering orientation
of the lines can be explained by viewing them as a result of hoe agriculture.

Problems arise when the agriculture argument is pursued. The post
holes are the result of a single event rather than a seasonally recurrent
agricultural procedure. The post holes are also free of massive root dis-
ruptions which would be expected if their function were for planting. My
own attempts to dig a hole 30 cm deep with a hoe were successful only
with difficulty. An older Sapelo Island resident, who also was a seasoned
gardner and farm laborer, agreed that a foot was excessively deep to dig
with a hoe. However, Sea Island cotton, sugar cane, and mulberry trees
are plantation period crops which were planted in rows about 5 feet (ca.
1.5 meters) apart. On the other hand, the cotton and cane were planted in
ridges rather than in the bottom of furrows, and mulberry trees were
spaced 10 feet from one another within each row (Coulter 1940:71, 93,
115). Neither these nor other Sea Island crops, such as rice, corn, or
indigo, can adequately explain the rectangular post holes (see Gray
1933).

Other evidence makes the hypothesis of an agricultural origin even
more insecure. The relationship between the depth of the post holes and
the present surface are within the borrow area of the earthen embank-
topographic patterns in the area. Those post holes with bases closer to
the present surface are within the borrow area of the earthen embank-
ment located south of Structure #1. Since the depths of these post holes
are generally less than those in the eastern portion of the structure and
those intrusive into the low earthen mound, it is likely that the borrow
activity post-dates construction of the rectangular post holes.

93

The earthen embankment initially was thought to be an old field
road, a circumstance which would neither confirm nor deny the origin of
the post holes, since a road probably would have been constructed some-
time after agriculture had been intiated at Kenan Field. A mechanical cut
was excavated through the embankment in order to expose construction
details. The fill of the embankment was composed of light gray sand
without evidence of loading or intrusive features. Also absent, perhaps
significantly, was any indication of dual depressions near the top surface
that would indicate use as a road. The most important observation was
that the embankment had been built upon undisturbed topsoil, indicating
that the earthwork and, therefore, the rectangular post holes, had been
constructed prior to extensive agriculture. A shallow pit containing
charred-wood fragments was observed in the profile. This feature orig-
inated in the topsoil and was overlain by the embankment. The embank-
ment evidently post-dates Structure #1 and pre-dates agricultural use of
at least this section of Kenan Field. The possibility exists that the earth-
work is prehistoric or protohistoric in origin.

Available evidence indicates the rectangular post holes were con-
structed prior to plantation period agriculture; however, their cultural
association remains to be demonstrated. The constant 1.5 meter space
between the post-hole lines is somewhat less than a Spanish estado which
equals about 1.69 meters (see Swanton 1922:48). This unit of measurment
may have been used on the Georgia coast during the mission period or
slightly earlier and 1.5 meters is probably within the range of variability
for this Spanish measurement (see Foster 1960:57). Spacing is the only
suggestion of a Spanish association as artifacts in the Structure #1 area
were exclusively aboriginal. Spanish direction or influence in construc-
tion is possible; however, evidence presented below suggests that this is
unlikely.

The post hole form and arrangement indicates lines of shallowly-set
posts which probably supported a very large, low platform. This type of
structure is without precedent on the Georgia coast; however, very
similar floor plans have been documented at the Winford Site in Mississippi
(McGahey 1969). These Mississippian Period structures at the Winford
Site were defined by multiple, evenly-spaced lines of round post molds
which were confined to a rectangular to square area and surrounded by a
wall trench. A single large post mold, probably indicating a roof support,
was positioned in the center of these structures. While this floor plan is
strikingly similar to that of Structure #1, the Winford structures are much
smaller. The largest measures a little more than 12 meters to the side,
while Structure #1 measures at least 29 meters by 36 meters.

Ethnohistoric accounts offer little aid in interpretation of Structure
#1. Guale council houses were often quite large and did have raised
cabins along their inside walls. DeBry engravings (Lorant 1946:93) show
Timucuan chiefs and other officials, engaged in a black-drink ceremony,

94

seated upon a narrow platform which defines an open plaza-like area.
Narrow platforms are also shown in various other circumstances (see
Lorant 1946:75, 99, 103, 111). In addition, charnal houses on the coast
consisted of lofty platforms contained within a roofed structure. The
form of Structure #1 can be explained by none of these ethnohistoric
examples. However, it is clear that platform-construction techniques
were employed by the coastal aborigines.

The floor plan of Structure #1 seems to indicate the possibility that it
is an aboriginal construction. Spatially associated features and cultural
materials support this possibility. Features within the structural area
tended to be located between the lines of post holes, indicating that many
were contemporary with the structure. These features consisted of numer-
ous ashy organic stains upon the subsoil, small shell-filled refuse pits, two
hearths, and a large shell- filled post hole. Burned oyster shell from one of
the hearths (Feature 106) was submitted for carbon-14 analysis and re-
turned an age estimation of A.D. 1155 +/ 75.

Artifacts encountered in the plow zone immediately above the sub-
soil location of the post holes and features indicate a Savannah Phase as-
sociation for the structure, supporting the carbon-14 estimate. Based
upon the weight-density of pottery within the lower, less disturbed por-
tion of the plow zone, two distinct deposition areas are recognized. One is
in a central portion of the structure, above and adjacent to the hearths
and substructural mound. Pottery (N=123) within this area included
about 30% plain sherds, 25% Savannah Fine Cord Marked sherds, and
25% Savannah Check Stamped sherds. Minority wares consisted of Irene
Complicated Stamped and San Marcos Simple Stamped sherds. Two
sherds each of St. Johns Plain and St. Johns Check Stamped also were en-
countered in this location. The second deposition area is along the
northernmost line of rectangular post holes; that is, in an area which
would have been along and just underneath the northern edge of the plat-
form. Pottery (N=70) here included about 40% Savannah Check Stamp-
ed sherds, 20% plain sherds, and 15% Savannah Fine Cord Marked
sherds. Minority wares consisted of Irene Complicated Stamped and San
Marcos Simple Stamped pottery.

Faunal material in the lower plow zone at Structure #1 also was res-
tricted to two locations. One location coincided with the area of dense
pottery in the central area of the platform. Species represented here were
white-tailed deer (Odocoileus virginianus), raccoon (Procyon lotor), box
turtle (Terrapene Carolina), chicken turtle (Deirochelys reticularia), mud
turtle (Kinosternon subrubrum), Gafftopsail catfish (Bagre marinus),
black drum (Pogonias cromis), gar (Lepisosteus sp.), and herring or shad
(clupediae). The second area of faunal material was more restricted;
located above and around an ashy organic-stained feature at the north
wall. Species here consisted of white-tailed deerfO. virginianus), stripped
skunk (Mephitis mephitis), spotted sea trout (Cynoscion nebulosus), and

95

gar (Lepisosteus sp). A fragment of human molar also was recovered in
this location.

The density of both pottery and faunal material decreased in the
plaza area. Pottery (N=24) included about 35% plain, 35% Savannah
Check Stamped, and 20% Savannah Fine Cord Marked. Faunal material
in the plaza was highly fragmented and none could be identified to
species level.

The southern edge of Structure #2 is located across the plaza, 34.5
meters north of Structure #1. Structure #2 measures 55 meters along its
north-south axis and at least 31 meters along its east-west axis. The
eastern side of the structure is intrusive into the irregular borrow area
associated with Mound A ( Figure 3). As with Structure #1, primary con-
struction elements are denoted by lines of rectangular post holes spaced
at 1.5 meter intervals and oriented about 95 east of north. Although
orientation of the post hole lines are the same, the long axis of Structure
#2 is perpendicular to that of Structure #1. Also unlike Structure #1,
Structure #2 is divided into northern and southern sections by an internal
wall trench. Extensive excavation was restricted to the northern section,
while a 1 meter wide trench was excavated through the southern section.

Most of the features were encountered in the northern section,
probably due to extensive excavation in the area. Construction elements
of Structure #2 were intrusive into a few Deptford and St. Simons Period
features. Of concern here are the contemporary Savannah Phase features.
These consisted of ashy organic-stained areas as at Structure #1, a
hearth, and a single large post hole.

Pottery within the lower plow zone of the northern section of Struc-
ture #2 was concentrated at the northern edge and interior margin of the
platform. Within this location, pottery was most dense in an area above
and adjacent to two ashy organic-stained features (Features 202, 203). A
few dense areas of pottery also occurred at dispersed locations within the
interior of the northern section. Pottery was infrequent north of the struc-
ture. The pottery inventory (N=234) from the lower plow zone within the
northern section included about 40% Savannah Fine Cord Marked sherds,
35% plain sherds, and 10% Savannah Check Stamped sherds. Minority
wares consisted of Irene Complicated Stamped and Incised pottery, San
Marcos Complicated Stamped and Simple Stamped pottery, and Savannah
Complicated Stamped and Burnished Plain pottery.

Low densities of faunal material occurred throughout the northern
section and faunal debris was dense only in the northern wall section
above and adjacent to the two ashy organic-stained features. Identified
species consisted of white-tailed deer (O. virginianus), rabbit (Sylvilagus
sp.), diamond-backed terrapin (Malaclemys terrapin), chicken turtle <D.
reticularia), mud turtle (K. submbrum), a racer (Coluber constrictor) and
eastern coachwhip (Masticophis flagellum), gar (Lepisosteus sp.), Gaff-
topsail (B. marinus) and sea catfish (Arius felis), red (Sciaenops ocellata)

96

Figure 3

and black (P. cromis) drum, Atlantic croacker (Micropogon undulatus),
and sheepshead (Archosargus probatocephalus).

In addition to densities of pottery and faunal material, small chert
flakes were concentrated around the ashy organic-stained features. These
flakes were unutilized and appear to have been the result of retouching
stone implements.

97

Similar inventories of pottery and fauna were encountered in the
southern section of Structure #2. Within this section, pottery (N=70)
included about 47% plain sherds, 30% Savannah Fine Cord Marked
sherds, and 12% Savannah Check Stamped sherds. Minority wares were
the same as in the northern section. Identified faunal species consisted of
white-tailed deer (O. virginianus), raccoon (P. lotor), rabbit (Sylvilagus
sp.), mud turtle (K. subrubrum), gar (lepisostens sp.), Gafftopsail catfish
(B. marinus), black drum (P. cromis), and mullet (Mugil sp.). While the
inventories of the two sections are similar, the distribution of materials
changes at the dividing wall. Pottery was dense and much more evenly
distributed in the southern section, while faunal material was unevenly
distributed.

A disturbed shell midden measuring 10 meters in diameter was
located just beyond the southern edge of Structure #2. A 1 meter X 4
meter trench was excavated through this 27 cm thick deposit. The shell
midden was composed almost exclusively of oyster shell. Vertebrate
species were represented by a few bone fragments of white-tailed deer
(O. virginianus), a single humerus fragment of an Atlantic green turtle
(Chelonia mydas), and perhaps the remains of a box turtle (M. terrapin).
Of the 35 potsherds encountered in the shell midden, about 35% were
plain, 32% Savannah Fine Cord Marked, and 20% were Savannah Check
Stamped. Minority wares included Savannah Burnished Plain, Irene
Complicated Stamped, and San Marcos Simple Stamped. A single sherd
of St. Johns Plain also was recovered from the shell midden.

In summary, a few important conclusions may be drawn concerning
the form and nature of the community structure complex. First, the two
platforms appear to be contemporary, as they are located at opposing
ends of a plaza; the orientation of their construction elements are identi-
cal, their long axes are perpendicular, and both are primarily associated
with Savannah Phase pottery types. Secondly, although the two struc-
tures share basically identical construction elements, associated cultural
materials and their distribution indicate they were probably functionally
distinct.

The large size of Structure #1, its association with a substructural
mound and a plaza, and the presence of contemporary exotic material
(i.e. St. Johns pottery) indicates that it functioned as a community orien-
ted facility. Certainly, communal labor was responsible for the energy ex-
pended in construction of the structure.

While Structure #1 definitely appears to have been a community
building, it also may have been a residence. Hearths, refuse pits, and
diverse faunal remains within the structure indicate that it was the loca-
tion of food preparation and consumption activities. The small size of the
refuse pits suggests they contain the food remains of a small social unit
and perhaps even denote single meals. It may be speculated that the dual

98

hearths indicate that this social unit was polygamous. Conclusions based
upon a partially excavated structure must remain tentative; however,
present evidence is well explained by viewing this community structure
as the residence of a high-ranking political or religious official.

Unlike Structure #1, the northern platform was divided into two sec-
tions by a partition. This division probably served to define social space
and to distinguish activity areas. Refuse in the northern section was con-
centrated in a location near the northern end of the platform. The rela-
tively high densities of food remains and fragments of pottery vessels,
along with retouch flakes and refuse facilities, indicate that this debris
location was a focal point for at least a segment of social activities which
occurred within the structure. Food was consumed and its remains were
discarded; pottery vessels were broken, and stone implements were
maintained in this area. The only hearth associated with the northern
section, and one which seems to be contemporary with the debris loca-
tion, is situated about 15 meters to the southwest. As directly associated
faunal material was within rather than around the hearth, it appears that
food was prepared here but consumed and disposed of in the debris
location.

Evidence that food preparation was spatially distinct from food con-
sumption and other activities indicates that a formal, structured arrange-
ment governed activities within the structure. This surely distinguishes
Structure #2 from domestic contexts in which food preparation and con-
sumption are closely related events, both spatially and socially. Separa-
tion of these events in the northern section of the structure suggests that
food was consumed by persons other than those who prepared it. While
the food may have been prepared by women, maintenance of stone tools
or weapons was probably a male activity. Thus, chert flakes in the refuse
area suggests that the food was consumed by men.

The social segment associated with this inferred male-activity area is
indicated by its context within a community structure. It seems quite
possible that this portion of Structure #2 was the location of small
councils or deliberations involving community affairs. Although the
spatial organization of this section of the platform is quite formal, the
occurrence of more mundane activities, such as maintaining stone imple-
ments, suggests that the location also may have been used as a male
meeting place on more informal occasions. Considering that food con-
sumption was separated from preparation activities, it also seems prob-
able that consumption was isolated from food production. In other
words, it seems quite possible that the male social segment associated
with the structure was supported by the community, at least in the
circumstance of the council event. This interpretation of the spatial dis-
tribution within the northern section of Structure #2 clearly implies that
the Savannah Phase society at Kenan Field was segmented and ranked.

The southern platform section was distinct from the northern sec-

99

tion, as indicated by the partition and different depositional patterns.
Unlike the northern section, pottery was much more evenly distributed
and faunal material was distributed more erratically. Excavation was too
restricted to provide a clear indication of the form of the spatial distribu-
tions; however, it appears that different activities were associated with
this location.

The strength of arguments concerning the community structures
and their associations must be viewed within the limits of available infor-
mation. Quite plainly, the archaeological evidence of community struc-
tures at Kenan Field is without parallel on the Georgia coast, and I find
this uniqueness troublesome. However, the uniqueness could be wholly
the product of the lack of investigation at comparable village sties. Kenan
Field is the only Savannah Phase village site to be subjected to anything
approaching large-scale excavation. In addition to providing a first look
at a Savannah Phase village site, the Kenan Field data provides a com-
parative base for future research.

At the least, information from Kenan Field argues for new directions
in coastal research. One such direction involves a reconsideration of
Savannah Phase pottery types and their significance. The check stamped
pottery within both structures had grit and sand inclusions in their paste,
while the fine cord marked sherds were overwhelmingly grog tempered.
The distinct pastes of the Savannah Check Stamped and Savannah Fine
Cord Marked pottery surely indicates that different processes were
involved in the manufacturing of the two wares, and this was probably
related to social and/or functional differences in the use of the pots.

Present evidence is insufficient to completely resolve the factors
related to the pottery distinctions; however, it seems significant that the
high incidence of check stamped pottery is associated with what is inter-
preted as a communal/status-residence structure, while increased amounts
of fine cord marked pottery were associated with a structure interpreted
as the location of community political or religious events. This indicates
that the social context of pottery use varied between the two structures.
Social inferences are limited at this point, but it is clear that use of each of
these community buildings was associated with a distinctive yet contem-
porary assembledge.

100

TECHNOLOGICAL ANALYSIS OF

SOME SAPELO ISLAND POTTERY:

SOCIAL AND/OR FUNCTIONAL

DIFFERENCES*

By Marian Saffer

The preliminary analysis of pottery from the Kenan Field site has
shown a marked association of certain decorative modes and aplastic
constitutents. The correlations of grit inclusions (quartz greater than 1.0
mm) with check stamping and grog inclusions (clay lumps) with cord
marking are striking because typically in coastal archaeology, they would
be attributed to temporal differences. However, this explanation will not
suffice for the present case, because the two kinds of pottery, grit/ .check
stamped and grog/ cord marked, are clearly contemporaneous. Ceramic
technological analysis was employed to test alternative hypotheses about
the correlation of traits, with results which support independently de-
rived hypotheses about the Kenan Field site.

There are a number of explanations for regular physical differences
in pottery manufactured at the same time period. The patterns may re-
flect the exploitation of two kinds of clay, the working characteristics of
which demanded different techniques of manufacture or decoration.
The patterns may reflect differential exploitation of clays, tempers, and
decorative elements by distinct manufacturing units of some kind, for
instance, lineages. The patterns may be indicative of functional dif-
ferences between the two categories of pottery. It is toward evaluation of
the latter two hypotheses that the technological data were applied; that
is, the manufacturing group difference and the function difference.

The pottery in question was excavated from two Savannah period
(A.D. 1000-1540) structures at the Kenan Field site, located on the barrier
island, Sapelo. The structures, designated I and II, were apparently large,
low platforms and consisted in part of lines of rectangular postholes,
regularly spaced and oriented. The structures are at the periphery of an
open, plaza-like area. Structure I may be as large as 35 by 50 meters, but
Structure II appears to be smaller (Crook 1978).

Both structures have some shell- filled pits, ashy concentrations that
may have been from small fires, and organic stain areas. There were two
hearths in Structure I, one of which yielded a radiocarbon date of A.D.
115575 years. The hearths in Structure I were found at the edge of a

*Reprinted by permission from the Proceedings of the Southeastern Archaeolog-
ical Conference, Bulletin 22, 1980, Pp. 35-38.

101

low, in-structure mound, which may have served to drain rain water from
that activity area. Structure II had one hearth which appeared to be con-
temporaneous with the structure. Structure II had no mound, but two
wall trenches were exposed, one of which divided the structure into
north-south halves.

The spatial distribution of debris was also different in the two struc-
tures. In Structure I, pottery and other materials were present through-
out, with check stamped pottery most frequent along the north wall, and
plain and cord marked pottery most frequent in the interior areas. In
Structure II artifactual materials came almost exclusively from along the
north wall, with only sparse scatters of sherds and bone in the interior
areas. In Structure I check stamped pottery was most frequent (33% of
total) and in II cord marked pottery was most frequent (28% of total).

Crook ( 1978) has posited an interpretation of these structures which
is based upon the artifact inventories, spatial distributions of artifacts and
features, the features themselves, and ethnohistoric documents. He sug-
gests that the size of Structure I, its proximity to the plaza, and a number
of exotic artifacts indicated that some sort of community activity was
carried out there. In addition, the structure may have served as a resi-
dence, which is suggested by the size of the hearths and the refuse pits.

Crook's interpretation of Structure II is that it also was for com-
munity activity of some sort. More specifically, he sees evidence that
groups of individuals held decision-making meetings there and were at-
tended by other persons who were involved in food preparation and
cooking. On the basis of ethnohistoric documents, Crook has inferred
that the individuals at the meeting were of high status. Again, the size of
the structure, location, and debris distribution contribute to the interpre-
tation (Crook 1978).

The pottery from Kenan Field was categorized initially with a cross-
classification system (rather than "typing"), the dimensions of which were
two variables: decorative mode and aplastic (a term inclusive of temper
and naturally occurring inclusions). The use of this method for classifying
pottery avoids relying upon the accepted but problematic typology in
current use by coastal archaeologists. Using the established typology may
have resulted in forcing the data to fit the pattern, rather than examining
the data to detect patterns. Moreover, the association of grog with cord-
making and grit with check stamping would not have been documented
(Figure 1).

After noticing the aplastic/decoration association in pottery from
Structures I and II, technological analysis was carried out to define other
traits in the categories and to facilitiate interpretation of the differences.

The physical traits of a pottery vessel may vary according to the
function intended for that vessel, particularly traits built in or controlled
by the potter in the process of manufacturing and/or the selection of raw

102

Grit Grog

Check-
stamp

Cord-
mark

226

27

58

278

Figure 1

materials. If check stamped/ grit pottery and cord marked/ grog pottery
from Kenan Field served different purposes, they may be expected to
show consistent variation in any of a number of traits. The same kind of
consistent variation may be seen in pottery made by different groups with
access to or preference for differing raw materials and techniques of
manufacture. The specific hypothesis guiding the technological analysis
was that discreet constellations of physical traits would be found for each
pottery category, and that those clusters of traits may be related to raw
materials and/or manufacturing techniques. The point of the analysis
was not to test or support one of the above explanations vis-a-vis the
other as the cause of the observed trait correlation. Rather, the purpose
of the technological measurements was to see if the distribution of traits
was non-random, in which case either explanation "manufacturing
group1' differences or functional differences is possible.

Numerous variables may be examined to form a body of data for the
purpose of comparing two categories of pottery. A number of these
variables were measures on 30 sherds from the check stamped/grit
pottery and on 30 from the cord marked/grog pottery. The variables
studied were color, coring, scratch hardness, porosity, thickness, and the
particle sizes and proportions of aplastics. The data are at various levels
of measurement; some are appropriate for statistical treatment and some
are not. It should be emphasized that even a marked disparity in one

103

varible cannot be considered definitive evidence in favor of the hypothesis
being tested. The interest is in patterns of the variables together. A sum-
mary of the data follows.

The first variable to be considered was surface color. On the basis of
measurements done with a Munsell Soil Color Chart, four mutually ex-
clusive color categories were set up for the samples. The color categories
may be indicative of, among other things, variation in firing conditions
and coloring agents in the raw clay. The latter are principally iron com-
pounds and organic matter. The distribution of colors for each pottery
sample has been graphed (Figure 2) and a Chi-square, significant at .001,
indicates that the distribution of colors is not random. There is a higher

25

22
20

>-
o

z

Id

O
LU

a

HI

X
CO

10

cordmarked
checkstamped

RED- BROWN
YELLOW

Figure 2

GRAY VERY PALE-
WHITE

104

proportion of the cord marked pottery in the color categories which
indicate more complete oxidation of coloring agents than there is of the
check stamped pottery. Eighty per cent of the cord marked pottery ap-
pears to be well-oxidized, as opposed to 56% of the check stamped.

The second variable considered was coring. The term coring refers
here to the presence of grayish or brownish colors in a sherd's cross-
section, indicative of unoxidized, charred organic matter. Coring is a
function of firing conditions, paste density, sherd thickness, porosity, and
the initial amounts of organic matter in a clay. The sample sherds were
rated from zero to five for degree of coring. Zero was 'no core,' one was
'light core,' two and three were 'moderate core,' and four and five were
'heavy core.' The results were that 50% of the check stamped sample was
heavily cored, 40% was moderately cored, and 10% had no coring. The
cord marked sherds overall exhibited lesser degrees of coring, with 60%
moderate and 40% lightly or not cored. As with the surface color results,
the cord marked sherds tend to be more fully oxidized.

The third variable was hardness. Hardness is a dimension affected by
the particle sizes of the clay and aplastics, firing conditions, chemical and
mineralogical composition of the raw materials, and post-depositional
factors. Scratch hardness tests with Mohs' Hardness Scale yielded mean
hardness measurements of 2.7 for the check stamped sherds and 1.5 for
the cord marked. The maximum hardness for the cord marked group was
the minimum for the check stamped.

Sherd porosity was also measured for the data set. Porosity has to do
with the permeability of the clay body and is computed as the ratio of the
volume of pore space to the volume of the piece. Like color, coring, and
hardness, porosity is affected by many factors. The mean apparent poros-
ity for the check stamped sample was 28.6%, and for the cord marked it
was 36.5%. A comparison of the means was significant at 0.1. The cord
marked sherds are decidedly more porous, a trait that may have been
caused by different sizes and shapes of aplastic inclusions, more com-
plete firing and therefore less charred matter clogging pore spaces, or a
difference in the texture and composition of the raw clays employed.

Sherd thicknesses were also measured. Three measurements were
taken for each sherd and the mean recorded as the thickness. The mean
thickness of the cord marked sample was 0.8 cm and for the check
stamped it was 0.7 cm. Small differences in thickness in handmade
pottery is subject to slight variation by virtue of the manufacturing
method. Ranking the thickness measurements for each sample demon-
strated a great many interspersed values, thus the small variation must be
interpreted carefully.

The last variables to be considered are the particle sizes and propor-
tions. Aplastic particle sizes and quantities affect several of the preceding
dimensions, including hardness, porosity and coring. The sherds were
examined under a magnification of 70 X to rate particle sizes by the Went-

105

worth Scale (Shepard 1956) and to estimate relative quantities.

In all 30 cord marked sherds and 29 check stamped, sand was the
most frequent inclusion and was always rated 'abundant,' the highest
frequency rating. In the cord marked sherds grog was the next most fre-
quent inclusion type, whereas in the check stamped, grit was. There were
several minor types of inclusions, but they were uniformly rare in each
sample. The samples appear to carry equivalent loads of aplastic inclus-
ions, even though one has grog and the other has grit. However, the sand
in the two samples was not of the same size; the sand in the cord marked
pottery is smaller than that in the check stamped pottery.

A summary of the data shows the following. The cord marked sherds
show more oxidized color development and less coring than the check
stamped sherds. The coring also points to more oxidation in the cord
marked sample. The check stamped sample is harder than the cord
marked. A reducing atmosphere as opposed to an oxidizing one may in-
crease hardness. A reducing atmosphere would also cause dark surface
colors and coring. Although there is a great deal of overlap in thickness
distributions, the mean thickness of the check stamped pottery is less
than for the cord marked. Finally, the two samples contain comparable
loads of aplastic inclusions but not comparable size categories; the cord
marked pottery has smaller sand particles.

With the preceding information the most parsimonious explanation
of the group differences, in technological terms, hinges on the relative
levels of oxidation in the two samples. Different firing techniques are
posited as the reason for differences in color, coring, porosity, and
possible hardness. Less complete oxidation resulted in larger quantities
of charred organic matter in the pore spaces of the check stamped
sample, which has the effect of clogging the spaces and reducing perme-
ability. The incomplete oxidation may be caused by a reducing atmo-
sphere which could also increase hardness.

From the data just presented, it is apparent that a number of quanti-
fiable differences between check stamped/grit and cord marked/grog
pottery do exist. These differences bear out the research hypothesis that
discreet constellations of traits related to raw materials and/or manufac-
turing techniques exist for the two samples. Specifically, the dark colors,
heavy coring, and lower porosity of the check stamped sample point to
firing conditions insufficient for complete oxidation of organic matter.
For whatever reason, the two pottery categories were produced in a con-
sistently different manner, even beyond the obvious differences of de-
coration and aplastic inclusions.

The question now is, why would these differences exist? If functional
distinctions led to the variation, at least some of the properties should
relate to functional, working characteristics. In fact, porosity, hardness,
and thickness dimensions in which the samples do vary are related to
such characteristics as strength, absorbent behavior, and resistance to

106

weathering, shock, abrasion, and thermal stress. Therefore the explan-
ation of functional differences as a source of physical variation cannot be
eliminated.

To illustrate how the traits defined for each pottery type might be
related to a difference of function, one could suggest that the cord
marked pottery was a cooking ware, and the check stamped pottery for
storage or container use. A potter manufacturing a cooking vessel would
want an item which could withstand repeated shock and handling. By
using a paste with large quantities of sand particles, a certain amount of
porosity could be expected: porosity is a positive trait for withstanding
the stresses of thermal expansion and contraction. A thicker vessel would
be more heat retentive, another positive trait for cooking. In addition, a
cooking vessel is repeatedly exposed to heat and so may continue to
oxidize through usage. The Structures I and II cord marked pottery
exhibits such traits, at least relative to check stamped pottery. On the
other hand, a less porous vessel would be relatively more watertight, a
desirable characteristic for a container. Also, a storage vessel would be
subject to less handling than a cooking pot and so thiner walls might be
acceptable. The check stamped pottery possesses these traits, relative to
the cord marked.

It is interesting to note that in fact, cord marked pottery in Structures
I and II had a relatively high frequency of association with faunal re-
mains. This may be viewed as independent data supporting the idea that
cord marked pottery at Kenan Field functioned as a cooking ware.

The viability of the explanation pivoting on manufacturing group
differences must still be considered as a source of the detected pattern-
ing. Since, as had already been noted, raw materials differ between the
samples, and in all likelihood manufacturing techniques do also, the
possibility of separate units manufacturing the pottery can not be dismissed.

To substantiate the validity of one of these hypotheses over the
other, further testing should take place. If in further excavation, for ex-
ample, it were found that the two kinds of pottery had an uneven dis-
tribution in a series of residential structures, one could say the manufac-
turing group difference had been supported; that is, such a difference
could be construed to be related to kin group differences. But at this time,
we can test only the functional difference hypothesis against Crook's
interpretation of Structures I and II.

Though Crook believes both were some sort of community-use
structures, Structure I also looks like a residence thus it would have
served a dual purpose, as opposed to the solely community activity in
Structure II. One would expect diverse types of activities in the structures
to leave diverse artifact types and patterning. We have seen that this is the
case through patterns of deposition, types and spatial associations of
features, and types of artifacts recovered, particularly pottery type fre-
quencies. Structure I had a much higher frequency of check stamped pot-

107

tery, and the situation is reversed in Structure II, where cord marked
pottery dominated. Assuming that Crook has correctly assessed the exis-
tence of some functional differences between the two structures, one
would expect to find a variation in pottery distribution. Since this is in
fact the case, I consider the functional difference explanation to be sup-
ported by independent data.

At this stage of Kenan Field research, the functional explanation
seems strongest, or at least more elegant, because it treats more of the
observed differences in more detail. Moreover, Crook's hypotheses
about the structures are in agreement with the functional difference
hypothesis. It is important to note that Crook's ideas were developed and
tested independently of the pottery data analysis. The concurrence of
hypotheses arises from separate data bases. It is clear, in any case, that
the investigation, beyond cursory classification, into technological prop-
erties of coastal pottery has the potential to contribute insights to a
variety of archaeological problems social, functions, and chronological.

108

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script copy in University of Georgia Library).

114

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XX

June 1981

GAMES WITHOUT FRONTIERS:
ESSAYS FOR A PROTEAN SOCIOLOGY

DEC 1 0 7981 f I

l*e'<

Published by
WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

A Division of the University System of Georgia
Carrollton, Georgia

WEST GEORGIA COLLEGE

STUDIES IN THE SOCIAL SCIENCES

Volume XX June, 1981

GAMES WITHOUT FRONTIERS:
ESSAYS FOR A PROTEAN SOCIOLOGY*

Mark J. LaFountain
Volume Editor

CONTENTS

Page
Contributors

Foreword Robert H. Claxton v

Preface Mark J. LaFountain vi

Protean Principles: Explorations in
the Structure and Symbolism of
Healing Ralph G. Locke 1

Some Historians Methods in the

Analysis of Thought D. Lawrence Wieder 16

The Old Courtesan: An Occasion for the
Structuralist-Semiotic Research
Program Jeffrey Lloyd Crane 27

Season of Birth and Acceptable Science:

A Discussion of Peripheral Theories . Derral Cheatwood and

Michael N. Halstead 42

Biological Cycles and Socio-Rhythms Joe W. Floyd, Jr. 56

Tacit Environmental Interactions Walter Schaer 73

*The title of this volume is indebted to the song, "Games Without
Frontiers," written by Peter Gabriel. It appears on the album Peter
Gabriel, Chrisma Records, Ltd., 1980.

TITLES IN PRINT

Vol. VII, 1968, Social Scientists Speak on Community Development.

Vol. VIII, 1969, Some Aspects of Black Culture.

Vol. XI, 1972, Georgia Diplomats and Nineteenth Century Trade
Expansion.

Vol. XIII, 1974, American Diplomatic History: Issues and Methods.
Price, each title, $2.00

Vol. XIV, 1975, Political Morality, Responsiveness, and Reform in

America.

Vol. XV, 1976, The American Revolution: The Home Front.

Vol. XVI, 1977, Essays on the Human Geography of the Southeastern

United States.

Vol. XVIII, 1979, The Southeastern United States: Essays on the Cultural
and Historical Landscape

Price, each title, $3.00

Vol. XIX, 1980, Sapelo Papers: Researchers in the History and Prehistory
of Sapelo Island, Georgia

Price, $4.00

Copyright 1981, West Georgia College

Printed in U.S.A.

Thomasson Printing Co., Carrollton, Georgia 301 17

Price, $4.00

($1.00 discount with standing orders or orders of ten or more to
one address.)

West Georgia College is an
Affirmative Action/ Equal Opportunity Employer

CONTRIBUTORS

A. DERRAL CHEATWOOD received his Ph.D. from Ohio State Univer-
sity in Sociology and he is currently in the Department of Criminal
Justice at the University of Baltimore. He has published a number of
articles on juvenile corrections, art and artists, and visual imagery in
society. Professor Cheatwood is co-founder and editor of the journal,
Qualitative Sociology, and co-founder of the annual Conferences on
Social Theory and the Arts. His interest in season of birth is a tangent of
his focus on social theory and social psychology.

JEFFREY L. CRANE is an Assistant Professor of Sociology with the
University of Hawaii at Hilo. He is presently serving as a visiting
professor at the University of Notre Dame where he received his doctorate
in 1979. Professor Crane has published and presented papers in the
areas of sociological theory, medical sociology, and American culture.
His primary interests are in the areas of interpretive sociology, language,
myth, and semiotics. Currently he is working on editing a volume of
essays on Hans-George Gadamer and a series of articles dealing with
parents reactions to unanticipated caesarean birthing experiences.

JOE W. FLOYD, JR. took the Ph.D. in Sociology at the University of
California, Riverside in 1977, and is currently Assistant Professor of
Sociology at Eastern Montana College, Billings, Montana. His current
research interests include the sociology of time and the formulation of
explanations for human behavior based on the combination of biological
and social variables. Human behaviors of specific interest include those
which are related to the interaction of biological sex, gender identity,
and gender roles; and those which involve stress, shift work, and family.

MICHAEL N. HALSTEAD received the Ph.D. in Sociology from Tulane
University. He is presently Chairman of the Sociology Department at St.
Ambrose College. In addition to teaching interests in theory, minority
relations and urban sociology, he is pursuing research in the sociology
of music, primarily focusing on jazz.

RALPH G. LOCKE is a Visiting Professor of Social and Administrative
Medicine at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, and a
Research Associate at Duke University. He obtained his Ph.D. in social
anthropology at the University of Western Australia. His research work
and writing have mainly been in the areas of ecstatic religion, altered
states of consciousness, and healing in a cross-cultural prespective. Two
recently completed works with Edward Kelly of Duke are Altered States

in

of Consciousness and Laboratory Psi Research: An Historical Survey
and Research Prospectus, and A Cross-Cultural Analysis of Altered
States of Consciousness and Psi both to be published by the Parapsychology
Foundation in 1981.

WALTER SCHAER is a Human Factors consultant and Professor of
Industrial Design at Auburn University in Alabama. He received the
diploma of Interior Architecture from the Technical Institute of Berne
in Switzerland, and the Master of Industrial Product Design from the
Ulm Graduate School of Design in Germany. He earned the Doctor of
Philosophy degree from the Walden University of Florida with a dissertation
on "Experiential Design Awareness," having previously studied ergonomics
at the Swiss Federal Institute of Technology and Gestalt psychology at
the University of Zurich. Professor Schaer, a former project director
with NASA for a conceptual space station, is now developing a humanistic
design theory toward transelectronic realities.

D. LAWRENCE WIEDER is an Associate Professor of Sociology and
Adjunct Associate Professor of Philosophy at the University of Oklahoma.
His teaching and research interests include ethnomethodology, pheno-
menological sociology, and observational methods. He has conducted
ethnographies of a half-way house for narcotic addicts, the counter-
culture, a research laboratory for chimpanzee research, and nursing
homes. He is currently studying the performance of magic. His writings
include Language and Social Reality: The Telling of the Convict Code.

IV

FOREWORD

As West Georgia College publishes this twentieth volume in its
annual Studies in the Social Sciences series, it is appropriate to consider
the history and purpose of these collections of essays. Each individual
issue has really been more of a book than a magazine.

The first developmental stage lasted a decade, beginning in 1962.
The Studies series was a spin-off from the college's active continuing
education program. Its purpose was to disseminate the ideas of visiting
lecturers or (mainly) Georgia professors, especially to secondary schools.
The Sears Roebuck Foundation provided seed money, since it was sent
gratis to interested parties. Each issue had a theme, generally focusing
on international education or the changes Georgia experienced in the
1960's. Editorial leadership came from J. Carson Pritchard, John Martin,
Collus Johnson, and Eugene R. Huck.

The series entered a second distinct period, beginning in 1973,
under the general editorship of John Upchurch. Thereafter, each volume
had a separate editor and invited authors, representing a particular
social science discipline. History and geography were predominant. The
new purpose, while not ignoring high schools, was to give West Georgia
faculty members experience in editing and writing for college level
readers. National indexes and journals cited artices from the Studies.
Readership became regional rather than local. The college's new School
of Arts and Sciences began to subsidize publication.

Although this sociology volume relies upon the accumulated ex-
perience and traditions of earlier ones, it also represents some new
directions. We are seeking to add non-academic authors and readers, a
wider geographic distribution of subscribers, and a focus on emerging
issues and methodologies. We anticipate a twenty-first volume on "Supply
Side Economics and its Critics" which will also include a comprehensive
index. With increased selectivity, we hope to continue to bring new
scholars together in an effort to present their research jointly. At the
same time, we reaffirm the original goal of conveying ideas away from
campus to anyone who cares to consider them.

Robert H. Claxton
General Editor

PREFACE

The intention of this volume is to present an interdisciplinary
approach to the stretching of sociology's boundaries.1 Each author was
invited not only to recognize this, but to seize the freedom to venture
creatively into unusual areas, places sociologists ignore or avoid or
simply fail to conceptualize. As such, the purpose then is not to squeeze
adventure into tight theoretical schema.2 Rather, it is to formulate
questions, to push horizons, to do with sociology what Max Scheler did
with phenomenology, that is, to use it as a medium with which to say,
"Look, over there, look at that!". Whether or not the emergent symbol
systems actually capture experienced realities is always an issue, but
often the latter is not as important as making tired eyes see anew. This,
of course, does not mean that the quality of theory and research
generating insight is to be whimsically abused by unattended flights of
imagination, but only that imagination and adventure must too be
celebrated. Sociologists often forget these moments in their concerns
with the coalescence of thought.

The spirit of creativity is not, however, the sole impetus for this
work. There is also the interaction of "forced interdisciplinary interest"
and alienation. By "forced interdisciplinary interest" I refer to the
shrapnel of the so-called "knowledge explosion," a factor known to all
contemporary thinkers and artists. Not only is information expanding
almost uncontrollably within disciplines, it is also doing so across disciplines,
blurring boundaries and almost obliterating some fields, while simultane-
ously generating others. To attempt to remain knowledgeable requires
attention to the expanding present as well as to its histories. For those
not wishing to be the ones with "tired yellow-edged notecards that have
never been updated," the alternative is a forced interdisciplinarianism.

But pursuing curiosity across fields points one toward an absent or
future goal/object, one whose processes are often obscure and uncharted.
This in itself is problem enough, but it also forces a recognition of the
experience of alienation. Reference here is not so much to the Marxian
notion as to the Hegelian-Sartrean rendering. Sartre noted in the Critique
of Dialectical Reason that the products of human action tend to take on
their own reality, their own force, their own necessity. There comes a
point in time where the outcomes of intentional activity stand over and
against their creators as hinderances to growth and the realization of
potential. Sociology, or more properly sociological praxis, discovers
itself burdened with limits on possible forms and types. Not the fault of
any one figure or school or trend, this is the result of our efforts,
especially our successes, at being rich and clear. Such outcomes constitute
what Sartre termed the "practico-inert,"3 whose effect is the atrophy of

VI

possibility and the obstruction of freedom.

As the inviter of essays for this volume, I was driven by the effort to
overcome the practico-inert in my experience of sociology. It is not that
traditional or even contemporary variants have no value or offer no
insight, they do indeed. But what of all the other ways in which "the
social" is encountered? What else is there? That was the question posed
to the participants, "What are your working on that you think to be of
value, to be different, that might be good or interesting for sociologists
to consider"?

Realization of the alienating force of the practico-inert is painful,
particularly when answers to questions such as those above are posed.
As one learns of developments, ideas, insights, etc. appearing in related
or marginal disciplines, and they seem to have import for one's own,
what does one do? Among several answers are, (1) become a "Renaissance
person" know as much as possible with as much depth as possible
about as many things as one is able. Many of the early writers whom we
now defer to as our (sociological) "masters" were precisely such people.
They did not necessarily call themselves sociologists, sociology often
claimed them! Writers such as, for instance, Marx, Spencer, Simmel,
G.H. Mead, Kenneth Burke or Alfred Schutz felt no compulsion to
restrict their energies to sociology per se, nor did they abide by any
prevailing dogma. They relied rather on their own ingenuity, on their
own sensitivities to symmetries, intricacies, nuances, etc.

Such responses to curiosity and its ensuing interdisciplinary quest
often leads to one's forsaking sociology, with the resultant loss of
potentially powerful thinkers. For those not departing the discipline, but
still following this line, there are such problems as publishing one's
work, getting on panels, programs, policy boards, etc., finding employ-
ment, locating colleagues with whom to share, warnings against committing
"career suicide," and a host of other responses that reek of myopia and
promise obscurity. The latter are particularly true this very day when
sociology more and more is dominated by politico-economic factors,
large universities who in toto exercise dictatorial power, scientistic
restriction of vision, and other even more latent structures such as
Western interpretations of reality and knowledge.

A second answer is to retain one's inquisitiveness, to probe other
forms of knowing and realities, and to bring this back to bear on the very
boundaries of sociology. Stretch the boundaries, broaden, deepen, re-
define standard concepts. Consider possibilities and novelties as potentially
relevant factors or variables. This is after all the history of sociological
inquiry, the enlarging and extension of thought about "interaction",
"social", "change" and numerous other concepts. This surpassing of the
given and the hypostatized requires an historial rootedness, but it also

VII

accepts as untenable that future paths are passively predetermined or
that the practico-inert should reign over free praxis and occlude the
totalization of knowing and being. Trancendence and higher reorgani-
zation are important moments in the sociologist's penetration of "things".
Such inciting of boundaries to dilate and floresce gives rise to the title of
this volume: "games without frontiers".

A wonderful summary of this very issue was offered by the
contemporary sculptor, Kenneth Snelson. For years under attack by
critics for producing sculptures they could not comfortably classify as
artistic creations or as engineering feats, Snelson noted, "Hardening of
the categories leads to art disease."4 So appropriate a response! The
intent of this volume is similar to that of Snelson: not necessarily to
confuse a discipline that already scarcely knows what it is, but rather to
attend to the world it looks at and to the experiences that world provides
that they might become part of its working vocabulary.

The crucial insight behind "games without frontiers" is that sociological
praxis has always been motivated by desire (e.g., for understanding, for
manipulation, etc.), which itself is anchored in a lack. Fulfillment resides
in appropriating a world exterior to the sociologist. This appropriation
secretes products, eg., assumptions, theories, epistemologies, ontologies,
metaphysics. The irony, however, is that these products confront the
sociologist as identical with the world. The alienation inherent in this
dialectic is perceptible, among other moments, when one reaches for
the freedom necessary to re-see or re-appropriate the world, only to find
the effort fettered by one's own creations. The free agency of an
intending consciousness loses its interior possibilities for growth and
transcendence in the moment of its recognition of its being captive, i.e.,
its being exterior to itself.

So what does this have to do with interdisciplinary study and with
this volume? It raises the issue of the necessity of viligant self-awareness
and a willingness to accept struggle. The latter are signs of a profound
feature of human existence. As a sociological issue, when one accepts
the inevitably necessary reality of struggle as the mate of freedom, it
becomes a problem of what to do with boundaries and frontiers. A
solution, though not all would concede it to be the only one, is games
without frontiers.

Speculation and experimentation have always been among the
games engaged in by sociologists as they confront desire and lack. But
often these stop short of radical vision, or of ontology and metaphysical
re-orientation, though they do often penetrate epistemologies, becoming
consumed by technique. Speculation and experimentation are motivating
forces in these essays, but so too is the simple desire to let the pre-
thematic world emerge beyond given frontiers. It is a war without

viu

tears no vehemence or cynicism or pessimism is mandated only the
embracing of the emergent quality of freedom, of existence, of knowing.
The products of such war can include paroxysm and disorder, and they
can generate cynicism, ostracism, and wars with tears. Yet they can also
call us to a more intelligible grasp of our experience, to a fuller understand-
ing of just what our contexts really are, and to what sorts of relationships
there are among things that are indeed important. Games without fron-
tiers are for what is forgotten in assumption and/or for what is attendant,
but not yet emerged.

Mark J. LaFountain

Assistant Professor of Sociology

Volume Editor

IX

Notes

'One notes the exclusively male authorship of this volume. Women were invited,
but for one reason or another, all declined.

2The different systems of referencing were permitted to let each author retain
his own particular style.

3See Sartre, pp. 130-132, 226-227 (Jean-Paul Sartre, Critique of Dialectical
Reason, trans. Alan Sheridan-Smith, ed., Jonathan Ree, London: NLB, 1976).

4 Quoted in Smithsonian, June 1981, Vol. 12, #3, p. 28.

PROTEAN PRINCIPLES: EXPLORATIONS

IN THE STRUCTURE AND SYMBOLISM

OF HEALING*

By Ralph G. Locke

In the Greek pantheon, Proteus was a minor god, but one who
exemplified important themes of Greek philosophy, science, and culture.
For Proteus had the power of assuming whatever shape he pleased, and
in this fashion he embodied the essence of human imagination in its
unfettered access to forms and modes of being. In this aspect, Proteus
symbolizes transcendence and creativity. Malleability of form, however,
assumed another meaning. If one desired the truth, then one had to hold
Proteus in one shape. He would then relent in his struggle and speak
veridically. The Orphic mystics considered the god as a symbol of the
primal matter from which the world was created.1 A second, but
equally important aspect of the myth of Proteus, then, is that truth as
essence or invariant principle has to be won in a contest with the
obdurate world of appearances, with our worlds of perception and re-
flection, imagination and the domains of shared meanings.

Elements of Greek culture profoundly shaped Western views of
science. In the twentieth century, we find echoes of this cultural inheri-
tance in scientific ideation and method. I am not suggesting here a linear
and direct descent of cultural material; rather, the pattern is one of
symbolic forms which are variously filled through historical and social
transformations, but which invariantly structure the relationship of man
and world. In scientific effort, knowledge, in all of its contingencies, is
generally considered to be wrung from the fabric of the world in
stringent attempts at control, limitation, and the imagined and measured
inference of hidden principles. Science, and no less social science, deals
with 'occult' relations beneath the apparent order of things.2 And curiously,
there is a recent confluence in the styles of mainstream science, marginal
science (parapsychology, for example), and esoteric systems insofar as
they share some ideas previously held exclusively of one another con-
cerning hidden realities.3

My intention is not to propose that a unified science or philosophy
of science is emerging; rather, the point is to sketch out some common
themes in approaches to knowledge acquisition and to show that their
methods and results are symbolically framed. Healing provides a focus
for explorations of this relationship. Ideas about healing in this century

"I am grateful for the constructive criticism and support offered by Edward F.
Kelly during work on this paper.

have been profoundly altered by concern for the mind, in the first place,
and more strongly by a focus on consciousness. Mind and consciousness
throw a light on embodiment, symbolism, and human action which
physicalism and positive science disallowed. But in every case of inquiry
there is an ineradicable problem that of interpretation. Let me deal
with this briefly in reference to the contributions of two great innovators
Freud and Jung.

For Freud, a theory of symbolism is central to the understanding of
human action. To penetrate the lived-world and psyche of the patient
one necessarily accounts for idiosyncratic expressions, related to patients'
biography, and the contextual features of patients' communication. It
was very much a case of the analysand talking to reveal the referential
structure of his talk to himself. Earlier, Freud had used directive exploration
of fantasy, but abandoned this and moved via free-association to the
'talking out' of fantasy associations by the patient independently. Despite
these changes, the analyst's problem remained unchanged to interpret
the patient's utterances and other acts, as indicative of situated pathology,
via the analyst's own (prior) knowledge of symbols and communicative
process. The Freudian solution was to treat language as the conveyor of
the hidden cipher of the psyche and the analyst-analysand relation.4

Language in psychoanalysis supplanted the value of imagination
and the fantasy image. Fantasy remained an object of inquiry but not a
method. Moreover, by focusing on the patient's expression and the
analyst's detached, self-knowing presence, an illusion of objectivity was
projected. The aim in analysis was to use clinical observations, self-
observations if you like, as a means of regression to the pathological
nucleus. Beneath many forms of expression one finds the invariant,
symbolic structure. Jung, on the other hand, sought to reveal the
workings of the psyche through active, imaginative self-exploration in
which the analyst and patient jointly participated. While Jung shared the
strategy of reduction to the pathological nucleus, both the nucleus and
style of reduction varied from Freud's. Jungian analysis emphasizes
reflexive exploration of fantasy in various modes and the primary value
of imaginative variation of psychic content and personal expression.

Undoubtedly, both therapies appeal to persons who are verbally
competent, imaginative, intelligent, and not too seriously impaired, just
as is the case with Carl Rogers' client-centered approach. Nevertheless,
their comparison reveals several things: (a) Freud's committed rationalism
promoted the decline of the value of imagination and the ascendance of
linear-linguistic understanding; (b) Jung's promotion of imagination as
object and method of inquiry was done in an antirationalist framework
emphasizing spontaneous, configurational insight non-linear and intuitive;
(c) both were concerned with interpretation but in a relatively uncritical

fashion; neither proposed a phenomenology of mutual understanding;
(d) both were concerned with the elucidation of relatively invariant
structures of human consciousness out of the kaleidoscope of communi-
cative content, although for Jung the structure was transcedent (the
archetype) and for Freud it was immanent (an unconscious psychic
nucleus).

Freud's preoccupation with logical-linear processes expressed in
language reveals the style of rationalism and empiricism; while Jung's
orientation is more phenomenological. Neither, however, offers an
epistemology of consciousness and action which includes the analysand
and and analyst in the social world, thus leaving a hidden order of
mutuality unaddressed. Modern anthropological and phenomenological
studies of healing often seek to make this order into primary datum. In
so doing, some of the patterns discussed above are repeated. For
example, a phenomenological study of healing sets out to describe the
range of experience available to participants in healing settings and to
describe the conditions and content of mutuality (intersubjectivity) or
shared meanings. Beyond this, there is a concern with the intersection
that these situated meanings have with cultural symbols aimed at setting
out structures of consciousness and action. In other words, there is an
attempt at reduction to relatively invariant features of the social
organization of healing.

'Relative' invariance brings us back to the issue of interpretation
and the mythical guide of Proteus. The hidden order we seek to reveal
in the research problem we have chosen is the hidden order within
ourselves and our relation to our focus of attention. As Michael Polanyi
has it, we know in general (as in a physiognomy) in order to know in
particular.5 Our grasping of things is always from a physiognomy to a set
of focally significant particulars. So, the information we derive from our
inquiry should not be the particular, but the structure of the from-to
relation. We know about the world, have a familiarity with it, before we
dissect it or act in it. Again, this resonates in the Freud-Jung comparison
since we find that the intuitive (physiognostic) and the logical-linear
(telegnostic) forms of knowing are not mutually exclusive but dialect ically
related.

The symbolic parallel of these modes of knowing is the bimodal
pattern suggested by Langer and now von Bertalanffy: symbolic forms
are either expressive-existential or discursive-linear.h Stylistically, they
are correlated with receptive, intuitive cognitive orientation as opposed
to an intellectual, active orientation.7 Insofar as symbolism can be
considered as that which provides depth and contour to our experience,
then consciousness, the ontological foundation of experience, is bimodal.

Recent innovations in healing, especially in psychology and psychiatry.

exemplify the bimodality proposition in both methods of research and
clinical techniques. Some therapies underpin their approach with findings
of neuropsychological investigations into hemispheric functions. So, we
can find proposed strategies for blocking the ieft hemispheric' operation
to promote intutive, spontaneous problem-solving, either through logical-
linguistic paradox or through some type of autogenic procedure.8 However
promising these clinical procedures may be, there are often two startling
oversights, or, rather, misconceptions in them: (a) Healing theories
often do not incorporate a theory of imagination integrated with the
structure of consciousness. On occasions where such a theory is included,
the quality of imaginative insertion of the clinician/researcher into the
healing situation is often ignored, (b) Closely related to the first issue is
the tendency of analysts to assume, quite frequently, that the content of
imagery and patients' symbols is immediately transparent to the patient
and the analyst or, at least accessible in a very short time. That is, the
qualities of interpretation are not examined, or even worse, not considered
to be relevant. What is more, where interpretation is considered focal,
then more attention to bimodality is insufficient: our recognition must
be that bimodality is a structure, filled in such a way as to give continuity,
shape, vitality, and depth to our experiences in a distinctively social
fashion.

An intermediate conclusion from the discussion is to underline the
relation of particulars and structures. The social scientist deals with
actions and experiences in a world of variously shared meanings, so that
each human expression is coextensively a moment in the structure of a
life-world usually described by social scientists in terms of 'social order".
In other words, for all parties to a situation, experiential moments are
framed in essential structures which form the configurations of familiarity
and strangeness, belongingness and estrangement, and so on. We are
dealing with the minimal conditions of sharing the natural attitude
where every actor assumes (implicitly) that the world is in some sense
'out there', available to every man, at least for all practical purposes, in
the same way as it is for him." As a fundamental structure of human con-
sciousness, it contains additional metaphysical assumptions concerning
being/non-being, inside/outside, temporal/atemporal, body/mind, and
so on.10 In every case, where such elements are elicited so that we may
transcend the natural attitude and make it the source of data, this aim is
always incompletely realized. As in the fleeting Protean transformation,
the natural attitude and its content of lived experience are transformed
by our own natural stance which we can only reflexively grasp (as if out
of the corners of our eyes) and barely transcend.

Returning to the issue of healing, the perspective we have arrived at
is a hermeneutic one. Just as Kuhn has investigated the interpretation of

scientific knowledge, method and social structure, so we are constrained
to look at the social contexts of healing, healing observation, and the
structures of lived experience which frame them." For, just as Merleau-
Ponty demonstrated in his classic critique of behaviorist psychology that
there is no physiology without a 'psychology' (an assumptive frame of
reference about hidden or dispositional states), so Mary Douglas has
shown us that there is no image of the body which is not also an image of
(some) society.12

HEALING, CONSCIOUSNESS AND SOCIAL STRUCTURE.

Quite often the use of 'consciousness' is equated with a kind of
radical subjectivity. In this sense it is unproductive in the analysis of
human action. A more useful approach is the phenomenological one
wherein subjectivity is a concern but so is mter-subjectivity, the sharing
of meanings essential to social life. This involves considering every
object in consciousness (in whatever mode perception, fantasy, reverie,
etc.) as having a subjective and an objective pole.13 Experience is
organized correspondingly according to the unique sediments of individuals'
biographies which nevertheless are generally communicable and under-
standable out of shared language and commonalities in natural attitude.
Consciousness, then, is an arrangement of part-whole relationships, and
the idea of polarity is but one expression of it. Likewise, experiential
moments stand in this same relationship to structural principles.

In many cultures the process of becoming a healer, and sometimes
being a patient, invokes some kind of drastic reorganization of individual
consciousness. Moreover, an important variable in this transition is the
extent to which social structural supports exist for the change how it is
sanctioned. Becoming a healer may mean being recognizably 'ill' in
some form, madness for example, and passing through this stage to a
new status as a healing medium.14 Sometimes this status and consciousness
change is spontaneously achieved; it is not socially engineered. But in
some cultures there are deliberate efforts to place stress upon aspiring
mediums by subjecting them to situations which have contradictory or
ambiguous social and psychological meanings.15 In each circumstance,
spontaneous or organized, there is a change from one natural attitude to
another, and correspondingly, a different sense of the lived world
emerges, a new consciousness.

These kinds of transitions amount to a qualification of the subjective
by a change in the objective pole of experience where the latter is
interpreted partly as social structure. In this vein, Mary Douglas has
made some useful observations about the relation between states of
consciousness, body-image, body control, and social structure.16 She
proposes an ideal-type analysis of social-structural types in terms of

principal symbolic emphases. I have paraphrased her description and
reduced it to elements concerned with the transitions and marginalities
dealt with in the discussion so far.

N-l N-2

1. Radical differentiation be- Male- female differentia not radical,
tween male and female qualities

2. High body control emphasis. Low body control.

3. High social control. Low social control.

4. Emphasis on ritual, formal rules Emphasis on spontaneity,
and sanctions.

5. Radical distinction between No radical inside-outside distinction,
inside and outside (body and

self).

6. High value on consciousness Control of consciousness not exalted;
control. supports for ASC's.

My designation of the two types as N- 1 and N-2, which Douglas calls
respectively conditions of ritualism and effervescence, is simply to be
understood as one natural attitude and correlated social structure as
opposed to another. On the one hand, N-l is associated with a repressive
culture and social structure of the kind which circumscribed Freud's
discovery of the unconscious in the distinctive expression of hysterical
body-consciousness. N-l promotes one-dimensional (logical- linear) evalua-
tions in the form of technical-instrumental judgments and a dwelling on
exterior properties of things and persons.17 N-2 is correlated with multi-
dimensional and holistic (intuitive-expressive) evaluations wherein objects
and persons are judged predominantly in terms of internal and contextual
states and qualities. While this is a provocative typology which has some
considerable substance demonstrated by Douglas' discussion of cultural
symbolic forms, what is missing is a discussion of states of 'betweenness'
and conflict. Specifically, it seems more likely from cross-cultural
information, that transformations of consciousness will occur in conditions
of liminality, even where a society may emphasize N-l or N-2. Elements
of both are often present, setting up conflicts of meaning and expression.
Moreover, it is clear from some recent research that specific sociologies
of contradition or paradox in a wide variety of settings will produce
consciousness changes.18

There are two points about the way these socio-logics of conflict
work which are relevant to the discussion: (a) They can be learned and
applied consistently so that they become the basic structure of reality

for individual (e.g., Laing's and Bateson's studies of schizophrenia
incorporate examples of this kind of learning).19 (b) Once learned, these
logics can be applied by individuals to themselves and others to produce
a kind of auto-induction of consciousness change. For example, my own
studies of spirit mediumship in Western societies indicate that the social
structure in which many mediums operate incorporate N-l and N-2 in
active conflict.20 An aspiring medium is placed in a situation of competing
demands so that there are paradoxical features to his perception of
himself (body and mind) and others, and their relation to inferred or
'unseen' states of being. For example, the neophyte has to learn to make
accurate discriminations about the source of his experience and actions
in terms of inside-outside (the embodied self), human or spiritual agency,
materialistic or spiritual motives, in a context where the assumption of
clear discrimination is treated suspiciously because the individual is a
neophyte. The situation incorporates many of the features of the double-
bind.

Differently stated, for a person to become a medium and healer
they must be healed first, but healing seems always to be unfinished as
long as one operations in the N-l - N-2 conflict situation. However,
returning to the learning of conflict logics of this kind, a feature of
adaptation of mediums is autoinduction of altered states. How this
comes about can be partially understood by the following processual
model.

A. Those entering a N-l - N-2 conflict situation, whether skeptical
about mediumship or not, would mostly concede the conceivability of
different realities and correlated states of consciousness. Indeed, it is a
characteristic of our ordinary waking consciousness that the conceivable
forms an unfilled perimeter of our experience.21 Focal awareness in
everyday terms is an immersion in the 'flow' of experiences, given order
and sensibiity by our natural attitude. Insofar as it is exoteric, describing
the predominant structure of consciousness in this society, 'marginal'
experiences such as dreams, reveries, peripheral vision, and illusions are
routinely 'struck out' or devalued in shaping the trajectory of social
existence. We make few epistemic claims for these experiences, as
opposed to the status they have in many other societies. They are as a
flicker between the frames of experience of the real, 'out there' world.
Implicit in this metaphor are assumptions about the real and unreal,
inside and outside, existence and non-existence as set out earlier in the
discussion.

B. The flow of experience and its correlated structure may be
'interrupted' or changed in a number of ways. In the instance of learning
to be a medium, leaving out spontaneous mediumship for the moment,
liminal experience is precipitated into bold relief. Quite often this is

done in a setting of reduced environmental stimulation (as in the oft-
caricatured seance room) together with rhythmic breathing, postural
rigidity, and other bodily attitudes, (which may involve responses to
rhythmic drumming, chanting, singing, and other physical and psychological
'driving1 procedures especially in traditional, non-Western societies).
There is an inner attendance, a sensitivity to features of embodiment
which is usually absent. Moreover, contacts with 'spirit guides' and
'other realities' often take the form of a guided, imaginal journey. The
'guide' is usually the presiding medium who may variously suggest and
'fill' elements of the trip (see Appendix). Interruption of routine experiential
flow occurs through a fundamental model of possibilism the self-
regulated autonomy of the imagination. Freedom of expression of con-
sciousness is exemplified in imagination insofar as its possibilism represents
a transcendence of taken-for-granted experiential ordering. Moreover,
in a setting where environmental input is drastically reduced and inner
attention is heightened, as in a seance or some autogenic procedure,
imaginative content sometimes assumes eidetic characteristics.22 While
these are relatively free flights into possible worlds, the interpretive
structure of mediumistic beliefs imposes a powerful system of control
and judgment. Under these conditions, it is not only the case that
previously marginal experience is re-invested with attention and signifi-
cance, but also the logic of situational contradiction and disruption of
familiar patterns of perception block analytic functions and allow
confingurational/imagistic functions to dominate.21 The process is often
described as 'dissociation'.

C. Clearly this transformation is augmented by charismatic guidance
and the receptivity (suggestibility) of the student (or patient). Additionally,
the learning of dissociation as set out in B takes place in a milieu which
de-emphasizes intellection and critical attitudes: it is quite literally a
'letting go' of exoteric rational dominance, and a movement to a new
'flow' of experience. There is a strong resemblance between this strategy
and that the holistic, anti-Cartesian style of Human Potential Movement
ideation and the emancipatory social structure it claims to embody'.4
The outcome of this kind of exposure for many is learning a logic of
contradiction in a particular contextual form, and often implicitly, so
that interaction tension can be self-induced and dissociation follows. In
general, the tension generated moves previously marginal experiences a
little further into focal awareness. Formerly marginal phenomena become
perceivable in the flow of routine consciousness. The total movement,
again an ideal type, is from the conceivable (unfillable with experience)
to the possible (fillable with experience, but still marginal) to perceivable
(filled in relation to focal awareness). In addition, the fact that the logic
of contradiction is implicit and contextual gives it an ineffable quality

Figure 1: Ehrenwald's diagram of the symmetrical relationship between
hysterical conversion and psi syndrome manifestations

Hysterical anesthesia and
hysterical blindness

(-)

ESP: telepathy, clairvoyance,
precognition

(+]

EGO

Hysterical paralysis, mutism

PK: psychokinesis, 'physical'
mediums

a
o

o

c
3

-
'

u
a

u

E

o

c

not unlike that of mysticism.

Out of the interstices of mundaneity the healer may recover a world
of profound aesthetic value. Switching to an alternative mode of conscious-
ness which is then integrated with focal awareness in everyday
circumstances, often provides a new and dramatic quality to life. Indeed,
it is interesting to watch healers (mediums and non-mediums) and
neophytes as they draw 'marginal1 experiences (body sensations, peripheral
vision, hypnagogic images, etc.) into dramatic immediacy.25 Out of the
interactional tension (Is it really me? Is it really happening? Does he
really see it/believe it too?, etc.) the social canvas attains new depths of
style, authorship, and symbolism.

Esoteric healers (psychics, mediums) underscore the hidden dimen-
sions of ordinary and marginal experience in metaphors of cosmic pro-
cessestransmigration, energies, powers, occult worlds, and so on. In
this respect they construct world-views which resemble 'dramas of
salvation' that underlie religious healing beliefs concerned with reuniting
the self (soul) with God, cosmos, or some other supermundane order. A
central theme in these dramas is separation: within some religious and
philosophic systems, man is figured as divided entity, with his focal
awareness trapped in the oppressive and anxiety-laden everyday world,
separated from the order of his true being. This strongly Gnostic view
appears in much psychic healing and wholism. Overall, separation is
expressed in the liminality which attends transitions between views of
ourselves and the world in the existential tension and potential of
shamanic journeys and spiritual encounters.

My discussion is rather more suggestive than conclusive. In this
same manner I shall make one last foray. Recently, the psychiatrist Jan
Ehrenwald has looked again at the extension hypothesis, which, very
briefly, states that hysterical dissociation and conversion (body control)
are the obverse of ESP and PK (environmental control).2*1 On the one
hand there is a functional deficit in conscious control and on the other a
hyperfunction (Figure 1). One interesting aspect of this conceptualiza-
tion is that functional deficit is associated with NT. Turning to
hyperfunction, there is no hint that it is related to N-2 type contexts. But,
it does seem realistic to assume, following the argument about situated
use of logical contradictions, that environmental control (empathy and
enkinesis in healing, for example) may be correlated with NT - N-2
conflicts mediated in something like a double-bind fashion. A range of
qualifications and sub-hypotheses are opened up, but one interesting
idea is this: the range of dissociations associated with blocking of
analytic functions and configurational/imagistic dominance, with specific
cultural content and significance 'filling' the experience, occurs more
frequently in certain conditions of liminality expressed by a socio-logic

10

of contradiction.

The discussion has moved from science, to healing, to psychic
healing, but the protean perspective remains the constant underpinning.
To think in esoteric or phenomenological terms is rather to 'think again'
to discover hidden orders of our habitual 'looking outwards.' I am
reminded here of Norman Brown's observation about the value of
psychoanalysis.

Psychoanalytic consciousness, by returning to the microcosm of
the inner world, puts at the disposal of the ego large quantities
of libido that were previously in a state of repression. The
results insofar as psychoanalytic consciousness gets through
words to reality is to make us aware for the first time of the
scope and nature of our real desires in Rilke's beautiful phrase,
the unlived lines of our body.27

So much of contemporary, 'pop' psychotherapy and esoteric healing
has something of this effect. For example, the current popularity of past-
lives readings and therapy may be understood in these terms. Not only
does 'past-lives' usually imply future (though often morally contingent)
lives, but invests present life with vitality, a drama of self-discovery, and
sometimes a radically altered self-image. The value of symbolic and
imaginal flights like this cannot be dismissed out of hand. However,
there is a need for a rigorous phenomenological analysis of these kinds
of activities, focussing on the intersection of subjectivity, contextual
organization, and social structure.

Movement from the conceivable to the perceivable is a facet of a
variety of contemporary healing techniques, especially psychotherapies
using some kind of imaging procedure. Gestalt therapy, for example,
induces in the therapist first, and then the patient, a 'slow-motion'
presentation or interruption of routine, experiential gestalts. Passive
recognition of patterns in the vivid present allows suppressed dimensions
of vision, audition, and other perceptual modes to emerge, to be altered
if necessary, and to be reintegrated into routine consciousness. However,
within the bewildering array of similar therapies, criteria of effectiveness
are rarely to be found, and where 'cures' are achieved and documented,
they are often those of charismatic founders e.g., Carl Rogers, Fritz
Perls, and Eric Berne.

Evaluating psychic healing involves a similar issue of charisma.
Definitions of psychic healng invokes some ek-stasis 'standing outside'
of the natural attitude of daily life, for the healer, the patient, or both. A
pressing question is: If ekstatis is necessary for healing, does it have
peculiar qualities derived from charismatic healers? This becomes an
issue of investigating the general structure of healing in relation to its

11

situated, idiosyncratic characteristics.

Once again the matter of interpretation arises. Where some psi
(ostensibly paranormal) process is believed in by the healer and perhaps
the patient as well, our first response should not be to 'strike it out' of
contention, but to consider it as an implicit dimension of situational
definition. Additionally, the kind of subtle tension associated with medium-
ship, and which sometimes partly defines the healing interaction, needs
to be examined in natural settings. Mediums quite regularly report a
reduction of their 'sensitivity' in laboratory settings. It is worth considering
that a certain kind of interactive tension is missing from the laboratory
since the psychic's ordinary situation is one of familiarity out of which
auto- induction of a consciousness change (hypothetically entailing empathy,
enkinesis, and possibly other psi processes) achieves its difference or
'strangeness.'

Faithfulness to Protean principles of interpretation and to the re-
quirements of genuine empiricism, demand equally with our objects
and subjects of observation that we do not a priori 'strike out' psychic
phenomena, but studiously incorporate them in an 'as if," phenomenological
sense. In this way we retain the possibilism of psi hypotheses, and
include 'conventional' alternatives to psi process explanations. More to
the point, we retain an openness to the full range of ways of constructing
universes of meaning through this act of bracketing, and thereby stand
to generate a more adequate picture of the spectrum of human potentialities.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time
T.S. Eliot

12

Appendix

Excerpt from a field-work recording of a Spiritualist group under-
going a symbolic-imaginal journey under the guidance of a medium who
remained in a possession trance throughout. The medium is speaking . . .
Allow the powers to flow through you to draw from you all the
tiredness, anxieties, worries . . . replace with peace, love, and
joy ... I ask that God's love and Thy counsel by with us this
evening . . . give the peace . . . give the wisdom . . . give the
knowledge.

Tonight we are going to depart from our usual procedure. It is
my honor that I shall be the one that shall assist you. This
experiment is a partly suggestion ... we are going to take you
on a little journey into our world. Have no fear. You will not
be taken over or entranced. You will be safe. It is our hope
that if this experiment is successful, a link shall be made with
your companions (guides). I shall have to close your eyes. Make
your mind a blank. Make yourself comfortable. Relax your-
selves. You are beginning to leave the room. Look into your
minds' eyes and you will see this come to pass. As we leave the
room, we look down upon the house. As we progress higher, a
panoramic view unfolds before your eyes. In a moment we are
going to make the transition. We are approaching the portals.
The gates of light are standing open for you. We are now passing
through these gates. There is no longer night . . . look about
you . . . these are gardens and the fountains . . . the resting
places of those who wish to meditate. We are walking along the
straight road and the road is bordered by beautiful trees . . .
the flowers, you can smell the perfume. We shall enter this
little garden that we are coming to for a moment. We shall rest
there. You may look about you .... We must now leave this.

13

Notes

1 Edward E. Barthell Jr., Gods and Goddesses of Ancient Greece (Coral Gables,
Florida: University of Miami Press, 1971), p 144.

: Claude Levi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology (Hardmonsworth, Middlesex:
Penguin, 1972).

1 Arthur Koestler, The Roots of Coincidence (London: Hutchinson, 1972).

4 Paul Ricoeur, Image and Language in Psychoanalysis,' in Joseph H. Smith
(ed). Psychoanalysis and Language (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1978).

5 Michael Polanvi, Knowing and Being (Chicago: University of Chicago Press,
1969).

6 Suzanne Langer, Philosophy in a New Key (Cambridge, Mass: Harvard Univer-
sity Press. 1963). Ludwig von Vertalanffy, 'On the Definition of the Symbol,' in
Josiah Royce (ed), Psychology and the Symbol (New York: Harper, 1965).

7 Arthur Deikman, 'Bimodal Consciousness,' in Robert Ornstein (ed), The Nature
of Human Consciousness (San Francisco: W. H. Freeman, 1973).

8 Paul Watzlawick, The Language of Change (New York: Basic Books, 1978).
Jerome Singer, Imager}' and Daydream Methods in Psychotherapy and Behavior
Modification (New York: Academic Press: 1974).

9 Edmund Husserl, Ideas [translated by W. Boyce Gibson), (New York: Colier,
1972), pp 95-96.

10Langer, op cit.

"Thomas Kuhn, The Structure of Scientific Revolutions (Chicago: University

of Chicago Press, 1968).

12Maurice Merleau-Ponty, The Structure of Behavior [translated by Alden L.
Fisher], (Boston: Beacon, 1967). Mary Douglas, Natural Symbols (London:
Barrie and Rockliffe, 1970).

"Husserl, op cit.

"John Beattie and John Middleton (eds). Spirit Mediumship and Society in
Africa (London: Routledge, 1969). Fleicitas Goodman, Jeanette Henney, and
Esther Pressell, Trance, Healing and Hallucination (New York: Wiley, 1974).

15E. Fuller Torrey, The Mind Game (New York: Emerson Hall, 1972).

1(,Mary Douglas, 'Social Preconditions of Enthusiasm and Orthodoxy,' in Robert
F. Spencer (ed), Forms of Symbolic Action (Proceedings of the American
Ethnological Society, Spring, 1969).

"Herbert Marcuse, One Dimensional Man (London: Sphere, 1969).

'"Watzlawick, op cit.

"Ronald Laing, The Politics of the Family and Other Essays (New York: Random
House, 1969). Gregory Bateson, The Birth of a Matrix or Double Bind and
Epistemology," in Milton Berger (ed), Beyond the Double Bind (New York:
Brunner/Mazel, 1978). Gregory Bateson, Toward a Theory of Schizophrenia,"
ibid.

20Ralph G. Locke, The Precarious Vision (Unpublished address to the Founders'
Day Conference, Physical Research Foundation, Duke University, 1979).

14

21William James, Principles of Psychology (New York: Henry Holt, 1980)

22Akhter Ahsen, Psycheye (New York: Brandon House, 1977).

"Watzlawick, op cit.

24Robert Wuthnow, 'The New Religions in Social Context,* in Charles Glock and
Robert Bellah (eds), The New Religious Consciousness (Berkeley: University of
California Press, 1976).

"Raymond Firth, 'The Fate of the Soul,' in Charles Leslie (ed), Anthropology of
Folk Religion (New York: Brandon House, 1960).

26Jan Ehrenwald, The ESP Experience (New York: Basic Books, 1978).

27Norman O. Brown, Life Against Death (Middletown Conn: Wesleyan University
Press, 1959), p 152.

15

SOME HISTORIANS' METHODS IN THE
ANALYSIS OF THOUGHT

By D. Lawrence Wieder

How are texts, speech, gestures, bodily movements, and artifacts
understood as expressions of thought? This is a question that can be
asked about the "methodological practices" of the layman, the member
of society, the academic practitioner in the social sciences and humanities
(e.g., the historian, sociologist, psychologist, or literary critic), and of
the societally embedded professional (e.g., the judge, the policeman, or
the clinician). Embedded in common-sense thinking as they are (see
Garfinkel, 1967:1-33, 76-103; and Zimmerman and Pollner, 1970), the
practices of investigators in the social sciences and humanities may
profitably be examined for their bearing on the "methods of under-
standing" in general. The "immensely various methods of understanding
. . . [have been identified by Garfinkel (1967:31) as] the professional
sociologist's proper and hitherto unstudied and critical phenomena."
They are specific phenomena for that form of inquiry known as ethno-
methodology which he developed and which serves as the motivating
framework for this paper.

Here, some methods whereby historians grasp and reason with the
thoughts of historical figures are examined. The data for these reflections
and the initial occasion for embarking upon them was provided by a
colloquium I attended in 1978, at York University in Toronto, entitled
"Consciousness and Group Identification in High Medieval Religion,
Historians and Social Scientists in Dialogue." I had been asked to direct
my inquiries, as an ethnomethodologist and an ethnographer, toward
the writings of the prominent historians of the medieval period that were
presented to the symposium. The work of Bynum (1978), Constable
(1978), Egan (1978), McGinn (1978), and Russell (1978), serves as the
data base, the exemplars for my own inquiry.

I began my reflections by employing the foil of juxtaposing historical
research with their contemporary American sociological counterparts. I
was struck with the comparability of the historical and sociological
focus. Similar or identical questions were addressed by both sets of
scholars. Just as I, as a sociological ethnographer, might ask about the
belief system of "hippie freaks" in 1972, a historian could ask about the
belief system of a group of monks in 1170. Further, many of the
subsidiary questions and most of the concepts also appeared to be
similar. Closer readings, however, showed me some very distinctive
features of the historians' work. Through a set of public practices of
"reasoning through" the content of an expression a view or theory put

16

forth by a historical subject the historican focuses on the ideal contents
of the expression. The sense of the view, its reference, what it implies,
and the like are made explicit topics of inquiry. Further, chains of
reasoning whereby the historian discovers or uncovers these contents is
made visible for the reader of his or her text.

Whether or not they explicitly recognize it, the historians' practices,
through which they interrogate, enrich, elaborate, and extend the various
senses that can be drawn immediately from the expressions of historical
subjects, focus their investigations on the structure of the subject's
"ideas" as they have been put forth "for anyone." The historian investi-
gates an idea or view by "reasoning with" the historical subject, "reasoning
on behalf of" the historical subject, and "reasoning through" an idea,
irrespective of its being voiced by anyone.

"Reasoning With"

When I began to closely examine the papers, I was struck with the
extent to which the historians "commune with" their subjects. How
"alive" the subjects are for them, how free they are to represent their
subjects' views, to extend their reasoning, to speak to the objective
character of their subjects' life-world beyond that which those subjects
actually directly described. They are freer to describe the world of
Joachim, for example, than sociologists are to describe the world of
those subjects with whom they can actually converse. They are freer to
draw out implications from the writings of a twelfth-century abbot than
sociologists are to draw out the implications of the remarks of a juvenile
delinquent being interviewed by the sociologist. I will refer to these
practices whereby one makes an idea intelligible to oneself as "reasoning
with."

All of the practices of "reasoning with" that I will describe assume an
intersubjective community of sorts between historian and historical
figure, and the practices promote and elaborate that "community," as it
were.

I call the first practice, Using "What Anyone Knows" as a Scheme
of Interpretation (cf., Garfinkel, 1967:35-75; Schutz, 1962:3-47). Although
all social scientists use this scheme of interpretation (Garfinkel, 1967:esp.
76-102; Zimmerman and Pollner, 1970), its use is more explicated and
developed by historians as compared to other scholars. "What anyone
knows" is used by laymen and scholars alike in interpreting everyday
action. With it, one attributes a presumably shared body of knowledge
to the other as "what they know." One supposes that their action is
informed by that knowledge and that, when they speak, their talk refers
to objects within that corpus. It includes all the things that any reasonable,
competent member of the society knows.

17

This scheme often operates in the background for the historian.
For example, it may be one context of meaning for interpreting a text.
The text is examined by the historian who knows that the same text was
also read by historical figures of interest to him. He also is interested in
interpretng that figure's writing. In doing so, he implicitly and explicitly
employs what he knows (and presumes the historical figure knew) about
the scholarly situation of the period. From histories, he gets a sense of
"what everyone knows" about the period in question, e.g., the citation
conventions employed in the 1100's, the ownership of books, which
books anyone might be expected to have read, etc. He attributes this
knowledge, known to himself and other historians, to his historical
subjects as their "what anyone knows," and thus he, the historian, at
least thinks that he and the historical subject have a community in which
each uses the same scheme of interpretation.

For example, since everyone who was a scholar in the 1200's would
have read all available books in Latin, and that includes Joachim, all of
them would have known his ideas. In light of this, the historian can "see"
others' "referring to" Joachim's thought in their writings without their
saying so. Further, since convention did not require, nor even permit,
our form of citation, Joachim's thought would not have been cited
directly. Further, the writer would have known that others knew his
citation practices and the rest of his "fix," namely that the writer
probably would not have had ready access to the writings themselves, so
that when he referred to them, he would have had to paraphrase them,
probably from memory.

Professor Bynum (1978) provides us with another example when
she notes that a set of personages described in certain kinds of texts are
authority figures. We can see that they are authority figures, and anyone
at the time could have seen that they were authority figures. What we
can see from our situation "here" is the same as could have been seen
from their situation "there." Thus, the analysis we can obtain refers us
back to their perceptual situation and what they meant by what they did.

The next practice is Portraying a Situation as Objective, as "For
Anyone." The general practice has the form, "Anyone who experiences
X would see Y," or "know Y," or "ask question Y." In its application,
the practice takes the form, "We know they experienced X, so we may
assume that they saw Y." This follows, because anyone who experienced
X would have seen Y.

The historian's objective "anyone," here, differs somewhat from the
scientist's "anyone." The historian's "for anyone" is an attempt to so
state and to show something that it would then, from the vantage point
provided by the historian, be illuminated as a particular sense for
anyone. "Anyone," here, is not a mechanically conceived anonymous

18

being or the scientist's textbook of procedures, but is, instead, "any
Western man," anyone who partakes of our past and of our cultural
heritage. It is, however, a real community of historical men and women,
extending into the future as well as back into the past, in contrast to the
scientist's anonymous "procedures."

For example, when Professor Russell (1978) shows us the defense
and "roots" of Henry's position and what it entails, he finds that Henry
has only partially explicated his own position, so Russell shows us what
any such position necessarily entails. Here, the reasoner is Anyman. The
explicated position refers to what Anyman could see in interpreting the
scriptures or other writings of importance to some group (p. 10-11).
Russell writes:

If one accepts the validty of the Christian message as expressed
in the Scriptures, the first and inescapable (except to funda-
mentalists) question is the Scriptures as interpreted by whom?
One can rely entirely upon one's own personal interpretation,
in the belief (or the hope) that one is guided by the Holy Spirit.
Or one can follow whatever interpretation is handed to one as
current orthodoxy. Or one can take a middle position: recognize
the responsibility of one's own conscience in interpreting the
Scripture, but recognize at the same time that one's interpretation
may be enhanced, or corrected, by the interpretation of others.
These options have always been with Christians (or for that matter
Marxists or any other group to whom a body of thought ex-
pressed in writing is of supreme importance).

Here, Russell sees and characterizes a set of options in the "objective
situation" "any situation like this for Anyman" and then attributes
these options to the now-fictive Henry as his definition of the situation.

Another practice involves Enriching Our Understanding of an Objec-
tive Situation by Examining Alternative Responses to It. For example.
Professor Russell (1978) explicates Aquinas' treatment of the same issue
faced by Henry to enrich and elaborate the issue the issue of conscience
and following it in one's interpretation, while being sure to inform
oneself of orthodox views. This tells us more about the objective issue,
i.e., the issue "for anyone," at least potentially "for anyone," since
"anyone" could see it, once it was pointed out.

Another example is provided by Professor Bynum (1978:10) who
makes our grasp of the content of images more precise by showing us
alternative images from the same period. These would have been alterna-
tives for the authors of the period. What one person did and what their
alternatives were are enriched and elaborated for us by what another
person did in the same kind of situation. The second figure teaches us

19

about that same objective situation faced by the first.

Other practices of "reasoning with" include Drawing Out the Logical
and Quasi-Logical Implications of a View, Assembling a Single Line of
Reason Out of Many Different Texts Where No Single Author Expresses
the Whole View, Appropriating the Reasoning of Historical Figures and
Making It Part of the Historical Analysis, Recognizing Variations of the
Same View, Seeing Contradictions Between Views, and Various Forms
of the Genetic Analysis of Views.

Some Features of "Reasoning With"

The products of "reasoning with" are our own. We cannot properly
attribute these results to historical figures as their actual thinking,
although we can properly attribute it to the ideas which they voiced. An
analogy will be helpful to dissolve the illusion of paradox here.

Consider a bookkeeper's books. At any given point in time, the
bookkeeper will have actually thought through some results (on the
books or from the books) and not others. We could take his or her
books and derive further results from them. We would say, "Your books
say so much profit," but that does not mean that the bookkeeper knew
that or had thought it through.

Husserl's analysis of the ideal content of expressions is helpful here
(see Husserl, 1970, Vol. 11:269-333, 1969; Cairns, 1973; and Mohanty,
1964; esp. 1-55).

In his analysis of the Husserlian view, Cairns (1973) notes the five
constituents of every written or spoken expression. There is the physical
affair which manifests the expression a sound or marks upon a page.
There is a psychical element, the thinking of the subject that is "intimated"
or "pronounced" by the physical occurrence. There is the expression
itself, e.g., a sentence, which as an ideal (not temporally individuated)
occurrence can be manifested again and again as the same sentence.
And there is the meaning (meaning intention and meaning fulfillment)
and reference of the expression.

Several points which are emphasized by Mohanty (1964) are helpful
here. The expression exists as a cultural object. It is animated by its
meaning and is not an expression without it (p. 31). "The ideality of the
expression is the ideality of its meaning" (p. 32). Meaning and Reference
are related in that the expression refers through its meaning (p. 18).
Further, the relationship between the object referred to and the fulfilled
meaning is such that:

The meaningful expression is unified with the act of meaning
fulfillment in the realized relation of the expression to its object.
Thus we find that the realization of the reference, i.e., the
presentation or representation of the object referred to and the

20

fulfillment of the meaning-intention are but two sides of the same
phenomenon. (Mohanty, p. 53)

Now, I can possess the objective sense of what I take to be the
expression, meaning, and reference of Leo the Giant's utterance, explicating
it for myself, re-performing it genetically, analyzing it, etc., but this does
not mean being Leo or having his thought as a psychological occurrence
in any literal sense.

But, just in the sense that I intend an objective content via the
words on the pages of Husserl's Cartesian Meditations, Aristotle's Ethics,
or Weber's Logos essay, I can have the objective content of expres-
sion, meaning, and reference as intended by me and perform all man-
ner of acts through it, with it, on it, and so forth. And I may go through
it sequentially so as to have its content built up for me through suc-
cessive cognitive acts of my own which are motivated by successive
acts of grasping the sense of the expression which is motivated by the
markings on the page before me here. Just as I "think through" the
operations meant through the notations on an accountant's bookkeeping
books, so, too, can I do the same with sequences of notations on
Aristotle's pages, or Husserl's, or my other thinkers'. When I do that, I
experience the appresentative acts and cognitive-reflective acts based
on the fruits of those acts as "thinking through with" Aristotle, Husserl,
or others. Indeed, I often experience this "thinking through with" as
being in immediate, though mediated, community with them and "have
them before me now" with as much clarity as I can achieve with those
persons with whom I am engaged in face-to-face relations, those whom
Schutz (1964:15-19) called my consociates; sometimes I am even more
intimate with them than I am with my consociates. I know these
thoughts much better and in more detail than I know the thoughts of my
next-door neighbors or my undergraduate students.

In "thinking through with" and in "reasoning with," we are concerned,
then, with the ideal meanings and significations and not the actual acts
of thinking by a psychological subject who said something. To grasp
these ideal meanings of Jack's expression requires that we "reason with"
Jack, filling out his thought, elaborating it by examining its reference to
see, in detail, what it must mean. Here we play "situation," "reference,"
and "meaning" off one another after the fashion of constituents of a
Gestalt-contexture (cf. Wieder, 1974:183-214). Each "evidences" the
other, appresents the other, is fulfilled in the other (cf. Garfinkel, 1967:
74-103).

When we "reason with," we necessarily commit ourselves to studying
the ideal content rather than the psychological acts or thoughts manifested
as constituents of writing and speaking. This can easily be seen by
asking, "Must Aelerod or Joachim be 'reasonable men' or strictly logical

21

thinkers?" Plainly not; yet when we "reason with," we must presume
that they are or dispense with saying that our "reasoning with," is
Alerod or Joachim's actual thought, or even that we have specified what
they, the specific historical individuals, actually would have thought.

This gives us a form of inquiry that is more like logic or mathematics
than (naturalistic) psychology. Such inquiry leads us to ask about the
thinkers "situation" of thought (e.g., Galileo's scientific situation, Aelerod's
theological situation, Joachim's theological situation) and to "reason
with" him. Or we may ask about an idea's presuppositions, its assumptions,
other ideas that are concealed in it, its foundation and "genetic" structure,
etc. Our "reasoning with," here, is our thought, not theirs, but that need
be no embarrassment. It reveals anyone's idea structure as an ideal
structure that could be "had" by anyone, just as anyone could "have" the
Pythagorean theorem.

The Generality and Consequentially of "Reasoning With"

The family of practices that I have characterized as "reasoning
with" plays a prominent role in our everyday lives. We employ these
practices when we attempt to follow a set of instructions and find
ourselves asking, "What could this next step mean in light of the circum-
stances that have been produced by the first three steps?" We employ
them when we interpret the contents of a letter that is in response to our
own writing and find ourselves asking how our own communication was
reasonably elaborated to make this correspondent's response to it sensible.
We employ them when we attempt to see how a rule in the faculty
handbook applies to our own case. And, of course, they are the practices
whereby theories throughout the academic disciplines are appreciated,
brought under criticism, extended, and applied to particular cases. In all
these instances, the elaborated content we produce for ourselves may
have (but need not have) been actually thought through by the author of
the instruction, the letter, the rule, or the theory.

Ideal objects which are constructed and applied through the practices
of "reasoning with" form an important range of sociological phenomena
the specific forms of normative culture. The goals of an organization,
the expectations which define any role, the content of an informal
organization, the values of some group, and the content of a norm are
just a few of these objects. Whenever they are brought under close
scrutiny (see, for example, Garfinkel, 1967: 18-24; Leiter, 1980:190-232;
Wieder, 1974:129-224; Zimmerman, 1970), they have an awkward empirical
status. The sociologist must construct them out of fragmentary pieces of
evidence. No societal, organizational, or group member whose conduct
and reasoning is intendedly described by the goal, value, norm, etc. is
likely to be able to recite it in detail. While the sociologist may specify

22

an application of the ideal object to some concrete circumstance, those
whose lives are "governed by" the object are quite likely to generate
anomolies for the sociologist sometimes the contrast between real and
ideal culture or formal and informal organization are invoked to cover
the discrepancy. Finally, the ideal content is continuously expansible to
cover whatever contigencies the members actually encounter. In brief,
there are no guarantees that any specific content will have been actually
thought through by any particular subject.

This "empirical awkwardness" is problematic whenever the analytic
task requires that a view be associated with a particular subject at a
particular time. When the task is defined as empirically establishing
causal chains in which thoughts function as one moment, it is the real
rather than the ideal content of an expressed thought which must be
focused upon. Since a view contains ideal contents which can be drawn
from it, but which need not be actually thought through by the subject
who expressed the view, it makes no sense to offer causal explanations
of the ideal content of the view by an appeal to the subject's experiences.
Nor does it make sense to causally explain, in the sense of predicting,
that subject's behavior on the basis of the ideal contents of an expressed
view. When it is the ideal content of a norm, value, role, or belief that is
of interest, it should be no surprise that the relationship between that
content and some actual behavior is problematic. And, of course, this is
the character of the relationship between attitudes and behavior, norms
and behavior, and so forth.

This apparent "empirical awkwardness" is problematic, however,
only upon the causal or predictive construal of the explanatory task. If
one openly recognizes that the phenomena are meanings and that
relationships among them are those proper to meanings (e.g., the relations
of association and motivation in the phenomenological sense, inclusion,
implication, presuppositions, etc.) and not to spatio-temporal real events,
the difficulty dissolves. As a matter of actual practice, it is relations on
this plane that concern the historian. Rather than formulate the connection
between two items as a causal or quasi-causal relation (e.g., the greater
the A, the greater the B), they are much more likely to formulate the
meaning or sense relation between two items (e.g., that A is best under-
stood as B, that C is testament to D, that E means F, that G expresses H,
that I lies behind J, that K is L-like, that M is personified as N, that O is
the mirror image of P, that Q represents R, or that S inspired T).

These are means of understanding and appreciating the views of
our fellowman and seeing them as alternatives to our own. They invoke
and elaborate an intersubjective community of fellow thinkers between
investigator and investigated. In contrast, the scientistic conception of
research which strives for causal-predictive connections always tends to

23

make investigators into "Us" and the investigated into the anonymous
"Them."

Bibliography

Bynum, Caroline. "Feminine Names for God in Cistercian Writing: A
Case Study in the Relationship of Literary Imagery and Community
Life," presented at the Colloquium "Consciousness and Group Iden-
tification in High Medieval Religion," York University, March, 1978.

Cairns, Dorion. "On the Ideality of Verbal Expressions," in F. Kersten
and R. Zaner (eds.), Phenomenology: Continuation and Criticism,
The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1973, pp. 239-250.

Constable, Giles. "The Multiplicity of Religious Orders in the Twelfth
Century: Pluralism and Competition," presented at the Colloquim
"Consciousness and Group Identification in High Medieval Religion,"
York University, March, 1978.

Egan, Keith J. "The Search for Identity by Medieval Carmalities," pre-
sented at the Colloquium "Consciousness and Group Identification
in High Medieval Religion," York University, March, 1978.

Garfinkel, Harold. Studies in Ethnomethodology, Englewood Cliffs,
New Jersey: Prentice Hall, 1967.

Husserl, Edmund. Formal and Transcendental Logic. (D. Cairns, trans.).
The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1969.

Husserl, Edmund. Logical Investigations, (J.N. Findley, trans.), London:
Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1970.

Leiter, Kenneth. A Primer on Ethnomethodology, New York: Oxford,
1980.

McGinn. Bernard J. "Apocalyptic Consciousness and Group Identifica-
tion in the Thirteenth Century," presented at the Colloquium "Con-
sciousness and Group Identification in High Medieval Religion,"
York University, March, 1978.

24

Mohanty, J. N. Edmund Husserl's Theory of Meaning, The Hague:
Martinus Nijhoff, 1964.

Russell, Jeffrey Burton. "The Concept of the Medieval Heretic: Self-
Defined and Other-Defined," presented at the Colloquium "Conscious-
ness and Group Identification in High Medieval Religion," York
University, March 1978.

Schutz, Alfred. Collected Papers I: The Problem of Social Reality, The
Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1962.

Wieder, D. Lawrence. Language and Social Reality. The Hague: Mouton,
1974.

Zimmerman, Don H. "The Practicalities of Rule Use," in Jack Douglas
(ed.), Understanding Everyday Life, Chicago: Aldine, 1970, pp. 221-
238.

Zimmerman, Don H. and Melvin Pollner. "The Everyday World as a
Phenomenon," in Jack Douglas (ed.). Understanding Everyday Life,
Chicago: Aldine, 1970, pp. 80-103.

25

fe2l W^t C?C ^ Helt,tet-Ma^'s Beautiful Wife' (The Old Coultesan). i85.

high

THE OLD COURTESAN: AN OCCASION

FOR THE STRUCTURALIST-SEMIOTIC

RESEARCH PROGRAMf*

By Jeffrey Lloyd Crane

Toward Rendering Cultural Creation and Discourse Intelligible:

The old woman is sitting.1 She gazes toward her feet which are
bracing her body upon the object of her rest. Her head is hung, although
not awkwardly, upon slender shoulders and neck which reveal the
muscular pronouncements of labors once undertaken. Her ponderous
gaze is, perhaps, the result of thinking thoughts once experienced.
Perhaps this gaze is nothing more than the anticipation of a movement
under contemplation. To her spectator, the curves of her figure project
the non-exacting definition of a physique no longer youthful. Yet,
though her curvatures are laxed, her body exhibits a most noticeable
postue of tense restraint. Between the slender shoulders and legs, the
latter flexed in a bracing position, rests the loose form of her trunk. Her
torso is worn with a firmness now uncaptured; a firmness now unapparent.
Her small sagging breasts and moderately swollen belly provide a most
remarkable, indeed a most undeniable, contrast to her other more
slender features; namely her arms, feet, hands, legs, neck and shoulders.

This sole figure, resting upon a non-human object of support, is
replete with resemblances of aging human flesh. The spectator that
beholds the figure is immediately forced to witness a vast array of
contrasts and resemblances which call to mind the "natural" processes
of human aging. Behind this visual plane of surface presentation and
content resides the complex, though at present undisclosed, networks of
structurally interrelated elements and systems. It is through the exploration
of these networks that one can rediscover the figure's valid presentation
as an expression of cultural creation. That is, it can become possible to

fAn essay in honor of Roland Barthes ( 1915-1980)

*An earlier version of this paper entitled, "She Who Was Once Beautiful: An
Example of Semiological Inquiry," was presented at the Popular Culture Association
of the South 6th Annual Convention on October 7, 1977 in Jacksonville, Florida.
The author wishes to thank Professors Fabio B. Dasilva of the University of
Notre Dame and Hernan Vera of the University of Florida for their comments
on this earlier draft.

'The research for this essay is based on a photographic reproduction of Auguste
Rodin's figure, "She Who Was Once The Helmet-Maker's Beautiful Wife,"
("The Old Courtesan"), found in A. E. Elsen's text Rodin published by the
Museum of Modern Art, New York, 1963, p. 64.

27

rediscover the figure's presentation whereby the depth of the presen-
tation comprehended far exceeds the visually detectable, indeed visually
determined, organization of the figure's accessible and inaccessible
space.

The figure, its elements, and the voids they both fill and create,
appear heavy with a volume yet to be divulged in the discourse and
content of the surface presentation. As the spectator views the figure,
and as he moves his gaze towards the center of its organization, the old
woman begins to bulge with indications of an undercurrent of volume.
Yet, the surface content does not speak of this undercurrent, nor of the
existence of any other content, organization, or structuration that might
render this volume [form] intelligible. This volume begins to emerge
only when the spectator ceases to demand that it exist within the nexus
of the figure's surface presentational dimension. Indeed, this demand
that volume exist on the surface level can only force volume into a mode
of existence characterized by fortuitous chance, total unintelligibility,
and an irreversible totalized fragmentation. This is, of course, the
logical eventuation of any endeavor to understand cultural discourse
which persists in circumscribing volume and meaning to the exclusive
domain of surface presentational features. And, in the interpretive
instance of the old woman figure, the spectator's understanding transcends
such a circumstance only to the extent that he allows, indeed encourages,
the breaking apart and revaluation of the "subtle system of feints" which
posit form as substance, language as meaning, sign as signified, and
structure as syntax (Foucault, 1970:3).

The old woman, by gazing downward, has denied her spectator the
engaging pleasure of visual reciprocity. She has, in essence, removed
the foci of her spectator's gaze from the alloyed meaningful centers of
organization and refocused that gaze on points which dominate her
figure solely on the basis of their relatively massive character. Thus, the
space surrounding her head and shoulders begins to appear void; that is,
without structuring relevance and/or importance. And, this further
serves to stimulate the spectator's shift in attention. Moreover, without
full visibility of her figure, her right side and back are left unseen, the
spectator's gaze is further diverted toward the object of her support. Her
feet become quietly blended into this support that both affirms and
opposes her figure. This shift in focus, which is mutually emergent
with the complete absence of all visual referrent of human reciprocity,
facilitates yet another transformation and refocus of her spectator's
gaze. It has become impossible, at least under these circumstances, to
view the figure as an organic whole. The spectator is, therefore, forced
to cease viewing the figure as a totality and must divert his gaze toward
selected fragments of the figure. This diverted gaze, which always

28

moves from the whole to the fragment without intent, is now "free" to
return and scrutinize the old woman's physical disproportionments and
failures in firmness. The old woman becomes, through the newly constituted
structuring view of her spectator s refocused gaze, an old woman with
infirmities. That is to say, in keeping with the universality of mythical
discourse, the woman becomes the infirm old woman or simply an old
woman.

The suggestion, posited earlier, that the old woman might be
considering a movement now seems negated by her infirmness. It is as
though for her to move would represent the antithesis of her being
present. Even the thought or contemplation of movement seems to
contradict her presented essence. A single gesture, a slight lift of her
head or, perhaps, even an object within the grasp of her hand would
rupture this representation of infirmity. The mere plausibility of such an
occurrence evokes, or at least encourages an encroachment into the
realm of conceptual imcompatability. Yet, without the plausibility of
movement her figure is relegated to a crystalline state of being. Without
the possibility of movement there is no possibility of interaction. In
short, the woman has been removed from the social world. The old
woman becomes "object" rather than vibrant "subject" since no amount
of motion seems forthcoming. And, even if her spectator were to
attempt interaction, nothing appears capable of achieving even the
slightest inkling of reciprocity.

It should be noted that, within this context of fixity, the spectator
shares this rigid character of inflexibility and immobility. That is, both
the spectator and the woman have become objects. Perhaps, they may
be located within the context or ambit of a social world but they are not
active in that world so long as their "social being" is confined within and
delimited by mythological discourse. Their relationship is one of object
to object with only a spatial dimension. And, in this type of relationship
there can be no consideration or accommodation of temporal (historical)
dimensions.

Hanging head, sagging breasts, and swollen belly are all features
which accentuate the old woman's infirmity. Her downward gaze and
awkward positioning upon the object of her support further suggests this
notion of infirmity. The blending of her feet into the massive object
upon which she rests suggests a fundamental indifference to being
objectified out of the gaze of her spectator. And, at the juncture where
her objectification is affirmed, the lack of visual reciprocity begins to
engender a new frame of meaning. It is only with a break in the old
woman's social-being (competence for social relationships) that she can
be fully objectified and posited outside of the subject-subject interactive
framework. Through this process of objectification, therefore, she becomes

29

an "unengaged" old woman; an object incapable of social praxis.

The old woman's infirmity and disengaged character are more than
simple significations of defeat to the ravages of old age. To view them as
such is to uncritically accept a social metaphor which contains elements
of bad faith. Through her arms, legs, and slender shoulders, with their
muscular definition, one begins to sense an essential element of beauty.
It is here, perhaps, that infirmity and disengagement translate into
naturalness. And, it is at this point that motionlessness can be translated
into rest. This translation of the conditions of her posture would facilitate
a release from the apparent rigidity of meaning which ensues from an
exclusively synchronic reading of her figure. The promise, albeit the
hope, of fluidity and the associated capabilities of structual innovation
and social praxis are located primarily in the more temporally dynamic
diachronic dimension of her structuration. However, neither of these
dimensions can be taken in isolation. The old woman becomes intelligible
only when both of these dimensions are simultaneously reckoned with
and their interaction taken as a unit of analytical consideration.

At this point we can no longer lend much credence to the "authen-
ticity" of the figure's surface presentations and representations. Moreover,
all debates as to which interpretation and/or message most adequately
renders the figure intelligible are, at best, misleading. We are not,
therefore looking at an old woman reflecting upon her lost youth or
beauty; nor are we, as spectators, gazing at an old woman passively
engaged in the process of aging. These notions are social interpretations,
phenomenological metaphors, and elements of mythical discourse which
have been forced to stand in the place of structural realities. Moreover,
they have taken the place of structural realities not as alternative
realities but as structure itself. What is actually before the spectator is a
figure of a woman; to be even more exact, the spectator is confronted by
a photographic image of a figure of a woman (Barthes, 1977). Taken by
itself, however, this figure has little or no social importance and must be
"read" if it is to acquire social relevance or meaning. Furthermore, the
figure must be read if it is to be comprehended on the level of the
individual spectator. The act of reading, therefore, is a multi-dimensional
process involving both biographical and historical factors. In addition,
the act of reading involves the mutual emergence and reliance (interaction)
of these biographical and historical factors. It is at this level of mutual
emergence where the full range of possible discourse resides. It is on this
level, moreover, where we see an old woman, beauty lost, and the
passive acceptance of the aging process. By examination of these messages,
and the numerous others that support, oppose, and remain irrelevant to
these, one can begin to sense the futility of presupposing the truthfulness
of any single category of interpretation over the remaining categories.

30

In the final analysis, categories and/ or dichotomies predicated exclusively,
or in large part, upon the elements of the surface presentation are
especially suspect as to their authenticity.

The central task of the analysis becomes one of deciphering the
underlying laws of construction and reconstruction that provide the
foundation for this figure of the woman. The figure's position, location
on the page, background, title, etc., all provide useful references or
landmarks. However, these are incomplete references. The relationship
of these elements to the whole figure is not perfect. Thus, a discourse of
comprehension predicated solely upon these surface features proves
altogether inadequate. The surface features of all cultural discourse
inevitably prove to be inadequate in rendering the discourse comprehen-
sible. Moreover, it does not matter whether these surface features are
interpretive in nature, as was the case with those discussed earlier, or
whether they are physical and seemingly objective in nature as those
presently under discussion. In both instances, these features when taken
by themselves as a means of comprehending cultural discourse result in
distorted understanding. Moreover, the language subsumed under such
discourse is, for all practical purposes, infinite in its relation to the figure
(i.e., photographic reproduction of the sculpture). It is therefore necessary
to take as the point of departure for the analysis this disjuncture
between vision and figure and/or between figure and language. To start
here, rather than assuming a perfect correspondence not in evidence,
allows for a more intelligible comprehension of the "Old Courtesan."
This is essential in that it facilitates a new compositin of the "Old
Courtesan" which derives knowledge of the figure's initial rules of
construction through a process of decomposition and synthetic recon-
struction. This process, moreover, ultimately restricts all analytical
considerations to the relevant structural elements of the figure by
circumscribing the analysis to a situation or posture of immanence
(Barthes, 1970:96).

THE FIGURE

The figure may be viewed as centering around two axes. The first is
a vertical axis that cuts through the center of the figure and includes:
head, torso, and the figure's object of support. The second, a horizontal
axis, includes: the figure's legs, hips, and the upper portion of her
object of support. The vertical axis actually dominates the figure and
provides the basis for comparison and organization. Within the parameters
of the vertical axis one can locate the surface evidence of age, of times
once different, of flesh once firm. Moreover, it is in this axis where the
anatomical features traditionally and classically associated with beauty
find their articulation. This is perhaps best exemplified in the fact

31

that the woman's figure is naked.

The woman's breasts and mid-section are presented in such a
manner that they become indicative of human weariness. This, of
course, corresponds with her hanging head and the resemblances engen-
dered by the object of her support. From the horizontal axis, on the
other hand, we discover slender legs, feet that merge into an object
exterior to her body, and worn hands. It is, however, in this horizontal
axis where contrasts begin to emerge most clearly. Thus, while the old
woman's legs, feet, and hands all indicate the process of human aging,
these same features also reveal a clear definition of human anatomy.
The slendering of these features has brought into being a clear, almost
sharp, delineation of the human body. This is found also in her arms,
which parallel the vertical axis, and her shoulders which are part of this
axis. All the lines of composition, when taken as a whole, offer the figure
a series of conjoined and conflicting messages.

It must be stressed that, for the process of rendering the figure intel-
ligible, there are two sets of messages that assume a special importance
in the interpretive act. First, articulated in the horizontal axis, is the
message complex which posits human aging as the equivalence of a lack
of definition in the human form. This is, of course, a notion which is
historically rooted in the classical tradition's perception of what constitutes
human beauty and natural beauty. Secondly, the vertical axis presents
the inverse message; namely, age and the aging process brings a clear
definition of human features. A clearer definition, that is, of human
features than is found in other periods of the human life cycle. And,
associated with both of these axes is the notion that definition (distinction)
is the foundation of all that is natural; perhaps, of all that is beautiful.

It was established previously that one of the figure's major structuring
principles involved a break in visual reciprocity. The figure's position
tended to convey the absolute infirmity of the aged composition. However,
beneath this and ready to surface at any moment was a completely re-
structured figure. This "new figure," or the potential for the emergence
of a new figure, was found located in the present figure's capability for
active break (eclipse). The power of this potential break manifests itself
in the structural disruption (destruction) that would occur, or at least is
suggested and associated, with a single act of figure repositioning and
movement. All the dimensions of the aged woman and the space
surrounding her give rise to the symbolic notion of human infirmity.
This symbolic space, with its void and content-laden aspects, and the
numerous other symbolic spaces of the figure are posited on the ideational
plane of existence. This plane functions as a second order level of
analysis. Yet, the real point (i.e., the sociological dimension or point) of
the figure is its reference to the objectified realm of human aging, that is

32

to say, the objective referent of the figure is the "real" process of human
aging.

The ideational plane, in contradistinction to the real plane, projects
infirmity, loss of vigor, tiredness, and disengagement as the central
elements of the figure. This plane functions as the projector of mythical
discourse (ideology). Of equal importance is the plane of the ideal
which, in opposition to the planes of the real and ideational, posits
beauty as the central element of the figure. Ultimately the figure is
rendered intelligible only when all three of these planes are taken as a
totality. That is to say, these three planes with all their facets, interactions,
juxtapositions, and symbiotic relationships must be simultaneously
considered and reckoned with as the foci of the figure.

In the final analysis, we have no statue before us. There are no
reported dimensions of the figure other than that of a single, frontal,
non-texturized view. While this is true we, nonetheless, find that the
figure projects space that is both utilized and void. Moreover, this space
provides us with a quasi-dimension that is multifarious and capable of
becoming the subject-object of our semiological inquiry. We have a
book, a page, a reprint, a title, a date, a numerical description of height,
and a reference to metalogical qualities. We know for example, that the
figure is presented by itself. And, the page on which the figure is
presented is a study in contrasts of greys, blacks, and whites, the page
depicts just a single figure with no other figure or groupings of figures to
be found or even suggested. Everything presented is, therefore, without
an immediate contrast; that is, a convenient contrast.

All the elements blend into configurations of subtle, nonrecogni-
zable distinction that, upon closer analysis, suggest their opposites or a
unity with their opposites. The elements all exist as their real, ideal, and
ideational constructs with, of course, the latter two divisible into further
subunits. However, as demonstrated earlier when considering a multi-
dimensional interpretation of the figure, it is only when constant attention
is afforded to the totality of elements and their interactions that the
figure becomes truly meaningful. Thus, regardless of whether we select
for analysis the figure as it exists on the page or the figure as imbued
with its numerous interpretive and meaning networks, the guiding rules
for analysis remain essentially the same. Namely, we must always attend
to the totality and the involved or relevant dynamic processes and
elements extracted from the discourse of the figure (Barthes, 1972:109-
159).

The figure presents the spectator with a powerfully dominating
sense of the incomplete. The woman's hand can be seen emerging
mystically from behind her mid-section. The hand, reaching, waiting,
grasping, remains empty. The only immediately graspable object is

33

another hand or the woman's opposing arm. It is this sense of the
incomplete that fulfills the totality of the representation. The existing
lack of closure suggests its opposite thereby rendering the "scene"
complete. There is an important double relationship between the real
and ideal and of the ideal to itself. In this relationship the "message" is
transformed into the messages. It should not, of course, be assumed that
the distance or difference between the real and the ideal is altogether
negated. To assume no difference between the two would be to "normalize"
the discourse and encumber it with a mythological (ideological) character.
This process of normalizing the discourse is always the result of focusing
exclusively upon the ideational and positing it as both form and substance.
We must, instead, realize that the distance between real and ideal is
mediated by a common set of structuring rules. And, we must further
realize that the language of the surface presentation is the most distant
element or feature to these functions/rules which structure the main of
the discourse. While this observation is not apparent upon first glance at
the figure, nonetheless, it is central to the debunking of myth and all
mythological interpretations or renderings of this, or for that matter all
cultural creation(s).

The task of rendering artistic creation intelligible necessarily involves
lending a measure of consideration to the basis upon which a specific
object is posited as an "aesthetic object." In the present case, Rodin's
"Old Courtesan" utilizes an old woman as an aesthetic object and
thematic referent for its particular creative structure. Obviously an
appeal to Rodin's personal motives for selecting an old woman as an
aesthetic object would not assist in the search for the social basis (i.e.,
sociological basis) of this creation. In the final analysis, to entertain
notions of Rodin's motives for creating the figure can only lead the
semiological analysis into the logical abyss of motive imputation. It
must be further remembered that signs and/or language are without
motive. Motive is associated only with their individual articulation in a
discourse. Yet, even at this juncture, motive is in large part grounded in
the non-motive space of language structures. Thus, even seemingly
personal motives, which are articulated in personally selected moments
of biography, can be subjected to an analysis that is unconcerned with
their "personal" dimension. The focus of such an analysis is the articulation
itself and its relationship to the greater non-personal language structure;
it is not the motive per se.

To consider motive is, therefore, to engender a disinclination to
transcend idiosyncratic interpretation. Furthermore, the insights derived
from this strategy are so general that they are essentially worthless in
nature. And, if these "insights" into motive were to be accepted as part
of the semiological research project they could all too easily become a

34

most uninformative panacean explanation for all artistic and cultural
creation.

The motive that must be sought is not Rodin's personal motive,
rather, it is a one (perhaps this is more appropriately phrased as a
structural dimension) that is grounded in the prevailing forms of discourse
which dominated Rodin's historical period and were common to all
cultural creations of his historical moment. It is a structure that both
predates and postdates the artistic object and the artist. To endeavor to
render intelligible the "Old Courtesan" by appealing exclusively to
motive and/or shared meanings would force the notion of motive into a
position of dominance in the analysis. Under these circumstances of
analysis, motive and meaning would become a mere manifestation of
idiosyncratic thought and the cultural product (i.e., art object) would
become an expression or articulation (i.e., action) of that motive. While
this theoretical posture has historically served rather well as the foundation
for much literary and non- literary art criticism it is of little use in Human
Science research. This is, perhaps, made most obvious when one reflects
upon the fact that the Human Sciences proclaim, albeit proclaim is all
they do frequently, both meaning and the condition of its creation and
articulation (structure) as the very data of their research projects.

To achieve an understanding as to why the old woman is an
aesthetic object necessitates refocusing the analysis upon the artistic
object as it was originally presented. By negating the tendency to impute
motive to the object's creator or to dwell upon meanings exclusively, the
spectator is free to engage the figure in a manner which facilitates the
unmediated grasp of meanings located beneath the surface. Only by
breaking this bondage of immunized experience can the spectator be
freed to experience the figure and render it intelligible.

This refocused gaze is revealing indeed. For through this gaze we
encounter an old woman that is presented naked and stripped of all
conventional, indeed, convenient, vestiges of social rank; that is, status,
power, wealth, and prestige. Her figure is offered without social referents
and without social pretense. So completely denuded of social indicators
is her figure that even her gaze denies social reciprocity with that of her
spectator's. Yet, the naked old woman, replete with inflections of
infirmness, is an object that personifies the natural. Her spectator is
forced by a seemingly pervasive lack of interpretive alternatives to
appeal to classificatory systems that, while on the surface appear viable,
actually offer scant insight into the figure's plethora of meaning networks.
And, her spectator cannot help but to begin to realize the inappropriateness
of equating old with infirm or an old woman with the "naturally" non-
aesthetic. All semblances of social pretense are negated or rendered
invalid by virtue of the figure's structural appeal to the realm of the

35

natural. Therefore, the social logic of equating old with infirm or non-
aesthetic no longer maintains merit as an interpretive position or
frame for the spectator. The figure has thus shirked its domination by
the naturalized and all consuming ideological equivalences which formed
the foundation of its mythological presentation and discourse. Thus, the
figure has broken its bondage with mythological discourse and has
successfully been reconstructed.

The debunking of myth is the first step toward a restoration of the
figure's organic totality. By returning to the figure's totality the interacting
elements offer a truly humanized version of an old woman. That is, the
human character is exhibited through a community of unmediated
human experiences founded upon a reformulation of the consciousness
of value. This value is simultaneously individual and transindividual in
nature. Yet, neither of these value forms could exist without the other
since both exist solely as products of their mutual interaction and reliance
upon one another. Prior to a break with mythological discourse these
values remained subordinated to meanings which were determined by a
specific ideological form of cultural activity and discourse. This process
of liberating value from its subordination to mythological determination
requires an initial appeal to a consciousness that is not determined in the
same "spirit" or structural manner as mythological discourse. All static
or determined interpretations must eventually be replaced by the more
processually dynamic system of reconstructed meanings and structuring
rules which are extracted from the cultural discourse itself (Kristeva,
1975:45-55). Only after this has been accomplished can we speak of
beginning to render the figure intelligible or, for that matter, of beginning
to know the figure. Rephrased in Hegelian terms, we might posit the
notion of the figure beginning to know itself upon completion of this
process. In terms more in keeping with the structuralist language, we
can now state that the figure is presenting itself in an intelligible form. In
reference to the "Old Courtesan" our analysis can now speak of the
process of human aging as "natural" and the natural as beautiful.

There are, no doubt, artistic features of Rodin's old woman figure
that have as their genesis certain 19th century canons of artistic construc-
tion. Perhaps, there are even features of the figure which predate the
19th century by appealing to artistic principles of earlier eras. It should
be of no great surprise to find such principles operative throughout
many segments of the figure from its basic design to the artistic nuances
surrounding the figure's position on its object of support. Indeed, the
total absence of these and similar general historical principles of artistic
creation would be cause for some concern since it would imply that the
figure is both an ahistorical and an asociological cultural artifact. And,
in the final analysis, the exclusion of all such principles would have to be

36

investigated thoroughly to determine if it was even possible to sociologically
interpret the figure. Yet, beyond these elements and features which one
expects to find there are others of even greater importance for the
semiological research project. These other elements are associated with
specific rules of discourse and they convey messages which are not
grammatically indicative, or reflective, of any principles of artistic
creation. Thus, while age, beauty, naturalness, and their opposites are,
to be sure, cultural themes they are not intrinsically artistic themes. It is
the manner by which these cultural themes have been converted into
artistic themes that has occupied our interest in this analysis.

It should be noted that this conversion of cultural themes into
artistic themes was able to transpire only to the extent that a normalized
myth system regarding human aging existed. The old woman's figure
cannot, therefore, be viewed as a product of creative chance. Each
feature of the figure, regardless of its origin, and the figure as a whole
provide the spectator with a source(s) of meaning. However, the meaning,
as we have chosen to define the term through usage, is relevant only
when viewed through a non-mythological and unmediated lens of analysis.
In essence we have constructed the figure in such a way that it will now
make "sense" to us. This is not, however, the same analytical task as
offering an artistic interpretation of the figure. The latter (i.e., artistic
interpretation) could have been accomplished on either a mythological
or non-mythological level and is, therefore, of little utility for the
Human Science research process.

From the onset of this analysis we have been led to an investigation
of the oppositions and resemblances found within the figure. On the
levels of the real and ideal we discovered that what actually existed was
not a single meaning but, rather, a series of meaning networks. The
figure was depicted as transcending its resemblances when consideration
was allotted to more than the objectified relationships between the
levels of real and ideal. Finally, upon the realization that the figure was
more than a simple composite of its surface features and elements we
discovered the foundations for the actualization of "pure representation"
(i.e., representation unmediated by mythological discourse). By penetrating
the mythological insulation surrounding the "Old Courtesan" we began
to construct a new rendition of the figure. And, as was the case with
Foucault's investigation into Valazquez's creation "Las Meninas," the
"Old Courtesan" began to assume a relevant meaning structure. This
relevant meaning structure was posited in the form of a new representation
of the figure which allowed the spectator to take pleasure in a new
found intelligibility. In the final analysis the spectator had thus achieved
a ". . . representation, freed finally from the relation that was impeding it
. . ." (Foucault, 1970:16). Only under these conditions and circumstances,

37

where bad faith, metaphor, myth, and truth made universally relative
(i.e., made an ahistorical phenomenon) cease to dominate the interpre-
tation of cultural discourse, can we truly speak of enjoying and/or
understanding the "Old Courtesan" or any other cultural creation.

POSTSCRIPT

As a sociologist, the author was, quite naturally, given over to the
belief that the most appropriate public forum for this essay would be
one of the numerous sociological journals. In particular, the author was
considering one of the so called "qualitative" journals. Roland Barthes
should, perhaps, share some of the blame for this belief since it was his
essay "Science versus Literature" which helped to engender it. In this
essay Barthes portrayed academic disciplines as being constituted through
the activities of their practitioners. Thus, armed with that special brand
of naivete which seems to be so uniquely endemic to the sociologist's
mind, the author recently forwarded a copy of the essay to an editor of a
reasonably respectable sociological journal. Upon receiving the piece,
the editor, as is customary, farmed it out to three reviewers for their
perusal and comment. As is so often the case the reviewers' comments
were mixed and ran the gamut from enthusiasm to disdain; that is, one
thought the essay excellent, one liked it but had reservations, and one
deemed it worthless.

While there is nothing very extraordinary about this set of responses,
at least on the surface, the comments of the third reviewer gave the
author considerable cause for reflection. In fact, the author was so
intrigued by the comments that he could not resist sharing at least some
of them with his readers. For as the reader will be able to see, the
comments of the third reviewer are, on at least the theoretical level, a
very important issue throughout this essay. Here, then, are the observations
of one anonymous American sociologist upon reading (and this term is
used in its most generic sense) the previous essay.

Although the content of the article in some ways is fascinating,
I expect it is only of interest to artists and philosphers.

The interpretations rendered by the author appear to be ex-
tremely speculative and difficult to support with any "data"
(quotation marks are the reviewer's). I doubt if many sociologists
would read this piece beyond the first paragraph. I suggest the
rightful place to submit this article for publication would be an
art journal.

I also do not think the demonstration of the use of structuralist
research in sociology is actually very clear. What is clear is that
the author has a vivid imagination.

38

Perhaps the reviewer did not intend to convey the significations
that were actually exchanged. Perhaps the reviewer was inexperienced
or incompetent in the language of review. Both of these assumptions
are, at best, doubtful. It would be more appropriate to presuppose that
the reviewer's intent was captured in the discourse of his review. If this
is true, and the author opines that it is, then the review encompasses
some very interesting structural dimensions. For example, the reviewer
offers his reader a most interesting series of equivalencies which might
be expressed in the following manner:

i) fascination = imagination

ii) imagination = art & philosophy

iii) philosphy = art

iv) number of willing readers = readability of a text

v) technique = "data"

vi) "data" = sociology

If one were to examine the reviewer s comments even more carefully
what would emerge is a series of oppositions that might be expressed as
follows:

i) fascination X sociology

ii) imagination X technique

iii) artistic & philosophical interests X sociological interests

iv) speculation X "data"

Hopefully my reviewer intended only to keep this particular essay
from meeting print in "his" journal. For there would indeed be considerable
cause for dismay if his actual intent was to establish and enforce a new
set of normative criteria for the proper practice of social inquiry.
Imagine, for the moment, if all sociologists suddenly felt compelled to
purge their minds and libraries of all artistic, fascinating, imaginative,
and philosophical thoughts and works. The loss of pleasure, if even com-
prehensible, would be staggering. Further imagine if all sociological
discourse had to adhere to a non-imaginative mode of presentation in
order to receive legitimation from the community of scholars. Authors
such as Barthes, Foucault, Gadamer, Merleau-Ponty, Sartre, and many,
so many, others would cease to have a currency within sociological
thought and writing. Moreover, authors such as Levi-Strauss, Mauss,
and yes, even Durkheim could no longer be assured a solid position
within the tradition of social inquiry.

It is, to be sure, difficult to comprehend what would remain to be
called sociology if all this imagining were to become reality. For some, I
suppose my reviewer would want to be included here, that tiny residual
would constitute true sociology. And, of course, it would be of interest

39

to true sociologists. For others, and I suspect their numbers would be
large, all that was worthwhile about sociology would have been negated.
Few indeed would be able to derive much pleasure from working
through what most assuredly would have to resemble the pathetic
products of Auguste Comte's numerous lapses into cerebral hygiene.
For whatever else it might be called that is exactly what the residual
would be.

Some readers might be tempted to view this postscript as a rather
excessive reaction to the comments of a single reviewer. However, the
issue at stake here concerns nothing less than the form of sociological
discourse itself. For on the one hand, the author is proposing a sociology
that requires an active and engaged reader who is willing to work through
a text in order to be a co-participant in its significance. Such a sociological
discourse does not claim to be, nor does it desire to be, transparent and
self-evident. The reviewer, on the other hand, favors a sociology where
the reader is a passive recipient of a preassembled schemata for "under-
standing." The reviewer would replace interpretation with methodology
and understanding with "data" (his quotation marks). There is not,
needless to say, one correct and true side to this dispute. But if one is
predisposed to hope that one of these positions carries with it a more
enduring validity than the other then they will surely find an ally in the
author and not in the reviewer. For in the final analysis, hope is a
product of imagination and not technique.

This essay, then, is offered in a spirit of hope and resistance. Those
"sociologists" who, like Roland Barthes, are committed to the importance
of imagination in the process of inquiry will, I trust, discover this to be a
most open essay. Moreover, those "sociologists" willing to work through
a text instead of presupposing that methodology replaces work will
discover that it is not difficult to ferret out and participate in the textual
significance of this essay. It is only regretable that my reviewer was so
preoccupied with methodological statements that he failed to realize
that the world does not present itself in methodological terms. One
might be tempted to say that this is a most ironic situation; that is, when
a preoccupation with rules for discovering meaning actually contribute
to the loss of meaning.

40

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Barthes, Roland

1977 Image, Music, Text. New York: Hill and Wang.

1975 The Pleasure of the Text. New York: Hill and Wang.

1972 Critical Essays. Evanston: Northwestern University

Press.

1972 Mythologies. New York: Hill and Wang.

1970 "Science Versus Literature." In Michael Lane, ed.

Introduction to Structuralism. New York: Basic
Books, Inc. pp. 410-416.

1968 Elements of Semiology. New York: Hill and Wang.

1966 System de la Mode, paris: Editions du Seuil.

Burnham, Jack

1973 The Structure of Art. New York: George Braziller.
Foucault, Michel

1970 The Order of Things. New York: Random House.

Kristeva, Julia

1975 "The System and the Speaking Subject." In Thomas

A. Sebeok, ed. The Tell-Tale Sign: A Survey of
Semiotics. Lisse: Peter de Ridder Press, pp. 47-55.

41

SEASON OF BIRTH AND ACCEPTABLE

SCIENCE: A DISCUSSION OF

PERIPHERAL THEORIES

By Derral Cheatwood and Michael N. Halstead

There is a small but growing body of literature concerning the
relationship of season of birth to subsequent life events. The available
material spans the continuum from metaphysical speculations on astrology
to sophisticated medical analyses, but the fact that such a literature
exists at all and the reality that scholars from a variety of disciplines
continue to do research on the topic suggest that there is something
here worth considering.

The empirical studies of seasonal effects on social behavior are few
and far between, the discussions of theoretical possibities even rarer.
The absence is most pronounced in modern American social science
with its stress on mass production and main street empiricism rather
than open ended intellectual curiosity. Apparently this has not been the
case in Europe.

In recent decades, interest in psychological biometerology the
influence of weather and climate on human mental processes-
has surged among European scholars but . . . the subject itself
has received little attention in America .... For psychologists
and sociologists concerned with patterns of behavior in our own
society . . . the passage of the seasons is almost completely
ignored (Rubin: 12).

The correlation of time of birth to other variables has been docu-
mented in a number of studies, but the observation has been left
suspended on the periphery of the research because there is no acceptable
explanatory model to account for it. The suggestion that such correlations
may have a reasonable and legitimate explanation derived from the
theoretical foundation of sociology is almost heretical, but the discovery
of such correlations is certainly nothing new. The first maxims relating
an individual's birth date to possible destiny appeared around the fifth
century, B.C., and the first astrological maxims date back to 3000 B.C.
(Gauquelin, 1967: 22-24). Any theory which survives and prospers for
7,000 years deserves consideration, and the possibility that the proponents
of the theory, whether explaining them correctly or not, may be observing,
documenting, and predicting actual regularities or relationships warrants
more than mere passing curiosity.

There are two widely recognized foundation works on time or
season of birth, Michel Gauqelin's The Cosmic Clocks and Ellsworth

42

Huntington's Season of Birth. Gauquelin observed that scientists had
long been fascinated with the possibility of the relationship of birth to
subsequent events and noted that: "One of Kepler's works, the Teritus
Interveniens, carries the following inscription for a motto: 'A warning to
certain theologians, physicists, and philosophers . . . who, while rightly
rejecting the superstitions of the astrologers, ought not to throw out the
baby with the bath water ( 1967: 47)."* However, it was Ellsworth Huntington
who first systematically and thoroughly researched season of birth and
investigated its relationship to such factors as length of life, occupation,
and success.1

The season at which people are born has far greater importance
than is generally supposed. At certain seasons . . . the births of
persons who achieve distinction rise to high proportions. Such
conditions indicate not only that reproduction is stimulated at
certain seasons, but that children then born are more vigorous
than those born at other times (1).

Significantly, Pinter, Peterson, Huntington, and Gauquelin all agree
that season of birth relates to success or genius.

Pinter . . . and later Petersen, collected several thousand birth
dates of famous people from American Men of Science and the
Who's Who. It appears that the month of birth is related to
whether one will become in the future a person of highest
eminence. This is also Huntington's opinion: 'The data support
the idea that season of birth bears a close relation with genius
and eminence (Gauquelin, 1967: 180.)'

Ironically, however, not only do the great or the eminent appear to
be more likely to be born in the winter, but the mentally disordered and
defective as well. The relationship of season of birth to mental disorder
and disease is, in fact, one of the most thoroughly and critically investigated
areas in this topic. The research in these cases has not only disclosed
such relationships, but has begun to develop causal models of explanation
based upon conditions during pre-natal development. A 1977 study of
schizophrenia by Torrey, Torrey and Peterson concluded that: "The
cumulative evidence would appear to establish more firmly a winter
and spring seasonality of schizophrenic births in northern Europe and
the eastern United States (1069)." In their review of the literature they
noted research done in both hemispheres and three continents confirming
this relationship (Torrey et. al.: 1065). One of the earliest studies of this
phenomenon remains one of the most comprehensive in its search for
explanation, and is an exemplary use of scholarly imagination to support
an unexpected hypothesis.

43

In studying the admissions of mentally defective children,
born in the years 1913-1948, to the Columbus State School, it
was found that significantly more had been born in the winter
months, January, February, and March. Since the third month
after conception is known to be the period during pregnancy
when the cerebral cortex of the unborn child is becoming organ-
ized, damage which occurred at that time could affect in-
tellectual functioning. The months when this might happen would
be June, July, and August, the hot summer months, when preg-
nant women might decrease their food intake, particularly
protein, to dangerously low levels and consequently damage
their developing babies. If this were so, one would expect that
hotter summers would result in significantly more mental
defectives born than following cooler summers. This was exactly
what was found to a highly significant degree. (Knobloch and
Pasamanick: 1207)

By a deft application of Occam's razor, we may suggest that children
born in the winter are simply more likely to be deviant, a result highlighted
by the fact that there are fewer children born in this season. In short,
children born in the summer are more normal statistically, psychologically,
and sociologically, while those born in the winter are more likely to be
out of the normal mold, whether positively or negatively.

Other scholars have attempted to test particular astrological pro-
positions in relation to accepted social psychological constructs with
strikingly mixed results. A positive relationship between sun sign and
occupational choice has been demonstrated by Cooper. Smithers and
Cooper, and Cooper and Smithers, while Farnsworth, Bok and Mayall,
Barth and Bennett, and Gauquelin (1967, 1969) produce research to the
contrary. Bok has produced evidence that there is no relationship
between success in one's occupation and time of birth, while Gauquelin
(1967, 1980), Huntington, Petersen and Pinter indicate the opposite.
Investigating the reliability of astrological predictions. Clark, Mayo
White and Eysneck, Pellegrini, and Wendt all suggest that there is a
relationship between astrological predictions of personality types or sun
signs and actual personality components, but Silverman, Silverman and
Whitner, and Tyson find just the opposite. Only in regard to schizophrenia,
mental deficiency, and intelligence does there seem to be almost universal
agreement that there is some relationship between these conditions and
season of birth.

Barth and Bennett, Cooper and his associates, and Cheatwood and
Halstead have all used military personnel in their analyses and, depending
upon the characteristics of the population examined, have produced
differing results from their analyses. Barth and Bennett, employing

44

United States Marine Corps enlistment data, concluded that their "empirical
evidence offers no scientific support for the predictive power of astrology
with regard to military occupation (237)." Cooper and Smithers, on the
other hand, examined the officers' ranks in the British and American
army and found that "the similarity of the British and American data is
remarkable. The curves are almost identical with [birth peaks] in the
summer and autumn . . . [and] we have been concerned to establish that
seasonal patterns in birth-dates do exist (64-66)." The research of Cheat-
wood and Halstead tends to support the latter view without necessarily
contradicting the former. Using an elite sample we found a positive
correlation of military eminence with winter births, but drew no conclusions
as to the applicability of our materials to the military as an occupation.

Within the discipline of sociology, Marcello Truzzi has produced
the most extensive review of the sociological literature and much of the
particularly scant material coming from the field. But by far the most
thorough general investigation of astrological fastors and a wide range
of social, psychological, biological, chemical, and other phenomena is
to be found in the 1977 publication RECENT ADVANCES IN NATAL
ASTROLOGY: A CRITICAL REVIEW 1900-1976. The monograph is
extensive in its coverage and detail and although the overriding conclusion
supports the influence of natal astrology, the paradox of contradictory
findings is still evident.

There are, of course, criticisms of these findings and of the
explanations proffered (see particularly Bok, Bok and Mayall; Jerome
1973, 1975). Most of the critiques of the research finding season of birth
correlations, unfortunately, seem to ignore Berger and Luckman's sound
argument on the role of the relationship of modes of explanation to
empirical regularities.

For example, it may be proposed that individuals born on
certain days of the month are likely to be possessed ....
The presupposition for such discovery is simply that the outside
observer is willing to employ the conceptual machinery of the
indigenous psychology for the inquiry at hand. Whether he is
also willing to accord that psychology a more general episti-
mological validity is irrelevant to the immediate empirical
investigation (italics ours 177-178).

The critics are far from willing to accord most of the models
suggested a more general epistemological validity. Lyall Watson cites
Spencer-Brown of Cambridge who suggests that deviations from chance
in such experiments may be caused by an as yet unrecognized factor
that affects randomness itself (254). He also cites another critic who
dismisses Gauquelin's thorough work as "the absurd expression of an

45

absurd experience (57)." Unfortunately, in their attempt to safeguard
the gates of science even the most professional of the critics have
ignored the repetitive discovery of empirical regularities having to do
with the relationship of season of birth to other factors.

According to Milton Friedman, "The ultimate goal of a positive
science is the development of a 'theory* or 'hypothesis' that yields valid
and meaningful (i.e. not truistic) predictions about phenomena not yet
observed ( 13)." Further, "the relevant question to ask about the 'assump-
tions' of a theory is not whether they are 'realistic,' for they never are,
but whether they are sufficiently good approximations for the purpose
at hand (15)."2 If, in fact, statistical regularities can be observed between
birth time and success in occupation, it may mean that the concepts of a
theory such as astrology are valid. More importantly, it may mean that
such regularities are real, and that our failure is in not having theories
adequate to offer reasonable explanations.

Such intellectual myopia has hindered the development of potential
explanatory models by making it almost impossible to publish research
reporting correlations of season of birth to subsequent behavior, much
less research which suggests that no such correlations exist or that they
are insignificant. Since "everybody knows" such a suggestion is nonsense,
the argument seems to run, why publish material confirming the obvious?
Thus, those who are genuinely curious or interested in the phenomenon
find that they must repeat the errors of others and discover that not only
is there little audience for their work, but that there is no forum for
carefully designed and executed research or carefully formulated theory
against which to test their ideas and arguments. If, however, we will
simply hold our prejudices at arm's length long enough to accept the
probability that there are significant relationships between season of
birth and some subsequent life patterns, we may begin to act like
scientists again rather than monks who have found their monastery
invaded by crazy men. This means that we will have to question why
such a correlation exists. Is the actual time and process of birth the key,
as unsophisticated astrologers might suggest?3 Or, more likely, is it the
fact that there are social, economic, psychological, and physical effects
both preceding and following the point of birth which will vary by virtue
of the season in which birth occurs. We believe that the latter possibility
is viable enough to warrant consideration by legitimate social scientists.

Beyond The Data, Beyond The Fringe
Competing Models of Explanation

What is necessary to understand social life is a genuine integration
of concepts devoted to an understanding of the subject matter, not a
vested interest in some sub-discipline which would pry and pound

46

content matter until it fits within the structures available. The foundation
of a theory may be constructed with crude concepts as raw material and
the heavy tools available for rough work, but the finishing touches of
conceptual integration require a jeweler's instruments. Regretably, we
are still adherents to the bigger hammer school of sociology and do our
fine finishing work with crowbars. In reference to one of our most
pervasive and revered tools, LaMont Cole has made an interesting
observation on statistical methods.

Biologists commonly award that certificate of accuracy known
as "statistical significance" to any experimental result that
has odds of 19 to 1 against its occurrence as a result of chance
alone. Consequently, it appears that anyone who has experimental
data and sufficient patience to compute different indices and
to match these with several independent environmental fluctu-
ations should have a reasonable expectation, in 20 or so trials,
of obtaining at least one "statistically significant" result (22).

We are in the position in this section of opening a Pandora's box. If
we are, in our sociological studies, to honestly assume randomization of
the data and thus test this randomization, then we must also assume that
for every 100 statistical tests we perform, we will find 5 results significant
at the .05 level and 1 at the .01 level. This is, in fact, the very axiom that
makes statistical research possible.

In any research, then, the researcher should report how many total
statistical tests were performed, for it is only when we know this that we
know what the probability is of finding the number of statistically
significant results that appeared in the actual research. However, one
other confusion is still apparent. If we performed 500 chi squares and
found none of them to be significant, then by our current principles we
would reject the results. Yet the laws of randomization and probability
state that out of those 500 tests we should have found 5 .01 results and 25
.05 results. This means that the fact that the results were not significant
must, in itself, be significant, since something must be operating which
keeps the results such that they appear random when they should
appear significant.

The Pandoras box is obvious as is, to continue the metaphors, the
massive Gordian knot this would tie around sociological research. We
will only pose the problems and assume that a legion of sociologists
armed with intellectual short swords will come thrashing and chopping
to the rescue.4

For our purposes the dilemma is more immediate and, in the long
run, unsolvable, although there is an immediate conclusion which is of
major import.

47

Any group of findings, any set of statistically significant results, can
be regarded as true or valid only within some specified theoretical
framework which can bring meaning to them. This relates to the nonsense
of data speaking for themselves. Things speak or communicate only
within clearly specified vocabularies and grammatical structures, and
the structures for sociological work are called theories. Any set of
findings, then, only has meaning within the theory which is used to
surround it.

We are concerned with three approaches: Statistical, Astrological,
and Social Psychological. Statistically, in our research noted earlier
(Cheatwood and Halstead) we had twelve birth signs, twelve months,
four seasons, four elements, and four occupations involved. Correlating
only two variables at a time we could have produced over 1,000 unique
chi squares, which means we could have expected approximately 50
significant at the .05 level, ten at the .01 level, and even one at the .001
level. The only thing which would allow us to determine if these mean
anything beyond the fact that randomization and probability do work is
our ability to analyze the patterns of relationships visible from these
significant results.

Only by analyzing the analysis can a scholar reach any worthwhile
conclusions in season of birth studies, and only in the absence of signifi-
cant patterns can we assume a set of statistically significant findings
may, in fact, be random. From our other models, astrologically we
would expect significance to appear comparing birth signs, birth elements,
or other astrological factors to a dependent variable. From the perspective
of the social psychological theories, we would expect the same sort of
correlations by month, something which would be almost indistinguishable
from correlations to birth signs given the overlap of the categories.

Two simple programs exist to test the predictive or explanatory
ability of the two models astrology and social psychology and both
have been attempted in limited cases (Cheatwood & Halstead; Torrey
et. al; Tyson). The first method to discriminate between models would
be to analyze data on similar occupations or characteristics for the
Southern and the Northern hemisphere. If the astrological argument is
more accurate, the pattern of results should be the same for both, since
the heavenly influences would be the same in both hemispheres. If the
season of birth argument is correct, however, we would expect the
correlations to reverse, since the season effects would be inverted in the
opposite hemisphere. The second method for such a test would be to
compare birth patterns for seasons to birth patterns for astrological
elements. If the social psychological argument is correct, correlations to
other variables should hold over seasons, since social patterns remain
relatively stable by season. Astrological elements, on the other hand, are

48

represented in every fourth sign, so that fire element signs, for example,
are Aires, Leo, and Saggitarus, characteristically the months of April,
August, and December, Analysis supporting either the season or element
correlation would imply support for the corresponding theory. Any
particular attempt at empirical validation, however, is beyond the scope
of this manuscript and, more importantly, still does not begin to offer a
firm understanding upon which to build the theories necessary. The best
we can do now is merely to suggest the theoretical possibilities inherent
in both models.

Seasons of Birth and Social Psychology

The first model which could offer coherence to any findings of
season of birth is derived from the foundations of sociology and psychology,
yet is little more than conjecture at present because of the inadequacy
of these disciplines in regard to theoretical models adequate to deal with
phenomena on their periphery.

Specifically, from the time of conception to the first birthday, the
human organism will undergo more physical and personal growth,
development, and change than it will ever again encounter in its life
span. From two separate single cells it will become a recognizable
human being capable of communication, and this process will cover no
more than 21 months only twelve of which will be spent outside of the
womb. It is useless to go into details of the development here, for the
mechanics of the effects of season upon particular stages of development
are so largely un-theorized that we cannot discuss them in detail. The
research on physical disease and mental conditions has begun to suggest
the future of pre-natal research and analysis, and H. W. Wendt has
addressed the issue of post natal effects directly.

Evidently later habits of testing and verifying the environment
along with other "entropy coping" behaviors . . . are influenced
around the time of first sitting up and responding to environmental
Constance, as in a Piagetian sense. More importantly, some
"season of birth" correlations thus are clearly explained as lag
artifacts (245).

Between the point of conception and the date of birth, every organ
and system in the human being will develop. Between the point of
delivery and the first birthday the groundwork will be laid for every
major social activity in which an individual will engage in his or her life.
The individual will learn to distinguish self from other, learn to distinguish
among others, learn to make individual emotional responses, learn
positive and negative self discriminations, learn to make emotional
responses toward others, learn to elicit emotional responses from others,

49

learn to communicate physically with others, learn to crawl and possibly
walk, and most amazingly of all, will learn the fundamentals of the most
complex system human beings employ language. These learning ex-
periences occur in limited and distinct time periods, and the difference
in interactional patterns prevelant during the season in which these
experiences are learned will affect that education.

In a very real sense all social phenomena show seasonal variation
since the very nature of social interaction changes with the seasons (cf.
Kevan; Rubin). Marriages, births, deaths, retail sales, murders, and
traffic accidents all display seasonal curves and demonstrate the fact
that we interact in different ways during the summer months compared
to the winter. For a specific developmental example, most babies learn to
smile at about two months, and will learn to respond to other's responses
to their acts the first real social activity at about four months. If
these periods occur in the midst of winter, when outside interactions are
at their lowest (ignoring Christmas) and the bulk of activity centers
around the home or family, it will be a significantly different social
environment for their appearance and evolution than were these periods
of development to occur in late spring or summer, when people begin to
expand their interactions and strangers become a normal part of the
child's interactional experience.

In short, during the first 12 months of life social psychological
growth and learning take place at a faster rate than will ever occur
again. During these 12 months throughout most of Europe and the
United States there will be recognizable seasonal changes, and these
changes will have observed and documented effects upon social activity.
Finally, these effects will in turn affect the development of personality
within the child. Thus, season of birth will reflect the process of social
activity from courtship through marriage, conception, and development,
and thus will manifest itself, however faintly, in the personal capabilities
of the children born in each season.

This may be interesting, but at present is little more than informed
speculation. What is lacking is not a content matter subject to test, nor
conditions applicable to such testing. Rather, we are seriously deficient
in three respects. First, we lack a continuing tradition of careful analysis
of data on time of birth and subsequent events. We have noted some of
the material available, but there is too little replication or expansion of
prior research. Second, and related to the first problem, we have no
valid theoretical base from which to analyze the relationships between
time of birth and interactional, economic, and physical factors in the
first year of life. And finally, we are lacking the open-mindedness to
allow for such developments. Until we will accept the possibility of such
relationships, ignoring the fact of their origin if necessary, we will not

50

allow ourselves to ask the questions which might provide us with some
valuable answers.

Astrology

Astrology is also a technique for understanding and a frame of
reference for creating order out of chaos. The astrologer Dane Rudhyar
writes that astrology is "the result of man's attempt to understand the
apparent confusion and chaos of his life-experiences by referring them
to the ordered patterns of cyclic activity which he discovers in the sky
(8)." In this sense, astrology is similar to science. Attempting to provide
the basis for this understanding, however, can and does pose problems.
There appear to be at least two rationales that one can find embedded in
the writings of modern-day astrologers and their defenders. There is,
first of all, the idea that because astrology is ancient and because it has
survived it is valid. This tends to be an implicit rather than an explicit
idea among most "respectable" astrologers. One is likely to find, for
example, a rejection of science as a valid measure of the adequacy of
astrology rather than an outright acceptance of "supernatural" forces or
an appeal to historical referents.

Astrology is primarily a method for the interpretation ... of
the relationship between causally unrelated sets of phenomena
. . . astrology "interprets" the observable concurrence between
celestial phenomena and more or less definite changes in the
lives of individuals or groups, but it is not concerned with the
scientific study of the cause of such a concurrence, except on
a purely philosophical or metaphysical basis (Rudhyar: 11).

The second rationale is scientifically based in the sense that one
can search for information produced by "legitimate" scientists to support
the validity of astrological procedures. A good summary of this approach
can be found in Lyall Watson (5-76). Watson discusses the effects of the
moon, sunspots, cosmic rays and the like on various aspects of human
behavior. This leads him to conclude that "there are some mystical
things about astrology, but there is nothing supernatural about the way
it works (75)." Or as another writer on the same topic has concluded, "If
the moon can affect us, then why not the other planets? (Wilson: 251)"

The problem for astrology is only partly in its origins in the occult.
There is also its application of interpretation. This latter problem
appears constantly in writings on astrology. Witness the following com-
ments:

Astrology does not deal with the determination of celestial
phenomena, but with their interpretation in terms of human
character and behavior (Rudhyar: 15).

51

The essence of astrology is "not a complicated mathematical
system or a system of beliefs, but a knack, like water-divining,
of seeing the connections between character and planetary in-
fluences" (Wilson: 251).

The real division between the establishments of science and

astrology comes not when astrologers point to changes in the

cosmos but when they claim to know exactly what these changes

mean (Watson: 64).

Thus, even if one accepts the scientific evidence suggesting that celestial

events have influences on human behavior, one is still in the position of

determining which interpretation of a particular event is correct. Most

astrologers are careful to point out that astrology is not intended to be

deterministic. In other words, it is designed to be interpretive.

Astrology . . . has no concern whatsoever with whether a con-
junction of planets causes some things to happen to a person or
a nation; it only indicates the possibility or probability of a certain
type of events occurring in a certain place at a certain time
(Rudhyar: 11, Emphasis in the original).

In conclusion, there appears to be little question that certain events
in our solar system are related to some human behavior. Astrologers act
as interpreters of the meaning of these events. This interpretation varies
somewhat from astrologer to astrologer. It is this variance in interpretation
and its foundation that the scientifically oriented critic seems to question.
And yet, astrology appears to be able to accurately predict more often
than it should. There is, as yet, no consistent, coherent explanation of
why this should be the case.

CONCLUSION

It would be unfortunate if the relationship of season of birth to sub-
sequent life events were to be discounted with the belief that even if
there was some correlation, it would make little difference and is
scarcely worth the time of scholars to investigate. One concrete example
must suffice to suggest the pragmatic payoff of such study. If we assume
that the findings of Knobloch and Pasamanick on mental deficiency in
Ohio are accurate, the money expended by a state to establish and
maintain a program which would foster an increase in the intake of
protein among expectant mothers during the hot summer months would
have the impact within a decade of reducing the population of mentally
deficient children. Such a reduction would affect the organization and
financing of juvenile services, services for the mentally deficient, and
perhaps even the juvenile services within the criminal justice system.

52

Yet such a suggestion would never have been made without an intellectual
curiosity on the part of two researchers about an unexpected correlation
of season of birth within their data.

The most important conclusion, however, relates to the implications
for theory. We are well aware that human behaviors display seasonal
variations. It is only logical to expect these seasonal variations in
interactional patterns to affect family and friend interactions and thus,
directly and indirectly, socialization patterns of the young children. The
effect would be undeniably small, but recall the radical changes that
occur in the first year of a child's life, and the relatively short time
periods in which major social awarenesses appear in this first year. The
season in which these changes come about will reflect family interactions,
visitation patterns, and general socialization patterns of that season, and
will produce differences in the resultant personality type of persons
born at different times of the year. Such effects may be irrelevant in any
particular case, but the statistical evidence indicates that the effect on
large populations may be observable and verifiable. Certainly the empirical
evidence indicates such a possibility. This possibility of seasonal effects
on child rearing practices and resultant post natal social psychological
effects on personality deserves a more objective and thorough analysis
than it has been offered in sociology.

Even the possibility that there are influences from the solar system
that affect the individual from the very instant of conception through his
or her entire life deserves more than an off-hand dismissal based on
common sense and educated intolerance for the improbable. As Einstein
said, common sense is nothing but a set of prejudices laid down before
the age of fifteen. If we are technicians, then our job is to do what we
have been told in the ways we have been told to do it. If we are scholars,
then our whole reason for being is to consider ideas no matter how
new, no matter how old, and no matter how bizarre at first glance. A
serious scientific curiosity and an informed imagination might produce
untold benefits in its application from the periphery of acceptable social
science.

53

NOTES

'Huntington's work has been criticized for the lack of statistical sophistication
and for his geographic and climatic determinism. His research remains, however,
a first attempt at a thorough objective look at the phenomena.

2The use of this particular quotation is borrowed from Barth and Bennett, p. 235.

Tew, if any, of the real professionals in that field would make such a claim.

4The use of "short sword" refers not the intellectual capacity of sociologists. It
refers, rather, to the type of weapon Alexander carried.

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Bok, Bart J. 175. "A Critical Look at Astrology," The Humanist, Sept./Oct.:
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Bok, Bart J. and M. W. Mayall. 1941. "Scientists Look at Astrology," Scientific
Monthly, 52: 223-244.

Cheatwood, Derral and Mike Halstead. 1981. "Success, Sun Signs, and Season
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Clark, Vernon. 1960. "An Investigation of the Validity and Reliability of the
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Cooper, H. J. and A. G. Smithers. 1975. "Birth Patterns Among American Army
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Mayo, J. O. White and H. Eysenck. 1978. "An Empirical Study of the Relationship
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Wilson, Colin. 1971. The Occult. New York: Random House.

55

BIOLOGICAL CYCLES AND SOCIO-RHYTHMS

By Joe W. Floyd, Jr.*
INTRODUCTION

Like a racehorse or a plowhorse, most sociologists as well as most
scientists view their world with vision partially obscured by blinders.
Without the distractions of the periphery, the racehorse or plowhorse
concentrates effort directly forward. Similarly, without the distractions
of competing paradigms, extraneous variables, and alternative explanations,
the sociologist directs his or her attention to the publication or report.

As young, potential scientists our idealism gives way, if gradually,
to the more mature perspective that reality contains a quantity of
variables sufficient to boggle the best of minds. Our graduate school
socialization also provides us with a glimmer of the professional reward
structure, and phrases like "quick and dirty" begin to infiltrate first our
vocabulary, and eventually and inevitably our consciousness. And so we
begin to construct our models of reality. These models, a sort of
synthesis of our professional socialization and experiences, continuously
remind us which variables are important in our explanation of the
empirical world, and by implication, which variables may be safely
ignored.

The limited investigations which result from our specialized science-
of-blinders have important consequences in terms of our understanding
and explanation of the empirical worlds forming the bases of our
inquiry. Relationships between or among my sacred variables and your
sacred variables will not easily be perceived as I can safely ignore yours
and you can safely ignore mine. If such selective perception is likely to
occur in a given discipline such as sociology, the likelihood of explanations
combining variables from different disciplines is negligible, even when
disciplines attempting to explain a common phenomenon such as human
behavior are being considered.

The purpose of this paper is to examine one of my sacred variabls,
but to examine it in the context of several disciplines. The result of this

*The author wishes to express his gratitude to the National Endowment
of the Humanities, to Professor A. Tiryakian, and to the eleven partcipants
in the NEH Summer Seminar held at Duke University in 1980, for their
stimulating ideas, intellectual support, and colleagueality. Without the
experience of that seminar, this paper would not have been written. In
addition the author expresses his gratitude to Professor Mark J. LaFountain,
the editor of this volume and a Seminar Colleage for his patience and
encouragement, and Jim Stone, Susie Colbrese, and Sue Kutzler for
their assistance and support.

56

examination will demonstrate the utility of interdisciplinary inquiry, will
point to the existence and utility of interdisciplinary paradigms, and will
demonstrate some serious inadequacies in our science-of-blinders approach
to the acquisition and categorization of knowledge.

My Sacred Variable: Time

In the history of Western thought there are two major views or
perspectives on time. One view assumes time to be a real or tangible
entity or force, something which can be observed, studied and reflected
upon. This view, the Time as a Single Entity Perspective (TSEP), found
its first spokesperson in Newton (1729), and continues to find support
from scholars such as J. T. Fraser (1965, 1972, 1975), the founder of the
International Society for the Study of Time.

The second view, the Multiplicity of Times Perspective (MTP)
regards time to be a function of, reflection of, measurement of, or
reification of motion or process. The difference between motion and
process is essentially a difference in emphasis of observation. Motion
implies a physical description of the movement of something during the
passage of events. Process implies a segment of the passage of events
perceived by an observer as having a beginning, an end, and often,
discernable stages. The MTP, professed and supported by such scholars
as Einstein (1956), Piaget (1954), 1970), Ornstein (1972), Haber (1966),
and Bergson (1965, 1971), assumes not one time but many times, and has
the capability of distinguishing differences in times through the application
of such dimensions as continuousness, divisibility into smallest meaning-
ful units, linearity, density, and rate of passage.

When explanations which involve more than one frame of reference
are necessary, the MTP provides greater flexibility, utility, and power
than does the TSEP. As Ornstein (1972:79) suggests:

. . . the simple confusion of one construction of time with
another has caused great difficulties for professional research-
ers in many disciplines. This confusion stems from the under-
lying implicit belief that a "real" linear time exists somewhere
outside of man.

The actual assumptions of the MTP are best summarized by Haber
(1966:322):

When used as an entity or force in the universe, time may very
well prove to be a reified concept. Moving from discipline to
discipline, the conviction grows that the actual use of the idea
of time is to express a function or measurement of the processes
under study, even though the writer may believe in the existence

57

of the entity of time.

The MTP allows and facilitates the comparisons of different types of
motion or process through a comparison of the dimensions of the
different types of times which emerge from motions or processes. These
comparisons often begin with an assessment of the similarities and
differences of different types of motion or process or different segments
or stages of process. An emphasis on similarity of segments of process or
motion may highlight the permanence of events, while an emphasis on
differences may highlight change.

A Special Aspect of Time: Cycles

Every moment, or every perceivable unit of the passage of events,
has elements of both permanence and change. Our system for the
reckoning of time provides a simple example of this assertion: minutes,
hours, days, and months repeat (permanence), but our labeling of years
makes each year unique (change), and the week is a perplexing anomaly.
A mode for the organization of the passage of events which accommodates
both permanence and change is the cycle, which allows the regular
repitition of change to be viewed as permanence. I am not so pretentious
as to propose that all change can be modeled by the cycle, as the secular
aspects of the passage of events are more appropriately modeled by
entropy and negentropy and thus remain beyond the scope of the cycle
paradigm and this paper. Yet it should be noted that when a segment of
the passage of events is isolated for study, i.e. when time is sampled, the
length or duration of the segment may either mask or highlight the
occurrence of cycles, especially cycles with periods longer than the
isolated segment. As a result of the secular nature of the human life
span, the short term professional reward structure, and advances in
technology, cycles with relatively short periods (nano-seconds to say
decades) have received more attention than cycles with longer periods
(say a century).

The focus of this paper is the mode for the rational organization of
time, motion, process or the passage of events, known as the cycle. A
cycle refers to a particular kind of change in the values of any variable; a
change in which the maximum and minimum values repeat in a predictable
fashion, where predictable usually means by the use of the referrent of
clock time although other types of time could be utilized for prediction.
The duration or length of the interval from maximum to maximum or
minimum to minimum is known as the period of the cycle. Notice that
the form of the function which best models the change has not been
described other than to say that it was a periodically repeating function.1

The relevance of the awareness of predictable repetition in the

58

values of variables to explanation and understanding should not be
underestimated. When two variables are not independent, and when the
values of the variables change in a cyclically repeating manner, the type
and degree of the relationships is affected tremendously by the cyclical
interaction of the variables. If one variable is at its maximum at the same
point in time as the other variable (in phase), the relationship between
the variables as well as their combined effect on other variables is apt to
be a great deal different than if one variable reaches it maximum at the
same point in time as the other variable reaches its minimum (180
degrees out of phase), and there are numerous other possibilities of
interaction, such as 90 degrees out of phase, 270 degrees out of phase,
etc.

In their investigation of biological cycles, chronobiologists have
observed variables within the human body which have values that are
cyclical and which have respective periods that span seven orders of
magnitude. For a number of reasons, cycles with periods of approximately
24 hours have received more attention than cycles with other periods,
and over 100 variables with 24 hour cycles have been observed within
the human body. Cycles with periods of approximately 24 hours are
referred to as circadian, from the Latin, circa meaning about, and dian
from dies, meaning day. The degree of attention placed on the circadian
cycle is reflected in the labels ultradian for cycles with periods shorter
than a day and infradian for cycles with periods longer than a day.

Biology is not the only discipline which has included the concept of
cycles in its explanation of the empirical world. Musicians, physicists,
economists, and meteorologists, among many other investigators in
divergent disciplines, have found it essential to include the cyclical
mode of organization in their analysis of the passing of events or the
interpretation of process. Yet few sociologists, with the notable exceptions
of Sorokin and Merton (1937) Waller (1951), and Hawley (1950), have
utilized the concept of cycles in their exploration of the social world.

The model of reality represented by cycles differs considerably
from the models of reality most frequently employed in sociological
analysis. Sociological theory consists of ordered sets of propositions,
where the ordering principle is deductive or inductive. Propositions are
the formal statement of the relationships between or among concepts.
The typical proposition separates the dependent concepts (effects) from
the independent concepts (causes), and when merely associational state-
ments of relationships are utilized the model is not thought to be
complete. When these propositions are operationalized, measurement
instruments developed and quantitative data gathered, the resulting
mathematical model usually takes the form of an equation which sets
the dependent variable equal to some arrangement of independent

59

variables which are combined in a manner consistent with mathematical
rules. Typically, the least squares tradition is applied to assess the
amount of variation in the dependent variable which is explained by
variation in the independent variable) s).

The least squares tradition is bounded by the random variation
model and the idiographic model. The random variation model assumes
that all deviations from the expected value, e.g., a mean, a regression
line, or the ratio of explained to unexplained variation, are the result of
random forces or chance and can therefore be ignored. The idiographic
model, on the other hand, assumes that all observations are the result of
unique forces and so each observation must be treated separately.
Between these polar models are an infinite number of models less
restricted than the idiographic model and more restricted than the
random variation model. Such models are statistically evaluated by
techniques such as analysis of variance, bivariate and multivarite
correlation, etc. Unfortunately, most of these models assume a linear
relationship, and somewhat less frequently curvilinear and other higher
order models are tested. Sociology seldom makes use of models employing
periodically repeating functions.

To better illustrate the power of periodically repeating models, it is
useful to examine some of the empirical events which can be explained
or modeled in terms of the interaction of cycles. A musical note may be
represented as a series of repeating functions. The note A immediately
above middle C has a fundamental frequency which may be represented
by a sine wave with a frequency of 440 Hz. (or cycles) per second.
Depending on the nature of the medium which amplifies and transmits
the note, as well as the manner in which the note is produced, the note
also consists of a spectrum of harmonics, i.e., additional cycles with
frequencies which are an even multiple of the fundamental.

One of the more intriguing notions of the psychology of music is the
explanation of how different harmonic spectrums are perceived. When
two notes are played simultaneously, interaction occurs. This interaction
is perceived quite differently depending on whether one note's harmonic
spectrum on the basilar membrane overlaps the other note's harmonic
spectrum in alignment (consonance) or is out of phase by more than a
"critical bandwith" (dissonance). (Rider, 1981)

The transmission of intelligence by means of radio waves is also
based heavily on the concept of the interaction of cycles. Simplistically,
the principle of AM radio transmission involves the superimposing of
one cycle form, the intelligence, on another cycle form, the carrier, a
process called modulation, which can be radiated through the atmosphere.
An AM radio receiver first must isolate the frequency of the carrier and
then isolate and amplify the intelligence. Both tasks are accomplished

60

by the introduction of a third frequency, called the beat frequency
which interacts with the other cycles and produces a number of harmonics.
The appropriate harmonic is then amplified and eventually made to
vibrate a speaker to produce the disturbances of the air which we
perceive as sound.

The oscillator, a device, organ, or system capable of producing a
repeating variation in the values of some measureable variable, is one of
the most important concepts in the cycle paradigm. In the 1600's a
remarkable characteristic of oscillators was observed. (Leonard, 1978)
When two oscillators producing cyclical variations of approximately the
same period are placed in close physical proximity, phase-locking or
synchronization occurs, that is, the oscillators beat in rhythm. Examples
of phase-locking of oscillators are widely available. Tuning a radio or
television is accomplished by changing the frequency of an internal
oscillator which causes a change in the harmonics produced in the radio
or television. When the signal is at its maxmum strength, the desired
harmonic has been attained. The tuning procedure does not have to be
totally precise as phase-locking will occur when the signals are
approximately of the same frequency (frequency is the reciprocal of
period), thus the locking-in phenomena one experiences when tuning a
radio or television. Other examples of phase-locking include the adjustment
of the horizontal and vertical hold on a television, two pendulum clocks
mounted on the same wall, the introduction of living tissue into an
organism, and with less documentation, the menstrual periods of women
who live together.

Phase-locking or synchronization has proved to be a tremendously
important concept to the chronobiologists concerned with biological
cycles. Contemporary biological theory distinguishes between endogenous
and exogenous biological cycles. Endogenous cycles are cycles which
cannot be correlated with cyclical variations in the environment of an
organism, and therefore are attributed to some internal oscillator, although
a controversy exists as to the mechanism which creates and regulates the
frequency of internal oscillators. Exogenous biological cycles can be
demonstrated to have periods which correlate with the periods of
cyclical environmental variables.

The phase-locking of internal biological cycles with cyclical
environmental variables is a relationship which has been carefully examined.
The external variable which causes a modification of the period of the
cycle of an internal variable is known as an entrainment stimulus, and
the process of the phase-locking of an internal cyclical variable to the
period of an external cyclical variable is known as entrainment. Investi-
gations of entrainment and the types and strengths of entrainment
stimuli have resulted in knowledge with numerous applications. Chickens

61

are now exposed to artificial lighting during their sleep cycle and lay
more eggs, the mechanisms of navigation of birds and bees are now
understandable, the growth of plants can be accelerated by artifically
controlling the light-dark (diurnal) cycle, and the uncomfortable side
effects produced by jet lag or flight diasrhythmia can be minimized.

Before we continue the discussion of the implications and impor-
tance of entrainment, a description of the nature, power, and pervasive-
ness of circadian biological cycles is in order. Luce (1970) reports that
the same dosage of amphetamines will be lethal for 6% of a population
of rats when administered at the end of an activity period, but will kill
77.6% of a population, when administered at the middle of an activity
period. Haus et. al. (1959) found that a particular quantity of vodka
would prove lethal to 60% of a population of rats when administered at
awakening while the same dose would only prove lethal to 12% when
administered before retiring. Mathews et. al. (1964) found that a particular
dosage of an anesthetic would have 5% mortality rate at one time during
the circadian cycle and would result in the death of 76% of the population
when administered at another time. Scheving ( 1968) found that a standard
dose of pentobarbital would produce 50 minutes of sedation in rats at
one time during the circadian cycle and would produce 90 minutes of
sedation at another time.

Obviously, studies of circadian rhythms in human subjects have
been somewhat different, as studies which produce mortality rates in
human subjects are usually discouraged. Many processes in the human
body, such as respiration, blood pressure, pulse, the production of
numerous organic substances such as hormones, adrenalin, ATP, and
brain amines such as serotonin and dopamine, the elimination of substances,
especially urinary electrolytes, brain waves, the utilization of different
food types, and many other processes have been monitored, either
continuously or at least very frequently on a 24 hour basis. The results of
these studies provide a descriptive baseline of the circadian nature of
the human body.

Another area of the investigation of circadian rhythms involves the
effects of stimuli on the human circadian system, stimuli such as sensory
deprivation, sleep deprivation, numerous types of stress, shift work, as
well as various types of chemicals and drugs. Other studies have examined
the effects of disease at different times in the circadian rhythm as well as
the interaction of circadian rhythms and disease. Luce (1970) reports
that a circadian rhythm in the flow of blood in the calves of the legs is
observable in people who have peripheral arterial disease, but not in
people without the disease. Bartter, Delea, and Halberg (1962) found
that patients with certain endocrine illnesses such as aldosteronism
manifested a rhythmic variation in urinary aldosterone which was out of

62

phase with the rhythms of people without the disease. A most provocative
finding is that while normal cells show a circadian rhythm in mitosis,
cancer cells do not; rather cancer cells reproduce in 8 hour cycles in
some cases and 20 hour cycles in others.

Not all studies of the human circadian system have been limited to
physiological variables. The phrase, behavioral chromatography, refers
to the analysis of the circadian nature of human behavior. Conroy and
Mills (1967) report circadian variations in efficiency and performance in
tasks such as multiplication, solving syllogisms, and reaction time. Wilkinson
and Blake (1968) and Colquhoun (1967) report circadian variation in
vigilance as measured by sensitivity to sensory input. Bjerner et. al.
(1955) reported significantly more errors by meter readers at night than
during the day. Other studies have indicated circadian variation in
industrial accidents, the amount of time necessary for switchboard
operators to complete calls, death, perception of variations in color hue,
severity of symptoms of mental illness and depression, emotions, and
numerous other forms of human behavior.

A detailed analysis of these findings is beyond the scope of this
paper, but one of the major findings concern the relationship between
human behavior and biological circadian rhythms. One such finding is
that people who describe themselves to be morning people have a
circadian variation in temperature which peaks somewhat earlier than
people who describe themselves to be evening people. In addition, there
is a significant relationship between morningness and introversion and
eveningness and extroversion. Different behavioral forms, such as
multiplication speed and accuracy versus distinction of color hue, are
correlated differently with basic indices of metabolism. Moreover, most
behavioral forms correlate highly with metabolism for part of a 24 hour
period, but are not highly correlated during other parts. Explanations
for the lack of correlation between variations in the forms of different
types of behavior and circadian metabolic variation include the possibility
of a secular component such as fatigue, or the correlation of the
behavior with other entrainment stimuli different from the entrainment
stimuli which effect biological functioning.

From the point of view represented here, some of the most exciting
implications of the human circadian system have resulted from the work
undertaken at the Max Planck Institute in Germany under the direction
of Juergen Aschoff (and most recently summarized by Wever, 1979).
Two underground apartments have been constructed at the Max Planck
Institute. The environment of both apartments can be controlled to
eliminate cyclical changes in the values of environmental variables
which have been demonstrated to be strong entrainment stimuli, variables
such as the light-dark cycle, ambient temperature and humidity. In

63

addition, one apartment is completely shielded from electromagnetic
radiation, another entrainment stimuli, and this apartment also has the
capabilities of introducing electromagnetic radiation of nearly any
frequency into the environment.

Within the context of this laboratory, numerous experiments have
been undertaken. Experimental designs have manipulated such variables
as the number of subjects placed in temporal isolation, and the presence
as well as absence of periods of known entrainment stimuli. The general
results of these experiments indicate that when human beings are com-
pletely isolated from external time cues and the influence of entrainment
stimuli, the pattern of their sleep-awake cycle first varies considerably,
almost chaotically, and then settles into a cycle with a mean period of
25.6 hours. Although the sleep-awake cycle is highly correlated with
nearly all cricadian biological rhythms, most of the experiments included
continuous or frequent monitoring of biological variables such as the
presence of various substances in excretia. As expected, the diurnal or
light-dark variation and variations in ambient temperature were found
to be strong entrainment stimuli.

However, evidence for the strongest of all entrainment stimuli was
obtained serendipitously. In one isolation experiment, in which all
environmental variables were held at a constant, the subjects were
observed manifesting a 24-hour awake-sleep cycle, an unexpected and
statistically significant event. A careful examination of the experimental
conditions revealed an unintended 24-hour external cycle. A graduate
student apparently not fully acquainted with the research design was
delivering mail to subjects at the same time each external day, thereby
introducing a variable with a 24 hour cycle, a social variable. Subsequent
manipulation of all entrainment stimuli being controlled demonstrated
that social variables are more powerful than any other type of variable
as entrainment stimuli of biological cycles.

Powerful entrainment stimuli are referred to as Zeitgebers, a German
word which literally translates as "time-givers," in honor of Juergen
Aschoff. The finding that social variables are not simply a part of the
entrainment of biological rhythms, but rather are the strongest of Zeitgebers
for biological cycles, has profound implications for any investigation of
biological cycles, the interaction of biological variables and social variables,
or the investigation of the temporal structure of the social world. While
the experiments at the Max Planck Institute indicate that the free-
running period of the awake-sleep cycle average 25.6 hours in humans,
the social convention of a 24 hour day is close enough to 25.6 hours for
entrainment to occur.

The 24 hour day is not the only social Zeitgeber to be found in our
social world. To this point there has been little mention of cycles with

64

periods which are different than 24 hours, i.e., ultradian and infradian
cycles. Obviously the diurnal and ambient temperature natural cycles
are influenced by yearly or annual cycles. Human beings, through
technological advances have been able to control the variation of the
light-dark and temperature cycles, at least within controlled areas. It
should be noted that the interaction of cycles of different frequencies
has been discussed above in terms of music and radio theory, and that
the concept of harmonics has been developed to mathematically model
such interaction.

Perhaps the most important social Zeitgeber, aside from the 24
hour day, is the standard work week, which will be defined as working 8
hours per day between the hours of 7 AM and 6 PM from Monday to
Friday. For most people the actual form of the work week is 4 hours on,
then 1 hour off, then four hours on, then 15 hours off. This pattern
repeats 4 times, then follows 63 hours off before the cycle begins again.

While it might appear that weekends would be free for the mainte-
nance of the family, other relationships, and the maintenance of lifestyle,
all too frequently weekends become absorbed in chores, tasks, and
errands which require more time than is available during the week. The
standard work week is the primary scheduler in contemporary American
society, the invariant temporal variable around which all other activities
are scheduled. Moreover, all people in American society are affected by
the work week since so many facilities and services are clearly scheduled
by the work week. A vast majority of Americans are more directly
affected by either working within the constraints of the standard work
week or by living within a family or other living unit in which at least one
member works within the constraints of the standard work week.

While this has significant implications for the people who participate
in the standard work week, it also has significant implications for those
people who do not but who have a schedule directly reflected or
affected by it. Perhaps the best example is the leisure industry, which
nearly by definition must be 180 degrees out of phase with the standard
work week, that is people employed in many aspects of the leisure
industry must work while we play, and therefore must work at a different
time than those people on the standard work week.

Our complex, differentiated society requires that some sectors must
be maintained on a 24-hour or continuous basis. Therefore, emergency
services, protective services, communications, and transportation are
maintained continuously. In addition, numerous manufacturing and
refining processes must be maintained on a continuous basis or at least
are much more cost efficient if they are maintained on a continuous
basis. It is difficult for a number of facilities such as buildings and streets
to be maintained and cleaned during their time of primary use. The

65

result of these factors and others is that numerous people work at times
other than the 8 hour per day, 40 hour per week, standard work week.

It is a safe assumption, I should think, that the life of a non-standard
work week worker is qualitatively different than the life of a standard
work week worker. Many of the performing arts in this culture, be they
music, theatre, or even movies are scheduled so as to be available to the
majority, that is the standard work week workers and their significant
others. This makes these events difficult for the non-standard work
week worker to attend. Moreover, many of the facilities utilized by all
people, regardless of direct or indirect participation in the work week
are scheduled by the work week. While the direct effects of this schedule
are fairly obvious, indirect effects such as noise level and peer pressure
also exist, factors which may explain Floyd's (1977) finding that people
who work at night usually sleep twice in a 24 hour period.

The rhythmic nature of our social structure has only recently
become the subject of sociological analysis. Murray Melbin (1978)
regards the night as a frontier, as he substitutes the dimension of time
for the dimension of space which was being settled as our culture
pushed westward in the 19th century, but Melbin barely noticed that
circadian rhythms are often desynchronized when out of phase Zeitgebers
compete. Dantzig and Saaty (1973) suggest that the future of urban
areas may be strongly affected by temporal compartmentalization, i.e.
different sections of the city may be operational at different times and
some at all times.

While there are sociologists attempting to come to grips with the
"sociology of time" (Zerubavel, 1976) it would appear that others do not
hear. For most sociologists, time is after all the invariant, one-dimensional
variable measured by the clock. Moreover, the sociologists who are
paying attention to the utility of the MTP are not seemingly able to cross
disciplines to notice the work of the chronobiologists, while chronobiologists
such as Wever ( 1979) who reported the discovery of the social Zeitgeber
as the strongest of all Zeitgebers failed to pursue the possible mechanisms
and variations involved in socio-rhythms.

Implications and Conclusions

In the context of this short paper, a detailed discussion of the
strategies of inquiry implied by a cyclical view of human behavior,
biologically, psychologically or socially, is impossible. Therefore, to
conclude, I would simply like to suggest what I consider to be some of
the most provocative areas for future research.

Stress has been defined as a non-specific response to stimuli. One
obvious reason for a non-specific response is not knowing what the

66

stimuli are. It has been suggested in this paper that there are better and
worse times during a circadian period to attempt different kinds of
tasks. One common stimulus that leads to stress is frustration, and
frustration is a common result of knowing or feeling that you are not
doing something as well as you should or could. One possible solution
would be to try doing that thing at a different time during the circadian
cycle.

However, one difficulty in this strategy is the rather rigid cyclical
nature of social structure. Our social Zeitgebers seem to bear little if
any connection with our biological circadian cycles. It is common,
therefore, for individuals to suffer from desynchronization, that is, the
conficting results of Zeitgebers which are out of phase with each other.
We can point to social Zeitgebers which are out of phase with each
other, and any synchronization between social Zeitgebers and biological
Zeitgebers is seemingly purely coincidental. Allowed license for some
speculation, I would suggest that many "psychological disorders" might
well be traced to desynchronization.

There has been much written lately about the decline of the
American family, or the pathology of the American family. If the
question "which is more important, your family or your job/career?"
were posed to individuals, some would say career, some family, but most
would find the question disconcerting. Yet those who work have essentially
defaulted their freedom of chosing. The work schedule, be it the standard
work week or some other variant, has provided the answer already:
one's job or career schedules nearly all other activities and demands, at
least for standard work week workers, one's highest quality time.

Ironically, the work week also creates an environment which
encourages either the traditional nuclear family, or a living arrangement
which includes one person working the standard hour work week and
one person who does not. It is the latter person who has the flexibility of
schedule necessary to interface with facilities and services which operate
on the basis of the standard hour week.

Perhaps more ironically, the most adaptable temporal condition for
a single person involves working at a time out of phase with the 40 hour
week. The single person then has the free time to interface with the
facilities and services bounded by the standard hour week. However,
such a schedule necessitates socializing with others who are not committed
to the standard work week. It is possible that the correlation between
the morning person and introversion and the evening person and
extroversion represents a relationship which has a social basis. When a
person feels more energy in the morning they may be more outgoing,
yet this energy will be absorbed by their work. When a person feels
more energy in the evening, the energy may well direct the individual to

67

seek out people with whom to socialize.

It is often noted that police officers, among other professionals,
tend to resort primarily to intra-profession socializing. Explanations for
this phenomenon usually involve the unique aspects of the experiences
police officers share and the 24 hours per day continuous nature of
police work. Perhaps the reason for such intra-professional socialization
has more to do with work schedules than experiences and values.

In conclusion, much analysis of human behavior fails to take into
account the cyclical nature of our bodies, our moods, our feelings, our
abilities, and our social structure. Cycle theory is an important paradigm
in many disciplines, a paradigm with formal rules. The formal rules in
the cycle theory paradigm provide mathematical models for functions
which represent repeating variation, and provide a basic model for the
interaction of any and all functions which can be characterized as
cyclically repeating, regardless of the length of the period, the form of
the variation, or the level of measurement.

There are perhaps two reasons why the social and behavioral
sciences have not utilized the cycle paradigm. First, cycle theory is not
based on the cause and effect relationship which is so predominant in
Western thought and science. Secondly, the empirical manifestations of
the principles of cycle theory, such as harmonics, consonance, and dis-
sonance are much more apparent in the areas of music, physics, and
biology than they are in human behavior. Perhaps it is time to begin to
speculate as to what kinds of empirical manifestations one would expect
from harmony, consonance and dissonance between and among the
cycles of life: the biological cycles, the psychological cycles, and the
social cycles.

In addition to the cyclical variables discussed in this paper, many
other forces which manifest cyclically repeating variation have been
observed and documented. There may be reason to suppose that some
of these forces such as those of the moon, the sun, the sunspots, the
weather, and even cosmic radiation might have some effect on human
behavior. There is also documentation for cyclical variation in behavior
and physiological functioning with periods such as 90 minutes, 23 days,
28 days, and 33 days. Dewey and Mandino ( 1947) and Dewey and Dakin
(1971) have summarized and documented the existence of cycles in
many empirical phenomena, and these works provide, at the least,
interesting reading.

Finally, any analysis of rhythms or cycles benefits a great deal from
an interdisciplinary approach. Contemporary American scholarship
provides little reward for interdisciplinary study. However, the recent
controversy surrounding socio-biology (Wilson, 1975) or balanced biosocial
theory (Baldwin and Baldwin, 1980) may provide the legitimated basis

68

for a pursual of the nature of social-biological explanations. If such a
legitimation does occur, it would seem that a viable and powerful
strategy for inquiry should focus on the nature of the interaction of the
many types of cyclical variation found in the nature of so much within us
and around us.

69

NOTES

1. Sociologists and others have adopted a typology of levels of measurement. It
is not difficult to view cycles in the same manner. Thus nominal scales are best
modeled by a discrete (not continuous) step wave, the magnitude of which rep-
resents the relative frequency of each category. Ordinal scales may be represented
by a continuous step wave. Interval scales are best represented by a continuously
variable wave such as a sine wave or a cosine wave. Ratio scales are best repre-
sented by a continuously variable wave which never assumes a value below a
non-arbitrarily fixed zero point. Therefore, a cycle can assume nearly any wave
form, need not be continuous or if continuous, need not be continuously
variable. A cycle need only correspond to the repition of the maximum to
maximum or minimum to minimum condition as stated in the text.

70

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72

TACIT ENVIRONMENTAL INTERACTIONS

By Walter Schaer

Summary

The current socioenvironmental crisis drives a creative minority of
people to a lifestyle of voluntary simplicity. According to a new theory
of "social thermodynamics," this fluctuation between mass and minority
can trigger a shift to a higher order of reality. In this transformation,
paranormal phenomena have to be dealt with by the social and design
sciences so that the process of change does not lead to total destruction,
but through a creative disintegration of the old, to a saner humanity of
the new, in social partnership with all things.

Designing and Sharing by People

Do you suppose
A caterpillar knows
Its future lies
In butterflies?

(Elmer Shaw)

The environmental crisis, especially the deterioration of the physical
environment, is now a global fact (Commoner, 8).

The majority of people, however, are only slightly aware of the
seriousness of the problem; they are confused by the two opposite and
extreme views presented to the public through the media: the cheer-
leaders of "Happy Days Again" (Maddox, 23) and the doomsday prophets
(Meadows, 26). Between the lofty politics of extreme optimism and
extreme pessimism, a new realism can be discerned in the "leaderless"
but highly constitutive networks of people who are establishing a new
sociocultural structure (Ferguson, 16). The new emerging social system
of networks is structured around the notion that our planet is a living
organism; thus, the needs of the person or social group are also the
needs of the planet (Roszak, 37).

Humanistic designers of such environmental constructs as chairs,
houses, motorcars, or cities are aware of the ongoing transformation in
people's environmental consciousness, and of the changes in their inter-
actional behavior with industrial products (Murray, 30). In cooperation
with professionals from other fields, humanistic designers are learning
to create life-style options on the human scale (Schumacher, 42).

73

Humanistic design is defined as the creation of conceptual and
physical environments that are responsive to the human as a unique
being capable of personal and social evolution and transformation
(Schaer, 40). This humanistic definition of design is valid whether it is
applied to such complex "macrosystems" as cities, in which people are
functioning as components of a larger system, or whether it is used for
"microsystems" of consumer products, which are rather intimate extensions
of their users. In the humanistic paradigm, the differences between
technological macrosystems and microsystems are only to be found in
the more social interactions in larger systems, and in the more ergonomic
(man-machine) interactions with consumer products. Both system types
(macro-micro) must have the unique human being as the creating inter-
actional source. Furthermore, the humanistic definition of the built
environment considers not only that the physical environment should
enhance inner personal and social growth, but also whether the environ-
ment is built through professionals for the people or is made by the
people.

Design literature shows a clear trend away from building /or people
to doing by people. Perhaps, this trend is following Giedion's (18) advice
(made in 1948) that, "the specialized approach has to be integrated with
a universal outlook. Inventions and discoveries must be integrated with
their social implications." Even though, in 1955, the interest of industry
was mainly concerned with increasing sales and profits, Dreyfuss (13)
declared that "when a point of contact between the product and the
people becomes a point of friction, then the designer has failed." Later,
in 1970, during the beginning of the consumer movement, Perin (32)
advocated that design should proceed with man in mind, because
people ask now "why are (designers) so insensitive in what they put up
and expect us to live with?" Papaneck (31), who considered designers to
be consumer advocates, made perhaps the final critique of those designers
who are tools of reckless industries or other "design authorities." He
observed that most designers produce for "the ideal consumer," and
thus neglect huge minority groups, such as the global poor, the disabled,
women, the aged, and, we might add, people who are socioenvironmentally
conscious.

The conscious change of the design view from that of making the
environment for people to helping users to design, plan and build by
themselves, was suggested by representatives of the social sciences. One
of these was Sommer (44), who wrote that "users of the environment
must be more than consumers they must be the creators and participants
in decisions that affect them."

Whether people create things by themselves or participate in the
design decisions with professionals, the results and solutions are anticipatory

74

at the human scale. Thus they give the user the pragmatic and sensual
feeling of an organic connection with the artifact and his natural setting.

The human scale of things implies neither smallness or bigness,
neither personalized nor industrialized design and production. A human
scale is reached if the physical outer reality can be shaped by mature
persons (or by a social group) to correspond with their inner reality and
self-actualizing processes. If a person designs and builds his own chair,
perhaps with the help of a professional designer, then no problem arises
between the manifold person-thing interactions. Although most consumers
cannot build mass-produced articles by themselves, personalized manu-
facturing and service are possible through the advanced use of information
machines. Branscomb (2) said, "with the computer, manufacturers may
for the first time make articles on a mass basis, yet have each fit the
specific requirements of the intended end user . . ." For example, ". . . local
computers can take detailed measurements of a person's foot and
communicate the data along with style preference to the factory. Then
an individually fitted shoe can be made at mass production prices."

Many designers are licensed in order to protect the public from
harmful artifacts. This, however, makes sense only in respect to single
objects, such as a building or a bridge, where one professional can be
responsible for its safe structure. On the other hand, industrially designed
and mass-produced objects involve many disciplines and different
professionals, such as industrial designers, product engineers, economists,
and human factors specialists, all of whom have a partial responsibility
with nobody licensed for the whole. Here, the impact of a faulty product
upon society is tremendous, as our socio-environmental disaster proves.
Consequently, it is not the licensing of the individual professional that is
of importance, but the licensing and approval of the product itself
before it reaches the consumer market. The social approval of a mass-
produced product for use could be an easy process (similar to our court
system) where citizens would serve, together with independent inter-
disciplinary professionals, on product approval councils, judging products
submitted to them by industry.

The question of the human scale, however, still persists as one of
consumer dependence, as long as industry operates on a one-sided
profit ethic instead of a personal and social growth ethic. Sooner or
later, industry will learn that "profit" depends more and more on the
consumer's product acceptance. One example of such recognition is the
trend toward the "personalization" of appliances, such as the development
from the big radios in the home to the pocket transistor radio. The
sociopolitical transforming impact of the transistor radio could be witnessed
in the Middle East countries, in particular, in recent years. Even more
dramatic is the personalization of the clumsy electronic computer to the

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transportable pocket-size information sheet. In the last 15 years, the
power of computers has increased 10,000-fold, while their purchasing
price has decreased 100,000-fold. The "intelligent" devices are forcing at
least two basic questions upon man: first, what type of consciousness is
left for humans?, and second, how can the users of these electronic
"partners" have control over their design, production, distribution, and
their probable disappearance from the market? History teaches us of
many complex civilizations which disappeared for no apparent reason.
Perhaps the time has come for us to think about post-electronic realities
and of what leads to them.

A study made by the social economist, Mitchell (28), discloses a
shift in consumer values and lifestyles which might have a dramatic
economic and social impact on the structure of industrial nations. The
study indicated that by 1990, 25 percent of the U.S. population will be
consumers with individualistic buying patterns, rather than the present
conformist. Socially conscious consumers embrace a "spaceship-earth"
philosophy plus the socially responsible "voluntary simplicity" life pattern.
The researcher forecasts a possible confrontation between these "inner-
directed" consumers with a planetary vision, and the traditional "outer-
directed" groups who buy for appearances and conform to what other
people think. Finally, Mitchell sees a time when these two groups may
form a synthesis, becoming "integrated consumers," with a global per-
spective that is ecologically alert, self-actualized, and seeking for alternative
ways of life.

Although Mitchell's double-hierarchy is based on Maslow's (25)
hierarchical concept and Riesman's typology (36), his study also projects
a transpersonal and transsocial vision toward a paradigm shift. We can
already observe, as was pointed out elsewhere (39) that the inner-
directed and the outer-directed people are also separated by their
aesthetic behavior and possessions. The outer-directed live in a world of
bad taste; the "lower class" of the outer-directed might enjoy a floorlamp
made out of a hunting rifle, while the "upper class" of the outer-directed
might exhibit their kitsch in a living room stuffed with art work (Dorfles,
12). The new "integrated consumer" will be more aesthetically aware.
Less "Aesthetics," as expressed in physical form, will be more, with a
greater demand for the authentic and natural. My own preliminary
studies show that highly self-actualized persons barely consume aesthetic
products from others. They do not have to see a landscape made by
someone in order to "see" through a medium how beautiful it might be,
because as mature persons, they have an intimate relation and a direct
insight into anything they experience or imagine. In such an aesthetic
response, as an existential partner with everything of the environment,
no second-hand information is needed. At present, only a few are at this

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point of transpersonal aesthetics, but the vibrations toward it are becoming
visible in many movements of self-awareness.

Many of the social movements and conceptual networks such as
cooperative enterprises, self-help groups, bartering, resource sharing,
consumerism, communal design workshops, soft energy advocates, holistic
health and illness-prevention alliances, alternative technology groups-
originate in that societally conscious minority segment of the industrial
population who design, build, and share a new, holistic, uncluttered
lifestyle. These movements for change are in response to inflexible
attitudes of the dominant institutions and values of the Western industrial
societies (Long, 22).

Paradigm Change through Crisis

Walk by the thread of the image
To its living source.

(Kenneth Demarest)

In essence, the current consumer revolt movements are more than
just a reaction against a world that is preplanned, prepackaged, polluted,
commercialized, and oversold to people; a world without real alternatives,
a world that expects everybody to respond like Pavlov's dogs or Skinner's
pigeons to predigested experiences. The varied consumer movements
are part of a basic evolutionary change in people's experiential awareness
of themselves in interaction with their daily environment. This awareness
suggests that the present static reality of structures of materialistic things
is one-sided and a dead end in itself; it must give way to processes of an
expanded consciousness of interactional change. Even though these
human potential movements are emerging in the local confines of the
industrialized nations, the objectives of this new perspective are global
in scope, and all of these movements have the characteristics of a
paradigm shift in the making (Kuhn, 21).

This new flow of awareness is indeed a grand "design for evolution,"
as Jantsch (20) called the emerging new paradigm indicating far-reaching
consequences for all human endeavors. Thus, the once-conditioned
consumer of designs imposed upon him becomes, himself, a conscious
designer and critic of the consumed in a transformational process.

In consideration of the environmental symptoms signaling personal
and social stresses, we must agree with Chardin (5) that this, our time, is
not just another turning point in the history of humankind, but that we
are indeed advancing on a rising spiral toward a sudden shift of enlarged
consciousness. As Chardin and Kuhn explained, the paradigm shift will
be sudden, not unlike the way a visual pattern changes its Gestalt in a
sudden shift of figure-ground relationship, a phenomenon well known to

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designers (Gibson, 17). Once you can see the new configuration, you
cannot "unsee" it. Such alternative perceptions seem to occur in response
to an observer's tacit knowledge and to his brain's evolutionary thrust to
the perception that there exists another Design Gestalt. Generalized
then, an "inner" crisis and an "outer" alternative seem to trigger the
perceptual shift from an old to a new reality. Thus, the shift from one
paradigm to another is based on perturbations and stresses of old
patterns, leading to sudden perceiving, valuing, creating, and interacting
with a new reality.

Our environmental crisis, which reflects our psychosocial disturbances
supported by additional economic, political, military and educational
insanities, is now reaching a configuration ready for an appropriate
shift.

This multifaceted chaotic environmental structure is the proper
trigger to create a new social system, as described by Prigogine's (35)
new theory of dissipative structures. Prigogine, a physical chemist and
mystic who, in 1977, received the Nobel Prize in chemistry, has actually
proved, with the traditional scientific methodology, what Eastern
philosophers and Western sages, with their perennial wisdom, knew all
along, namely that, "the whole cosmos is involved in a continual dance
of creation and destruction" (Capra, 7), i.e., that order emerges because
of disorder. Roszak, anticipating sick technocratic culture and its impending
renewal, talked of the "creative disintegration of industrial society." The
collapse of the dominant but sick social system is not a catastrophic
breakdown, but a necessary disintegration. It is creative because it gives
birth to a higher structure of order. However, the transformation
can have catastrophic consequences, if the resistance of the collapsing
system shows characteristics of stubborn stability and equilibrium. This
sounds paradoxical, because we have been conditioned to believe that
stability, not instability, is the key to survival. However, history shows us
that prolonged stable sociocultural systems that remain without change
(that is, without energy input in the form of new ideas) lead to decadence
and collapse.

Let us now look at the new theory of dissipative structures which is
a model of how chaos transforms into new creations at a higher level.
The second law of thermodynamics states that quasi-closed orderly
systems can only change toward greater disorder, whereby entropy is its
measure in linear and irreversible time. Accordingly, the most probable
state of the universe is interpreted as tending toward an equal distribution
of events and elements in collision and chaos with each other.

Cybernetics (Wiener, 47) tried to show counteracting measures
against entropic processes, with correcting negative feedback loops that
keep systems in a steady-state equilibrium. This, of course, is a very

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commendable approach in technology, because it would be very uncom-
fortable if our motorcar should suddenly disintegrate at high speed.
However, the maintenance of an equilibrium state in one's personality
would mean psychological death, and correspondingly, imposed stability
in social institutions leads to dictatorial structures. Since the "laws of
evolution" seem to require change, sociocultural and other systems
under forced stabilization must explode and disintegrate without hope
of renewal.

Thus, systems must be open to new information/ideas/energy,
which, in turn, will change what existed before. The function of positive
feedback is to amplify change agents so that a system can graduate to a
higher level of existence. Here we must infer that technology on the
whole is a powerful change agent using positive (runaway) feedback
loops as one invention leads to another. The individual technical artifact,
however, has a temporarily built-in (stable) negative feedback loop.

The traditional emphasis is on the entropic view, i.e., the perspective,
that only stabilitiy is "good," and fluctuation is always "bad." This view
is psychosocial^ deeply ingrained, as is evident in such judgments as
that of the "runaway kid" from his family, while in reality, he might be
the more creative one, who is running away from a rotten group. The
myth of stability also found acceptance in information aesthetics (Bense,
1) through Shannon's (43) selective-information concept. According to
Shannon, aesthetic environmental processes follow physical sign processes;
that is, every bit of information in a message-structure is supposed to
behave independently of the whole in a chaotic and most probable state.
Thus, the most entropic (chaotic) state of a system should have no
(negentropic) information and no creative potential. This would indicate
that the interaction of elements within a most probable random structure
is banal, uncreative, and ever-decaying toward increasing disorder. At
this point, we have to remember that information in this context is con-
sidered the measure of order, and entropy the measure of disorder.

Since all human activities use information processes, and since the
Western world has interpreted entropic processes as being a natural
disaster without any hope of ever transforming into order, one can see
that such "bad" characteristics of nature contributed to the alienation of
rational man from his "dangerous" natural environment.

Nevertheless, a paradox remained, concerning the "secret of life" in
growth and evolution, which are evidently negative entropic processes
tending toward ever-higher order in spite of universal decay. The intro-
duction of Maxwell's "demon" (a hypothetical personage invented by
the nineteenth-century physicist with order-creating functions) in several
forms, answered the question of how order comes from disorder, at least
in local situations. Even though the demon, through his cognitive function,

79

was able to defer the second law, he consumed information-energy and
thus contributed to the overall entropic process.

Therefore the basic question was unanswered, namely, that if the
universe is moving from a state of order (life) to a state of disorder
(death), how did it get ordered in the first place? Well, we might
remember the old wisdom of all cultures, that humans are not separate
from the earth, that the psychic world is mirrored in the material works,
and vice versa. Here then, enters Prigogine's theory of dissipative struc-
tures and Thorn's (46) catastrophe theory. Neither of these researchers
were interested in the analysis of smooth, continuous, and quantitative
changes of events, but rather in sudden processes, such as the abrupt
bursting of a bubble, the explosion of a social upheaval, the sudden
creative insight, or the shift from a caterpillar to a butterfly. Thorn, a
mathematician, focused not on the quantitative stability of stable states,
but on the qualitative stability of change.

The catastrophe theory is especially useful to designers because
Thorn uses visual topological graphs with multi-dimensional parameters
for analyzing and "predicting" catastrophic changes in systems.

Prigogine and Thorn found that any system under stress fluctuates
and escapes from its old dissipating structure through a self-organizing
system into a new and higher coherence. Dissipative structures are
therefore giant fluctuations of systems experiencing stress and non-
equilibrium. If entropy production in a system becomes sufficiently high
(e.g., socioenvironmental deterioration, or disintegration of a caterpillar),
then the system tries to maintain its qualitative capability for energy-
information exchange with the appropriate environment by switching
suddenly to a new state of existence. That is, through fluctuations of the
old system, a new order emerges which is contradictory to the classical
interpretation of the second law of thermodynamics. New order is
created out of disorder, not because of any "demon," but because the
transformational process vibrates in a self-organizing and self-creating
mode.

Dissipative structures, characterized by a high degree of qualitative
interaction exchange with their environment, appear when a system
becomes unfit for survival. A conscious minority can then cause a shift
in a social institution that is no longer appropriate for personal and
collective growth and evolution. The crucial point here is that life,
growth, and evolution are not an improbable oscillation in an entropic
process, but a natural interaction of all things on an ever-ascending
spiral toward higher levels of existence and consciousness. The shifts
from a low order to a higher order are sudden at the human scale. As the
old inappropriate system behaves more stiffly and resistively, the more
violent and catastrophic the transformation has to be. It is thus up to the

80

individual and to society to determine the way an unavoidable change
will proceed. Indeed, it is a matter of experiential design awareness.

We should now become aware that we live on an interdependent
planetary sphere, that indicates a material, finite state through its round-
ness. At the same time, the sphere is a sign of concentrated conscious-
ness, ". . . rising upstream against the flow of entropy . . ." as Chardin (5)
experienced.

The key concern for designers of the physical environment should
be to develop artifacts that are flexible enough to accommodate the
changing needs of people in their destiny of social and psychic growth (50).

Design Implications of Paranormal Signs

The unexpected and the
incredible belong in this world.
Only then is life whole.
(C. G. Jung)

The Buddhist recommendation to build houses out of wood and not
stones has its practical and metaphysical values. A house made of wood
can be flexible and responsive to the changing needs of its occupants.
The wood's relatively fast decay and thus, the constant upkeep of the
house, including the continuous planting of trees reminds the users, at
their own human scale, of the changes which operate throughout all
levels of the universe. However, the Western world has managed to turn
this wisdom around. Instead of adapting the physical environment to
man, people are expected and educationally conditioned to become
subjugated by material things (51). Thus, the two main needs of a
person, for self-actualization and for interaction with other people and
the environment, are reduced to indulgence in gadgetry. As Ellul (15)
observed, technology has "become an end-in-itself, to which men must
adapt themselves" (52).

With the help of technology, man has partly liberated himself from
nature, but at the same time, this freedom brought new limitations and
dependence on artifacts.

Look, for example, at what happens with the family motorcar,
which allows people to move faster and to cover greater distances, thus
fulfilling a real need for flexibility. But, if the car fails (and it often does),
then the whole family's schedule and thir entire lifestyle collapses into
panic and neurotic behavior. A second car and a third must be bought,
and of course, these multiple technical possibilities lead to more possible
human impossibilities. Obviously, the increased knowledge about "natural
laws" and technological "know how" have not improved man's "control"
over the environment.

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In fact, the motorcar is a perfect example and a tragic symbol of the
distorted sociotechnological view that now governs human existence
(Rothschild, 38). All societies that use high technology are very vulnerable
to "logical" perturbations, because they have fixed their total transportation
systems on vehicles which use non-reusable fossil fuel propellants. Such
alternative- poor systems have to collapse sooner or later, because neither
humanity nor the planet can afford exaggerated and prolonged stupidities
of any kind. Driver strikes, street wars, exhaust pollution, noise, increased
transport costs, hijacking, congestions, fuel shortages, vandalism, and
driver shortages are only some of the ongoing factors pressing toward
the change of an inappropriate transportation concept.

Meanwhile, the motorcar industry continues blindly on its entropic
path, spending more money on advertising their monsters than on safety
for people (Dubos, 14). In addition, immense economic effort is made to
develop new car coatings that protect it against its own corroding effects
of air pollutants while virtually no money is spent to study the car's
effect on the human body. The resulting various automotive anxieties
exhibited by people in reaction to such hubris against life is perhaps best
expressed through the symptoms of the citizens band car radio. Although
in its beginning the motorcar offered some liberation, millions of people,
encapsulated in their metallic mobile boxes, are now trying (literally and
symbolically) to reach out for help with their CB radios. This cry for
interaction by millions around the globe, who neurotically hide behind
their calling pseudonyms in a communication chatter of sixth graders,
should not be ignored by designers and social scientists as a passing
craze. This dissipating behavior of the CB syndrome indicates a funda-
mental alienation from a meaningful life, and it is a powerful sign
pointing toward an impending paradigm shift, from fragmentation and
conformity to autonomy and self-actualization, in "organized" cooperation
with others and the total environment.

The human crisis has created great instability and mobility in
society, which has led to unprecedented interactions of people and
dissipative social (and technological) structures, which, in turn, are
preparing the stage and sensitivity for new transforming ideas of survival.
If political madmen to not use atomic power to repress the rising
fluctuations from the untenable norm to a new, more humane state of
life, then the transformation will not end in global entropic death (53).

Maslow (24) and Mitchell (28) showed that if people graduate to an
autonomous view of life, then their values become inner-directed and
transpersonal. That is, a shift in their vision of reality occurs; the level of
awareness tacit or overt determines the level of reality construction
and perception. The new framework of thought and action, at a higher
level, incorporates the old reality, but as a local and limited possibility.

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In such evolving levels of existence, with their intention toward unitary
experiences of life, each higher level although more psychic is more
real than the level below it, because of the higher interactional oneness
of the existence.

Therefore, the awakening environmental and social transformation
shows increasing paranormal phenomena, experienced by people who
tune in and vibrate toward higher levels of design awareness (Pribram,
34). Environmental sociology (Gutman, 19) has served designers well in
furnishing them with knowledge relating human characteristics to building
design, spatial organization and social interaction, environmental impact
on safety and health, and to designs as expression of social values. Most
of this information is based on traditional research in behavioristic
sociology, physiology and anthropometrics. This research represents
the reductionistic linear method of detached observation of reality,
which considers the human being as a mere reactor to impacts from the
environment and society (54).

However, the holistically-growing design awareness of people gave
rise to Humanistic sociology, a movement spearheaded by those thinkers
who have connections with humanistic psychology (Coulson, 9). The
new sociology is propounded by symbolic interactionists and adherents
of the ethnomethodology school (Mehan, 27). This school established
an image of man with certain genetic and environmental limitations, but
then acts, and in acting, alters those limits. Thus, man is considered a
choosing, self-responsible, complete being.

Out of this humanistic movement in sociology and psychology, and
because of the disastrous consequences of focusing physical design on
materials, technology and commerce, this author formulated the concept
of Humanistic Design, which centers on man and his interactional
dialogue with other humans and with physical things as an existential
ensemble. Methodologically, a new research type enters here which has
been defined elsewhere (41) as design interaction research. In this
methodology, psychosocial and physical realities are synthesized, and
both reductionistic and phenomenological approaches are used. This
new research mode has roots in "the idea of dialogal phenomenology"
(Strasser, 45). However, designers must go further, to include not only
the individual in conversation with mankind, but also the two in partner-
ship with their physical environment.

Already, the humanistic definitions of design and sociology point
toward realities beyond the traditional, scientific, physical world to
psychosocial reality fields far beyond the present fragmented sociological
level (Canter, 6). These levels, as yet perceived only by a minority, are
paranormal, metaphysical, and phenomenological, because they are
hidden and thus occult to the present paradigmatic vision of the majority

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of people, as in Plato's allegory of The Cave. According to that fable,
men lived in the cave and took the shadows, cast on the wall by the light
coming from behind them, to be the only reality. Any reality outside
their cave-paradigm was to these men paranormal.

Paranormal phenomena in the man-environment interaction, based
on extrasensory perception (ESP) and reality construction by individuals
and groups (technical UFO projections), are not dramatically increasing
(48). The reality of strange events cannot be ignored for at least two
reasons. First, such new experiences have to be considered as technosocial
change agents, causing instability of the obsolete paradigm system, and
thus invoking transformational shock. Second, ESP-information is now
interfering with man-machine interactions because of its different
time/space/motion framework.

The traditional man-machine interface works with the notion that
both man and machine interpret reality through signs which denote a
given phenomenon. That is, a sign stands for something else; it is
communicated by a medium or vehicle (air, paper), thus making the
dialogue between man and machine possible (Morris, 29). If a machine
operator developes ESP characteristics, then the communication with
the machine is disturbed, because in "extrasensory existence" (in which
the operator momentarily might live) such frames of reference as past,
present, and future become instant receptivity. The machine operator,
in an ESP situation, becomes the phenomenon. Thus, the sign, the sign-
vehicle, and the designatum (i.e., that which is referred to) form a
synergistic, one reality. In fact, it seems, as experienced by the writer (in
remote viewing), that the total absence of signs is a prerequisite for
direct insights into reality itself. Many unexplained technological accidents
of today might be the results of experiential "frequency" disturbances
between men and machines (55). In this context, esoteric information on
holistic existence, in which time essentiates to "receptivity," space
transforms into "conductivity," and motion fluctuates as "frequency,"
establishes a new sense of being (56).

The danger of nuclear power plants lies not only in that they can be
operated only under secret dictatorships, that nuclear physics is dangerously
based on obsolete theories of entropy and vectorial time, or that nuclear
control centers are ergonomically disastrous. A greater potential danger
is that paranormal perceptions by plant operators, triggered by conscious
or unconscious existential stress, interfere with the sign display of the
information machines. Such "interferential relationships" seem to be
especially the case in man's correspondence with electronic equipment,
because of the need for reduced (to the speed of light) response time to
the machine by the operator, whose "experiential mind" might at a point
of emergency dwell beyond clock time.

84

We also have to consider possible interference patterns in communi-
cation betweeen psychically advanced operators of classical machines, as
many unsolved automobile and aeroplane accidents indicate. Even the
military is nervously searching for non-traditional solutions to command-
control problems (4). The results of the latest computerized war game
was that the "sophisticated" Western (NATO) war machinery could not
beat the more "crude" resources of the Warsaw Pact nations. Naturally,
the problem is one of complexity; that is, the military paradigm fluctuates
out of control, and is in a state of creative instability, ready for a drastic
change. Of course, complexity and instability for the military is equal to
chaos, thus they resist any "positive" change.

Thus, NATO seems to have manipulated itself into a double-bind.
The dissipative, computerized commando-systems of the West can only
beat the "Russians" centralized systems if the West establishes omnipotent
dictatorships. However, if "democratic" social principles do not allow
this, then one may lose a war or change the military paradigm toward a
higher holistic vision for humankind. Connected with this dilemma is
the fact that present war-machines are controlled by both artificial and
human intelligence; that is, the man-machine interaction represents
higher frequencies of consciousness than the pre-computer killing machines.
Now, at this "advanced" level of consciousness, the military has difficulty
finding "trained" people because those who qualify refuse to work, as
their level of awareness has been transformed far beyond the entropic
limitations of the military mind. We might well remember here that
fluctuations, change, fluidity, and indeterminacy make an experience
creative and unpredictable, which is the prime feature of intelligence.
Thus, not the well adapted people will easily fluctuate through a paradigm
shift to a higher level of awareness and existence, but the adaptable and
unattached ones. There is hope for a military-free world. The more we
dissipate with people and things, the more we have to accept them as
partners in a meaningful process; i.e., you cannot love a cat and kill her,
too (57).

Paranormal phenomena, the manifestations of as-yet-hidden realities
and transformational states of consciousness, are probably further
"explainable" through the hologramic model of reality postulated by the
neuropsychologist Pribram (34) and others. The hologramic concept
suggests that memory is not located in any specific area of the brain,
but, as a structure of relationships, the brain creates, perceives, and
remembers by retaining and decoding interference patterns in a holistic
energy field with the environment. Thus, the hologramic world model
relates brain-mind to both living and non-living systems.

Furthermore, the decoding of new and higher realities happens in a
transformed frame of time, space, and motion. If such a change to

85

higher consciousness takes place, then the concept of "normal" and
"paranormal" disappears. We now discover the urgent need for further
inquiry into what reported paranormal experiences imply in design and
social terms. For sure, such phenomena cannot be produced under the
present strict, reductionistic, clinical laboratory conditions operating in
the present scientific time-space concept.

It is not surprising that space experts (3) speculate that we have
reached the "end" of space exploration, with present technology and
present consciousness. Work with ion-engines for space rockets points
to the use of light particles to approximate speeds of light. The "explosion
chambers" of such "photon-reactors" are composed of electromagnetic
fields. The result, then, is an invisible "machine" consisting of a fundamental
interaction, as the photon is the quantum of its own electromagnetic
field. At this point of space exploration, mans material body becomes a
clumsy hindrance to operating in expanded space-time dimensions.

A hologramic paradigm seems needed, in which we may discover
that the universe vibrates here and now, everywhere. An advanced
technology for experiencing the universe may not be composed of
exploratory material hardware (which is a projection of mechanistic
minds), but of energetically "imploring" and amplifying software, capable
of tuning into realities which are already "here" and not "out there."
Since all technology is the formative result of human consciousness and
is thus metaconceptual, it follows that an "Attuned Technology" can
only be developed by minds who have reached a higher level of interactional
awareness than those who created present technology (58).

The current electronic techniques are probably an intermediate
stage toward a transelectronic epoch. The emerging attuned technology,
following hologramic principles, cannot be "objectified" like traditional
objects; for example, like a spacecraft sent into deep space in the hope
someone would find it, and perhaps establish interactions with its
originators. Attuned technology will be an interactional part of mind
and cosmos; that is, until the evolutioanry epoch arrives, when conscious-
ness will need no media whatsoever for understanding and action.

Intermediate technology, from classical electronics to attuned
technology (besides advanced computers) includes such information
machines and techniques as biofeedback devices, sensory deprivation
facilities, thought photography, psychotronic generators, neuropsy-
chological equipment, psychosomatic recorders, matter-energy trans-
formers, and states of consciousness-altering devices.

Looking at our socioenvironmental problems, we see the time to
have arrived to view the world as one web of interactions. Even traditional
systems theory has prepared the way, in considering that the environ-
ment of a system is not only influencing the system's performance, but a

86

system is always embedded in a larger system, showing clearly that there
are no isolated elements in any system (Churchman, 10).

Whether we continue our lives as usual (as many believe we shall),
or whether we evolve through a creative transformation to something
better (as a creative minority knows must happen), an intact physical
environment is essential for any type of survival. Whatever future mode
of living is chosen, the decision will be a moral and an ethical one. The
present ethical environmental rules operating in industrial societies are
mainly defense systems against the environment. Thus the present ethic
is an entropic, materialistic growth ethic. Through this ethic, society has
failed to tune in to the environment and to grow with it holistically.
Ethics in a transformed social structure will not be a dualistic battlefield
between "inner" and "outer" conditions, but a convivant "organism" of
growth and evolution. The new morality will not be imposed by belief
systems, but it will be lived in changing and ascending situations, in
coresponse with all things. The new ethics will be a negentropic psychic
growth ethic (59).

Such a metaphysical growth ethic will also fundamentally change
the attitudes in socioenvironmental planning. Present environmental
design and planning is based on the entropic model, the view that the
universe is running down to total chaos. Therefore planning in varied
forms (strategic, operational or normative) is founded on future projections
of what ought, can, and will be done. Then, clever controlling systems
with negative feedback will be devised to insure that the plan is followed
by future generations of people (Dober, 11). No wonder such endeavors
must fail, because such planning ignores the living evolutionary laws of
change (60). The present socioenvironmental perturbations are much
greater than industrial society can control; thus, a change to a saner
structure, initiated by a creative minority, has to occur. It is up to all of
us whether the unavoidable transformation will end in total destruction,
or in the creation of worlds based on the recognition of one's connectedness
with life and nature.

Planning and designing must now become based on models which
can expect the unexpected, because the rules of life and creation are
tacit and mystic in their mode of becoming and being. If the social and
design sciences accept the concept of evolutionary change, and recognize
tacit knowledge (Polanyi, 33) as part of their search to deal with paranormal
phenomena, then, indeed, we can lay the groundwork for a human
growth-oriented, decentralist, and globally connected humanity.

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References and Notes

1. Bense, Max. Aesthetica. Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1954.

2. Branscomb, Lewis B. "Personalized Manufacturing," Science Jan. 12, 1979.

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49. This article is written in the traditional style, thus, man also means wo/ man,
and both as a species, et cetera.

50. Some writers, such as J. Rifkin (Entropy, Viking, 1980), suggested that
theories of dissipative structures attempt to provide a rationalization for
material growth, genetic engineering, dehumanizing technologies, et cetera.

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Certainly, such rationalizations are possible, but only from the view of
Rifkin's entropy paradigm in which absolutely nothing can be negatively
entropic. Therefore, an absolute entropic vision must, out of fear, produce
pseudo-creativity based on the illusion of "renewables." However, Prigogine's
theory demonstrates a "natural" dialectic counter-entropic process, which
is evolutionary and thus points the way out from a "materially" bound life
consciousness toward an "energistic" existence beyond the low frequency
oscillation of matter with its dominant entropic law. The material world is
indeed "absolute" entropic, but nothing should keep us vibrating (existing)
in it and at the same time tune into a more creative, negentropic, reality.
Entropy is only one special partitioning type of the cosmic process, recog-
nizable by "rational man;" negentropy, however, is experienced confluentially
only from a holistic consciousness.

51. The American university is an anachronism in relation to the self-actualizing
state of faculty and students today. The traditional university structure is an
extension of the high school and its pedagogic system suitable for children.
The university unfortunately never adopted andragogy, the educational
concept for self-actualizing adults (M. Knowles, The Adult Learner. Houston:
Gulf, 1978). In addition, the university administration is modeled after the
centralized hierarchy of the church and the military: on top the cardinals
and generals, below the sheep and the soldiers. There is no equal information-
power flow in the non-participatory pyramidal hierarchy. This is the real
tragedy of the university, not economics. But changes have taken place: the
"nontraditional universities" are already demonstrating the future toward a
more individualized and pluralistic decentralization of learning. Peter F.
Drucker, the management economist, stated in a recent article appearing
in the Wall Street Journal: "Demand for education is going up, not down.
What is going down, and fairly fast, is demand for traditional schools."

52. Once a person "manipulates" time, there is actually no difference in de-
signing a chair from idea through drawing and building it out of wood, and
the instant ideation plus actualization of a chair in one's imaginary mind.
People under hypnosis constitute and act in such "imaginary" worlds; or,
one might think of advanced physics, where new realities are constituted
without any trace of materiality. The creative process, in both the "imaginary"
and the "actualized" worlds, is the same, only the one is immediate and the
other mediate at different levels of existence. Living in "voluntary simplicity,"
for example, is more than just a "lifestyle." It is a conscious manifestation
toward a dematerialized "imaginary" existence.

A "primitive mind," in an affluent society, needs more consumer goods than
does a self-actualized person. As more material goods are acquired, less
time can be spent per gadget to use it. "In other words, economic growth
entails a general increase in the scarcity of time." (S.B. Under, The Harried
Leisure Class. Columbia Press, 1970). Here, again, we recognize a "dissipa-
tive structure" (Prigogine, 35) which either leads a person (or society) to a
neurotic breakdown, or to a creative realization of the materialistic trap,
and, thus, to a transformative stage beyond goods and sidereal time. An
anthology on "the art of voluntary poverty" can be found in: Goldian
Vanden Broeck, Less is More, (New York: Harper-Colophon, 1978).

53. Chaos is a state of potentiality, thus awareness of potential alternatives can
be blocked or enhanced by physical designs. Jantsch (20) sees the levels of
awareness as evolving from a "rational separation between subject and

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object," to a "mythological feedback relation" between subject and object,
followed by an "evolutionary union" of subject and object. The designer of
the physical environment can observe these evolutionary phases of the
subject-object relationship in that individuals, and social groups, initially
seem to "identify with things," followed by "identification with personality,"
and finally actualizing an "identification with consciousness." In other
words, the physical object "disappears" for the self-actualized and trans-
personalizing user; designs become increasingly "invisible' as physical facili-
ties in a dominant network of metaphysical relationships. At present, most
consumers identify themselves still with things (goods). Slater observed,
thus, that "Our psychic excretions . . . show an annoying tendency to
become part of our real environment, so that we are forced to consume our
own psychic wastes in physical form." (Philip Slater, Earthwalk. New York:
Doubleday, 1974).

54. The acquisition of knowledge, through both traditional research modes
the reductionistic and phenomenological ends at the level of the "union
of object and subject." An experiential "analysis," however, might be possible
through an aesthetic interpretation of interference patterns (interpene-
tration of wavefronts as in holography) similar as if we are getting "good
vibrations" from a person or an environmental situation. Such researchers,
however, will only be "successful" if they abandon Gurus and belief systems,
and become truly "it" (Carl G. Jung, Man and his Symbols. New York:
Doubleday, 1964). At this point, the researcher must accept that reality
operates at different levels of existence (or consciousness), and that the
materialistic level (the domain of traditional scientific concern) is the
"lowest" level which follows local thermodynamic laws. It might be wise, in
view of impressive paranormal signs, to study the elaborate models of the
seven reality levels as postulated by mystics (A. E. Powell, The Etheric
Double. London: Theosophical Publishing House, 1969).

55. In addition to interference communications between man and machine,
there is also growing evidence (48) that the human mind (high frequency)
can influence matter (low atomic frequencies). High Technology (electronic
computers) seem especially vulnerable to the mind because of their linear
digital composition. Interference-shielding of machines from human thought
(mind) is probably not possible (shielding experiments in telepathy failed)
because at frequencies beyond the speed of light space is non-existent, that
is: "mind" is not "transmitted." It exists conductively and "hologramic"
everywhere. Any attempt to find such media as "waves" or "particles" in
telepathy, for example, will not succeed, because the key seems to lay in
an "attunement relationship" of "frequency patterns."

56. That the essence of time is "receptivity" can be demonstrated through holo-
graphy. A moving object, during recording, does not appear blurred, as in
normal photography, but shows less image brightness; that is, the higher
the frequency of the photographed object (from a stone to hot air) the
darker (invisible) the image. (J. Benthall, Science and Technology in Art
Today. Praeger, 1972).

57. All nations around the world are still looking for their "enemies" somewhere
outside their physical boundaries (and build madly unproductive war machines).
Simultaneously, the majority of people entertain themselves with illusory
"star wars," and mass-prayers for a savior descending out of the heavens to
rescue them from their stupidities. How much "chaotic crisis" is needed

91

until a "critical mass" of people recognize finally that "there is nothing out
there," neither to attack nor to expect help from. We are the world, our con-
sciousness is the world, and if we do not change, nothing will. The "new
age," it seems, will not have its ideas brought by Gurus, Kings, Presidents,
or any other professing leader such as we know today. The future will have
to be carried entirely my Man himself, responsible for his own existence.

58. Solar energy technologies are the "wisest and most economic energy options"
as reported by the Solar Lobby (Washington, D.C.). The human scale in
solar energy is very obvious: Megastructures in outer space, which collect
sunlight and beam it down to earth, makes people dependent on whoever
owns and operates such solar industries (the same is true for big solar
energy structures on earth). As it is with the nuclear industry, big solar in-
dustries are antidemocratic because the individual person and the family
can be easily manipulated by it. Therefore, solar energy at the democratic
human scale must find solutions for the individual house or for small
clusters of dwellings. (In fact, renewable resources already provide more
energy than does nuclear power). Present governments of different political
belief systems, however, do not support "individualizing" small solar energy
projects, because of fear of losing control over people. Political solar energy
issues are similar to organized religion: imagine what would happen if every
person had a "direct line" to the gods!

59. In the traditional ethic view on technical artifacts, the basic qualifying
question was: Does it sell and make profit? The new, "negentropic," ethic
asks, however, on a hierarchical evaluation scale:

1. The humane level. Does the object enhance the self-actualization and
transpersonal social needs? (Quality of life, ecology, social responsibil-
ity, environmental symbolic aesthetics, ecotechnologies).

2. The object level Are the anthropometrics correct as related to operational
aesthetics? (Object language, accident safety, performance flexibility).

3. The production level. Does the object adhere to human technical and
production aspects? (Appropriate commercial profit, labor satisfaction).

The total evaluation of an object by the humanistic designer starts at the
humane level. If an object does not qualify at one successive level, there is
no reason to discuss or justify the next lower level(s).

60. "In some sense all knowledge is ultimately subjective, since the root of all
experience is consciousness," said Harman (in reference 48). Modern epis-
temology is thus confronted with the realization that the two forms of
knowing (scientific facts "about" things and the phenomenological "identi-
fication" with things) must, dialectically, lead to a form of synthesis. However,
epistemology here runs into a fundamental problem: Since a theory, which
investigates the nature of knowledge, must by necessity use a metalanguage,
it must operate at a higher level of consciousness than the level of knowledge
it describes. The "synthesis" of the two modes of knowledge ("rational"
and "intuitive") seem to lay beyond any absolute semiotic models and meta-
phors of reality. Thus, epistemology must ready itself for a paradigm shift.
"Reality is only a description, and if there are other realities, there must be
other descriptions," said Watson, the biologist (Lyall Watson, The Romeo
Error. New York: Dell Books, 1974). I suspect that the impossible scientific
description of (as yet) paranormal phenomena is not so much a limitation of
the present scientific method itself, but rather a fixation on present procedures
and attitudes by researchers.

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