In her book, Lillian Wald: A Biography, Marjorie Feld examines the crucial and complex significance of Wald’s ethnicity to her life’s work. In addition, by studying the Jewish community’s response to Wald throughout her public career from 1893 to 1933, Feld explores the changing landscape of identity politics in the first half of the twentieth century.

To mark Wald’s birthday, as well as her own, Feld writes about her study of Wald’s complex life, as well as the ways in which their lives have–and have not–become intertwined in the process of her academic study.

Below we link to Feld’s post at the blog of the Jewish Women’s Archive. Enjoy!–beth

I remember precisely where I was in the Glenn G. Bartle library—what part of the stacks, which corner, what bench—when I realized that Lillian Wald and I shared the same birthday, on March 10^th.   I was a junior at State University of New York at Binghamton, enrolled in a U.S. women’s history course that was gradually changing the direction of my life.  It was here that I discovered Lillian Wald, a Jewish woman who was deeply involved in American Progressives’ campaigns for immigrant, women’s, and civil rights, for public health and world peace.

Read the full post at Jewesses with Attitude, the blog of the Jewish Women’s Archive.

However, right there on page 10, Smith points to reading Little Women as a turning point in her development into the rocker, poet, and artist that she was to become.

“I drew comfort from my books. Oddly enough, it was Louisa May Alcott who provided me with a positive view of my female destiny. . . . [Jo March] gave me the courage of a new goal, and soon I was crafting little stories and spinning long yarns for my brother and sister. From that time on, I cherished the idea that one day I would write a book.”

We asked Barbara Sicherman, author of Well-Read Lives: How Books Inspired a Generation of American Women (UNC Press 2010), whose book takes a close look at Little Women’s Jo March and how she served as a youthful model of independence in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, for her take on Smith’s quote.

“Patti Smith. I am surprised. But I shouldn’t be. Jo March has been inspiring girls since she first appeared on the literary landscape nearly a century and a half ago. I am convinced that a major reason for the novel’s staying power is Jo’s success as a published author. She was a new kind of heroine to Alcott’s first readers who were thrilled to encounter a feisty literary tomboy and bookworm in print; some of them even kept journals in Jo’s name.

But what is truly amazing, given how much the world has changed since then, is that Jo remained the exemplar of female ambition well into the twentieth century–for writers as different as Simone de Beauvoir, Ann Petry, and Cynthia Ozick. And now Patti Smith, whose account of crafting stories and spinning yarns for her siblings after reading Alcott’s classic is in the same tradition.”

So, without Jo March and Little Women there may not have been a Patti Smith Group, one of the few rock bands with a woman leader and lyricist. And without Louisa May Alcott, Smith might not have created the body of work for which she was named a Commander of the Ordre des Arts et des Lettres by the French Ministry of Culture in 2005.

Read a full interview with Barbara Sicherman on the transformative power of reading in women’s lives see at the UNC Press website.

–Gina

There was a time when Republicans did celebrate Grant. In a speech delivered in 1900, for example, Theodore Roosevelt maintained that among the past presidents, the trio emerging as the “mightiest among the mighty [were] the three great figures of Washington, Lincoln and Grant.” Roosevelt’s deeply appreciative comments reflected the widespread respect of his generation for Grant, and for good reason.

Yes, Grant’s administration was marred by corruption and controversy. But Grant himself remained steadfast in his belief that the goals of the war — unity and freedom — should be preserved even as the country’s enthusiasm for biracial reconstruction of the South faded away.

He proudly signed off on the 15th Amendment to the Constitution in 1870, describing the law enabling black suffrage as “a measure of grander importance than any other one act of the kind from the foundation of our free government to the present day.”

Grant’s final task as president hearkened back to his first and perhaps most important achievement: to ensure a stable transition, this time in the disputed election of 1876. He succeeded, and the country reconciled for good.

Read the full text of Waugh’s full piece: Ulysses S. Grant earned his $50 bill.

In this post Ramos marks the anniversary of the Battle of the Alamo,  addresses the decisions now being made about how this history will be taught to the state’s children, and explores both how these decisions arise from Texan culture and how they help shape it. –beth

This Saturday marks the anniversary of the Battle of the Alamo in 1836, the battle that ended the 13-day siege on the fort by the Mexican Army.  The date carries added meaning this year as the Texas State Board of Education decides on the social studies standards affecting the education of the state’s public school children.  Debates over the standards have garnered national attention especially since they impact how textbooks will be written for the nation’s largest market.  It was the subject of a recent New York Times Magazine cover story.  When it comes to Texas history, few if any events carry the emotional weight of the Alamo.  The governor even invokes the memory of Texas Independence to score political points with the anti-Washington crowd.

It seems like, 174 years later, battles over the Alamo’s meaning and significance rage on, reflecting contemporary debates as much as commenting on the past.  This has been the backdrop for writing my book, Beyond the Alamo: Forging Mexican Ethnicity in San Antonio, 1821-1861.  The book reframes events during the period from the perspective of Mexican people in San Antonio.  In a sense, the book serves as a narrative intervention into the immensely strong dominant narrative that places the Battle of the Alamo at the center of the region’s history.

The Alamo story itself shines so dominates the historical landscape that any broader context for understanding these events is practically wiped out.  I often use what I call the “postcard” image of the Alamo as a metaphor to illustrate this point.  The image of the Alamo is often presented without people or surrounding buildings.  The icon has become timeless in more than one sense.  Reinserting this context meant shifting the focus away from the battle and recasting events and people.

At times this meant using new terminology to escape the baggage traditional labels have acquired over time.  Stephen F. Austin and his settlers were immigrants rather than merely colonists and the Texas Revolution is now the Texas War of Secession.  This latter example allowed me to situate the war in Texas as a civil war within Mexico.  In this light, the meaning of the war to Mexicans can be better understood.

Commemorating the Battle of the Alamo itself brings up personal memories for me and many other ethnic Mexican people in Texas.  At school we learned the “official” version of events, while at home we heard our parent’s perspective.  In school, the Texas Revolution was a war for liberty and freedom.  At home, it was about stolen Mexican territory as part of the land grab of Manifest Destiny.  Writing the history of Texas then means understanding where each of these perspectives came from, how they have been reproduced and where they have been deployed to shape power and relations in the state.

As the State Board of Education now deliberates over how this history will be written, taught and tested for children from first grade through high school, understanding these multiple perspectives becomes even more important.  Early in the process, Patricia Hardy, the board member representing Fort Worth, made clear her concerns with emphasizing Mexicans in Texas and American history.  She noted, Hispanic children “want to see some brown faces and in Texas there are a lot of people with Hispanic surnames who are a part of Texas history. So that’s easy to come by.”  She continued, “But you cannot distort Texas history. You cannot give people an elevated place in history when their place was not elevated.”  Such is the tenacity of the dominant narrative in the popular culture of Texas.  When a more expansive narrative is presented, it is dismissed as representing the present rather than reflecting the past in order to diminish it.

While the answer is not necessarily to “Forget the Alamo” as in the poignant (and ironic) closing of John Sayles’s film Lone Star.  Rather, it takes expanding its historical context to make it more meaningful to all Texans and to those outside of the state as well.

For March, we’re celebrating National Women’s History Month at the Press, and I’ll be highlighting some fantastic new books we’re publishing that focus on women in America. We have titles spanning this history of women in the United States, from before the Revolution through a book profiling women of the past decade.

Women at War

Today’s post centers on two new books from UNC Press that focus on women at war in America. Published in September, Judith Giesberg’s Army at Home: Women and the Civil War on the Northern Home Front explores how both black and white women assumed increased social and political roles in the Union while their husbands and fathers fought the Confederacy. Giesberg includes striking details about how even with the return of the soldiers, these new gender roles remained.

150 years after the stories found in Giesberg’s Army at Home, Laura Browder and Sascha Pflaeging have put together this arresting new collecting of images and oral histories of women returning from combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, titled When Janey Comes Marching Home: Portraits of Women Combat Veterans. Along with 48 of Pflaeging’s portraits, Browder presents the oral histories that run across the emotional spectrum, providing the reader with a sense of just what it means to be a woman on the front lines of both a physical war and culture war.

Check back here for more posts in March about the great coverage of women’s history we have at UNC Press. Next week, I’ll provide a post on two new titles about the role of books in the lives of American women.

–matt

I thought it would be fun to take pictures of Zina making these cookies, especially to show people who want to bake–and aren’t sure they know how–that it really is easy. All the basic moves are here in this recipe: getting that sugar and butter together, using a real vanilla bean, adding the flour, rolling, baking. Just take your butter out an hour or two before you start–you’ll want it to be at room temperature for this recipe–and then you’ll see the easy magic that you and a wooden spoon can make. (You really don’t need an electric mixer.) These shortbreads are always welcome, munched with hot coffee or cold milk, or propped alongside a ball of ice cream. Karen gives some great serving tips at the end of the recipe, below. The cornmeal gives the shortbread a little southern touch. And remember: the more butter in a cookie, the shorter it is. Thanks, Zina and Karen.

Cornmeal Vanilla Bean Shortbreads

from Sweet Stuff: Karen Barker’s American Desserts

Makes 32 2-inch cutouts or 16 wedges

Every baker has a favorite recipe for shortbread cookies, and here is mine. The addition of fresh vanilla bean and the slight crunch of cornmeal make these buttery treats irresistible. You can customize their shape, depending upon your mood and the occasion. Try cutout stars for Christmas or the Fourth of July, hearts for Valentine’s Day, or Scottish-style wedges for tea.

INGREDIENTS

16 tablespoons (8 ounces) butter, at room temperature

seeds of 1 vanilla bean

¼ teaspoon kosher salt

½ cup + 1 tablespoon sugar

1 ½ cups flour

¼ cup cornstarch

½ cup stoneground yellow cornmeal

Here’s how to get those vanilla bean seeds:

PREPARATION

1. Using a mixer with a paddle, cream the butter with the vanilla bean seeds, salt, and sugar, scraping the sides of the bowl once or twice.

2. Combine the flour,

cornstarch,

and cornmeal

and add to the creamed butter in 3 additions.

Scrape the bottom and sides of the bowl to make sure the dough is evenly mixed.

Gather the dough together, divide in half, flatten into rounds, and wrap in plastic.

Chill for one hour or up to 2 days. This dough can be frozen. Defrost overnight on the refrigerator before using.

3.  Preheat oven to 350°.

4. A. For shortbread cutouts: On a lightly floured surface, roll the dough out ¼ inch thick.

Cut the cookies into desired shapes and place them on a parchment paper–lined baking sheet. Gather the scraps and reroll one time.

B. For shortbread wedges: On a lightly floured surface, roll each piece of dough into a circle 8 inches in diameter and ¼ to ½ inch thick. Use a plate or a cake pan as a guide. Place on a parchment paper–lined baking sheet. Score each round into 8 wedges, being careful not to cut all the way through the dough. Decoratively prick the shortbread with the tines of a fork if desired.

5. Bake at 350° for about 15 to 20 minutes, until the edges just start to brown. Reduce oven to 325° and bake an additional 10 to 20 minutes. Wedges will need a longer baking time than cutouts. Rotate the baking sheet midway through the baking process–you want the shortbreads to remain fairly light in color, but you do want to make sure they’re baked through. You can always break a cookie open to test for doneness. No traces of raw dough should exist in the center. The texture of the cookies will crisp up once they are cool. You’ll want to recut the scored shortbread wedges once the cookies are baked.

Baker’s Note: You can keep an airtight box of rolled shortbreads on hand in your freezer and bake them as needed.

Serving Suggestions: These are great all on their own or as a side cookie to a scoop of purple plum rum sorbet (page 282) or bourbon molasses ice cream (page 264). I have also fashioned a stacked shortcake-like dessert by layering 2 shortbread cookie wedges with fresh strawberries or bourbon poached peaches (page 149) and whipped cream.

In the corner of our living room sits a stately 213-year-old secretary made of walnut, complete with secret compartments, cubbyholes, and four drawers massive enough to store the contents of a modern office. As a child, the desk’s craftsmanship, solidity, and age fascinated me. But it also intrigued me for another reason: it is a tangible part of our family’s history. My grandfather Josiah Rohrer, who lived in Germantown, outside of Philadelphia, would gather us around the desk and, in reverential tones, tell us about the desk’s history. My brothers and I listened carefully, stroking the old wood as he spoke. A Mennonite craftsman by the name of John Rohrer, who was Josiah’s great-grandfather, built the desk in 1797 when he was 17 and coming of age in Lancaster County, Pa. Since then the desk has been passed down from father to son, until it ended up in my hands in the late 1980s while I was living in Salisbury, N.C. I learned the desk’s history from my grandfather and from the wrinkled old piece of paper squirreled away in a cubbyhole that lists the names of the desk’s owners and the year they were born.

Lure and lore—both are part of family history’s irresistible attractions. For profound and deep-seated reasons, humans have long wanted to discover who their ancestors were and where they came from. The lure of family history can easily be seen by glancing at the burgeoning number of websites and organizations devoted to genealogy. County libraries routinely hold seminars on researching family history. Indeed, the legions of genealogists are growing by the day, spurred on by the Internet and the ease with which one can now read courthouse records and family documents online. The lore involves family stories passed down from generation to generation. When friends and colleagues learn that I am a social historian whose first book was on the Moravians, and that I am a descendant of German Mennonites, they enjoy telling me about their family histories and their efforts to uncover their family’s past. These investigations are almost always journeys of love.

As a “professional” historian, however, I have always kept my research interests separate from family ones. The usual academic considerations led to my second book—Wandering Souls: Protestant Migrations in America, 1630-1865. I wanted to understand how Protestantism influenced the movements of ordinary Americans in an earlier age.

It took a chance encounter with a genealogy site to bring me back to my roots, so to speak. In a posting that I stumbled upon one snowy night while Googling Wandering Souls, Gena Philibert Ortega notes how valuable my book could be to people researching their family histories:

I imagine, or maybe it’s me, that when we think of religious migration across the United States, we think of the Mormons. But there [were] other religious groups that migrated. This [book] can be helpful in genealogical research because it allows you to not only understand your ancestor’s religion but to understand the localities they may have ended up in.

Her insight is important. The interconnections between religion, family, and migration are crucial to my book. Indeed, although Chapter 4 deals explicitly with family and migration, the entire book could have been devoted to this theme. Religion and ethnicity defined my ancestors, and that connection most likely influenced their migratory patterns. My grandfather could get quite emotional when he talked about the persecution that Mennonites faced in early modern Europe; such persecution played a prominent role in the trans-Atlantic migration of Mennonites and many other Protestant and Catholic groups.

Religion played a major role in the wanderings of Americans within this country as well. People of faith migrated to points north, south, and west in the colonial and antebellum periods for all kinds of reasons. To escape religious persecution. To join like-minded believers. To rekindle their flagging faith in God. To become “reborn.”

Many sojourners traveled in family units. One common thread linking disparate journeys across the centuries was that family and religion often defined a migration, be it Puritan in 1635 or Inspirationist in 1860. Many times, these families were part of colorful sectarian groups with exotic customs that today fascinate their descendants and others. But not always. Religious migrants could be found among the state churches, too.

Wandering Souls covers a cross-section of these religious migrations, and does it from a variety of angles. Through a series of case studies, the book explains the many motives that spawned Protestant migrations in early America. In doing so it takes readers deep into the inner world of eight Protestant groups. Historians, it is to be hoped, will view Wandering Souls as an important contribution to migration studies and to understanding the development of the United States.

General readers, meanwhile, may find its attractions elsewhere. As the walnut desk and the posting on Gena’s Genealogy reveal, there is another side to my story. Families matter.

S. Scott Rohrer
Arlington, Virginia

But why should you care?  Well, I’d say, because what’s better on a cold, windy night than warm chili?  Isn’t that reason enough?  If you need another reason—if you’re like that—you need to know that today is also, by your great good fortune, National Chili Day.  Did we plan this?  No.  But it does seem that fortune smiles on us in this matter.

Chili Night:  Its beginnings are lost in the mists of time.  It just is.

What will be in store tonight?  There will be three, count em, three pots of chili: David’s (our Venerable Editor in Chief) famous chili, and Robbie’s (our Esteemed CFO) equally famous chili.  Not that this is a competition.  Of course it’s not, but still.  We’re just saying.  So David and Robbie cover the con carne options, and of course, we will also have veggie chili, made by Heidi (our Most Honorable Design and Production Manager).  And fixins, of course there will be all the fixins.

But enough about us.  How will you celebrate National Chili Day?  A cook-off?  A bowl and nice big hunk of cornbread at your favorite diner (and my choice would be Elmo’s chili and cornbread, if you’re near Durham or Carrboro).  Or, you can break out the pots and pans and try your hand at it.  I’d give you David’s or Robbie’s or Heidi’s recipes, but they’re not talking.

Since that’s the case, we’ve turned to our books to give you some recipes, in case you’d like to participate, along with us, and raise a glass at the same time we are, in Carrboro, NC.  Here are two recipes for you, one from Marion Brown’s Southern Cookbook, and the other from Cooking the Gullah Way Morning, Noon, & Night.

As Marion Brown writes, “Chili Con Carne, according to ‘Sally Ann’ (La Cocina Mexicana), ‘is no such basic staple of diet in Mexico as it is supposed to be—but is an Americanized dish.’”  That Marion Brown, she’s a stickler!

Cut pieces of pork, beef, veal, or mutton into chunks about ½ inch square, and fry until crisp in very hot fat with a chopped clove of garlic. When meat is browned, pour in enough sauce of chili Colorado (which you have already prepared and have in the refrigerator) to cover the meat and let it boil. Add cooked frijoles (pinto beans) if you like, and never hesitate to put in a few pieces of onion and green chili. Chili con carne is best served on hot steamed rice along with a green salad and plenty of good strong hot coffee. It is an excellent way to utilize leftover beans.

From La Cocina Mexicana, by “Sally Ann,” Food Editor, El Paso Herald-Post, El Paso, Tex.

And also from “Sally Ann,” Chili Colorado (Red Chili Sauce) is made thusly:

“The base for all red and all hot sauces used in Mexico and Mexican cookery is made as follows, and no substitute, such as chili powder or tomato will do:

“Put a pound of dried red chili peppers to soak in hot water for about an hour. Drain and clean out the veins and seeds. Put through the meat grinder with one large onion and a clove of garlic.  Strain and put in salt and pepper. Place the resultant pulps and the water in which the peppers soaked in a glass jar and keep in the refrigerator for future use. The flavor of the chili can be varied by the kinds of peppers used.  Some red chili is hot and some sweet. Most cooks prefer a chili Colorado made of half hot (picoso) and half sweet (pasillo) peppers.”

Mrs. Manuel Rodarte, from La Cocina Mexicana, by “Sally Ann,” Food Editor, El Paso Herald-Post, El Paso, Tex.

But I’d like to give you some options.  Perhaps you cannot quite handle such a definitive recipe.  Perhaps you do not abhor a tomato to the extent that “Sally Ann” does.

Here, then, is Sallie Ann Robinson’s  Carolina Chili:

When you think of eating chili, most times it’s when the weather is cool. But eating chili can be good all year round, whether you like your chili with beans or ground meat, hot or mild. As with most soups today, it is easier for us to put it all in a crock pot and be on our merry way. Here is one way that I like to cook up a big pot of chili. Some like it with beef; I like it with beer and pork.  This is a real treat.

Disyah da way fa do it.

2 pounds lean ground beef

1 pound lean ground pork

3 ½ cups onion, chopped

1 ½ heaping tablespoons garlic, minced

1/3 cup green bell pepper, chopped

1/3 cup  red bell pepper, chopped

3 tablespoons chili powder

4 ½ cups fresh tomatoes, diced

¾ cup tomato paste

1 teaspoon cumin

2 bay leaves

black pepper

2/3 teaspoon dried oregano

4 cups red kidney beans (optional)

1 ½ cups shredded cheddar cheese

In a large soup pot, brown the ground beef and pork. Add the onion, garlic, and bell peppers. Cook over medium heat until tender. Add the chili powder, tomatoes, tomato paste, cumin, bay leaves, black pepper, and oregano. Mix well and let simmer slowly for 1 ½ to 2 hours, stirring occasionally. You may add kidney beans at this time and cook for another 30  to 40 minutes. Stir in the cheese. Turn off the heat and dish up a bowlful of some belly-filling chili.

Well, I hope these ideas are helpful.  Think of us tonight, as we celebrate our chilly Chili Night.

–beth

Due out in mid-April, To Right These Wrongs tells the story of North Carolina Governor Terry Sanford and his quest to combat poverty and social inequality in the state. Along with the phenomenal writing of Korstad and Leloudis, the book will feature illustrations by celebrated photographer Billy E. Barnes.

While the North Carolina Fund was relatively short-lived, ending in 1968, it provided inspiration to those it helped, as well as to the programs that followed in its footsteps. Please go to the official To Right These Wrongs website for photos, event information, and a look at the film included with copies of the book, Change Comes Knocking: The Story of the NC Fund (winner of the Best Documentary Award at the Appalachian Film Festival, 2008).

Finally, make sure to check in again come April, when the Long Civil Rights Movement will be putting a full chapter from To Right These Wrongs online, with authors and readers alike possessing the ability to make comments, in text annotations, and provide links to relevant material for others who open the document. You too will be able to have an input on this important story and wonderful book.

In my most recent book, I had to explain: why did the doctors do it? Sometimes it is easy to answer this: all the men were black and poor, and almost all the doctors were white. Was this racism pure and simple? Or is this just scientific and governmental bureaucracy run amuck where having the power to do this just lets it go on and on?

Yes, of course, to these answers and then no.

Read Reverby’s full post here.

–ellen

And a third reason is that most people–and until recently myself included–do not know the connection between Ruggles and Douglass, or why it even matters.

Here’s the short version, necessarily missing many details: Ruggles (1810-1849) was an African American activist, writer, publisher, and hydrotherapist who secured liberty for more than six hundred former bond people, the most famous of whom was Frederick Douglass. Ruggles received Douglass–at the time, Bailey–on the docks of New York City on September 3, 1838.   Here’s the story of the days that followed their meeting, as told by Hodges in the opening pages of his book:

“Deep in distress, Bailey anxiously pondered his future. Luckily, Ruggles searched for the forlorn fugitive and took him home, where Bailey joined several other fugitives from slavery. At Ruggles’s house at 36 Lispenard Street, Bailey had long talks into the night with Ruggles about abolitionism. Ruggles advised Bailey that New York was unsafe. The fugitive from bondage indicated a desire to go to Canada, but Ruggles favored New England, where a fugitive could find work as a caulker or go seafaring.

In addition to advice on work and safety, Ruggles helped Bailey forge a new identity. To celebrate his freedom and to throw off potential slaver catchers. . . Bailey adopted the name of Frederick Johnson.”

In the following weeks, Ruggles helped reunite Johnson (formerly Bailey, and soon to be Douglass) with his fiancee, and held their wedding at his home. He moved to New Bedford, Massachusetts, and found work as a caulker, just as Ruggles suggested.  And it was in New Bedford that he chose the name Douglass, with Sir Walter Scott’s “Lady of the Lake” as inspiration.

Hodges writes also of how Douglass remembered Ruggles:

“He had learned that Ruggles was a man of action as well as of words and feeling. During the days that Ruggles sheltered Douglass, Ruggles was beaten and thrown into jail for his part in the Darg case, a highly complex slave rescue. Upon his release, Ruggles quickly resumed antislavery activism. Douglass observed that, “though watched and hemmed in on every side, [Ruggles] seemed to be more than a match for his enemies.” Ruggles was the kind of black man that Douglass wanted to emulate.”

In addition to Douglass, Ruggles mentored Sojourner Truth and William Cooper Nell in the skills of antislavery activism. As a founder of the New York Committee of Vigilance, he advocated a “practical abolitionism” that included civil disobedience and self-defense in order to preserve the rights of self-emancipated enslaved people and to protect free blacks from kidnappers who would sell them into slavery in the South.

In New York, Ruggles moved among the highest ranks of state leaders and spoke up for common black New Yorkers. His work on the Committee of Vigilance inspired many upstate New York and New England whites, who allied with him to form a network that became the Underground Railroad.  That bears repeating:  he helped form the Underground Railroad, and yet for most students of the time, his name is not recognizable.  With this book, Hodges works to change that.

– Beth

P.S.  Late breaking news!  Check out the New York Times article about the New York Historical Society event, and about Ruggles’s life.  It’s here.

Supporters of the Confederate States of America regarded themselves as the true progenitors of the republic and their secession from the Union as a return to the world of limited national government envisioned by the Founding Fathers. In his Inaugural Address of February 1861 delivered in Montgomery, Alabama, President Jefferson Davis declared: “We have assembled to usher into existence the Permanent Government of the Confederate States. Through this instrumentality, under the favor of Divine Providence, we hope to perpetuate the principles of our revolutionary fathers. . . . Therefore we are in arms to renew such sacrifices as our fathers made to the holy cause of constitutional liberty.” Thus from the southern perspective, the Union was in peril, but not from the secessionists; rather, the danger came from a big government in Washington that had subverted the original Union’s emphasis on states’ rights into a northern tyranny. Southerners sought to unseat the northern power brokers who had devised an oppressive central government that had for too long trampled on the minority South by violating its right to managing its own affairs, whether tariffs, internal improvements, or slavery. The Union, as southerners saw it, had become an overly centralized governing mechanism run by a repressive northern majority. The agreement underlying the Philadelphia compact of 1787 had been broken; secession was the only remedy.

Shortly after the Civil War erupted in April 1861, President Abraham Lincoln asserted that his central objective was to preserve the Union based on a strong federal government and created by the Founding Fathers. Secession therefore posed its most severe challenge because the South’s attempt to stand on its own would destroy that Union. “The right of revolution,” he wrote, “is never a legal right. The very term implies the breaking, and not the abiding by, organic law. At most, it is a moral right, when exercised for a morally justifiable cause.” Otherwise, revolution is “simply a wicked exercise of physical power.” In his Inaugural Address of March 1861, he declared, “I hold, that in contemplation of universal law, and of the Constitution, the Union of these States is perpetual.” No government ever included “a provision in its organic law for its own termination.” Secession was “the essence of anarchy.”

On many levels Davis and Lincoln waged a war for the very survival of the republic as each president defined the vision of the Founding Fathers. Well known were Davis’s advantages in military leadership from the beginning of the war; also well known was Lincoln’s frustrating search for a general who could rally a massive yet ineptly led war machine to victory. Lesser known were the two presidents’ struggles on an international level—Davis’s efforts to win diplomatic recognition of the Confederacy and hence the right to negotiate military and commercial treaties, and Lincoln’s attempts to ward off a foreign intervention in the war that could have led to southern alliances undermining the Union. Whereas Davis sought to maintain the status quo—a southern civilization built on slavery and dependent on the Constitution’s guarantees of property—Lincoln soon tried to construct an improved America based on ending slavery and adhering to the natural rights doctrine that underlay the Declaration of Independence. Davis considered the war a struggle for liberty, which he defined as the absence of governmental interference in state, local, and personal affairs—including the right to own slaves. In contrast, Lincoln came to regard the war as the chief means for forming a more perfect Union emanating from a new birth of freedom that fellow white northerners interpreted as the political and economic freedoms enjoyed under the Constitution but that he expanded to include the death of slavery and the Old South.

Davis had such a legalistic mind that he thought the European powers relied on international law only when it served their self-interest; Lincoln was highly pragmatic, knowing he had to convince the foreign governments that it was not in their best interest to intervene in America’s affairs. Davis appealed to Europe to acknowledge southern independence as a righteous cause and welcome the Confederacy into the community of nations; Lincoln insisted that the conflict in America was a purely domestic concern and warned that any outside interference meant war with the Union.

Both sets of arguments were morally and legally defensible and thereby right, making the two opposing leaders’ positions irreconcilable and, combined with the vendetta-like infighting that often comes in a familial contest, ensuring a massive bloodletting that would stop only when both sides were exhausted.

Excerpted from: Howard Jones, Blue and Gray Diplomacy: A History of Union and Confederate Foreign Relations (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2010), 9-11.