Larding the Lean Earth: Soil and Society in Nineteenth-Century America

FOR MY PARENTS

Table of Contents

Title Page

PROLOGUE: LITCHFIELD

One

FORMING THE FURROW SLICE

AN ETHIC OF PERMANENCE

LAYING WASTE

PANIC

DUNGHILL DOCTRINES

Two

ISLAND STATES

ANOTHER WORLD

HINTS TO EMIGRANTS

FLEECE AND BOUNTIES

OLDFIELD

OUR MOST FATAL LOSS

A MOUTH FULL OF ASHES

CONCLUSION

Three

TOWARD CONSERVATION

ROBINSON’S PRAIRIE

STRIVING AFTER HARMONY

EPILOGUE: FREDERICKSBURG

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ALSO BY STEVEN STOLL

NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

INDEX

Copyright Page

PROLOGUE: LITCHFIELD

I have no rubber boots. As we stand in the commuter parking lot at the intersection of Route 8 and Route 118 in Litchfield County, Richard Meinert regards my shoes. Meinert is an expert in animal manure at the University of Connecticut’s Cooperative Extension Service, employed to advise farmers on matters of soil fertility and waste disposal, but his only concern at this moment is my getting soaked to the socks in filth. We take off for the center of town in his truck, talking phosphorus and sandy loams. Phosphorus is one of the nutrient elements essential for plant growth, and when farmers run out of it they buy it from quarries in Florida. After corn rich in Florida phosphorus rises on the Illinois prairie, it is sold to New England dairy farmers, who feed it to their Holsteins. The cows void what they can’t use. Now at least three times displaced, the phosphorus is discharged into the watershed of the Connecticut River Valley, where it leaches through grainy tilth to foul streams and groundwater. There are all sorts of overlapping cycles linking agriculture to the rest of nature, not all of them beneficial. Soil fertility now depends on far-flung networks and can be implicated in the debasement of ecological systems, but this was not always so. The renewal of nutrient elements once took place within individual farms, conducted through an elegant orchestration of soils, plants, and animals.

We are driving through northwestern Connecticut, a kind of basin and range in which timothy meadow is punctuated by forested basaltic rock ridges. This is a working countryside, with the striking presence of a place more distant than a mere forty miles from Hartford. Hundreds of millions of urban and suburban consumers on the other end of the farm economy have no idea that without people like Richard Meinert the technological food chain that keeps them alive would disintegrate, and he is always reminded of it. I’ve listened to parents talk to their kids at fairs … and tell them, ‘We don’t eat those cows, we eat the cows that come from the grocery store.’ Who better than a manure expert to measure the gulf of incomprehension between shopping cart and pasture? Kids today, he said, they think that chocolate milk comes from brown cows. I’ve been feeling a little out of touch myself. Months of reading and writing about the ecological ideas implicit in old American husbandry have left me without a tactile sense of the world I want to depict. I have been consulting with Richard Meinert on and off for a number of months about how farmers and planters just after the American Revolution might have gone about the more earthy tasks they almost never wrote about. To make sense of what I only knew from documents, I asked for a ground check, and the good-natured expert agreed to take me along on two farm visits.

We turn off the two-lane highway and onto the gravel drive of Michael Keilty’s farm. The proprietor is there to greet us and immediately shows us a shed with dried medicinal plants and herbs for sale. We are all testing for rapport, and although he doesn’t say so, Keilty clearly wants to know what I have come so far to see. I thank him for the lesson in botany and ask to see the barn. Keilty has a salt-and-pepper beard, and he’s comfortable and easy in wire rims that make him look professorial. He was born in this county, not ten miles from where his grandparents and great-grandparents once farmed. He left home to take degrees in agriculture and wildlife management and to teach for a few years. Then he came back to plow it all in. Everything old and valuable has a provenance, and the region including these fifty-five acres came under European control when King George III granted it to the Episcopal Church in 1747. It came into Keilty’s hands overgrown and weedy with invasive species. Clearing it, planting it, making it pay have been his work for twenty-five years.

Looking straight through the barn, I see meadow in the foreground and into the distance. Between the daylight all around and the dim of old milking stalls stands an enclosure with about fifty sheep. They rump and bump and step over each other as we approach to take a closer look. The pen consists of straw and dung in a layer about eight inches deep. The animals wallow here for as long as six months before Keilty cleans it out. Microorganisms take up the volatile urea, turning it into an available form of nitrogen so that the dung becomes a kind of slow-release capsule when it reaches the soil, and they give off enough heat to warm the barn in winter. The compost is then food for vegetable beds, forage crops, and the meadow, which Keilty seeds every year in timothy and other grasses. Seven cows camp in the open air next to a hay feeder, which Keilty moves every few weeks to spread the dung. Thirteen acres of meadow will not be grazed until the sod thickens and the timothy forms heads of soft seed. The rye in long beds near the house serves a different purpose. It holds nutrients safe from wind and water until it is turned under, when its nutrients will return to the ground in preparation for vegetables. The beds never stay in the same place for long but revert to other uses every few years. Keilty’s methods are not complicated. They are not new. They are not easy to practice on farms larger than about two hundred cultivated acres, and for that reason they are not very popular today among American farmers. What makes them important is that they complete a cycle.

Food production that pays its debt to soil is not simply a matter of injecting inputs at one end and harvesting at the other. It requires a farmer to usher nutrients through the seasons and weave them through plants, digestive systems, and soils. It requires the constant addition of organic matter. The way in which Keilty shifts the location of his beds and meadows, treating them as temporary uses within a larger system, one that never needs fresh land, would have been instantly recognizable to a small number of American farmers in the 1820s.

Climbing over a fence rail on our way back to the house, I trip over a pack of dogs that have urged us on to the meadow and back. One of my shoes (a respectable utility oxford with a Vibram sole) goes flying off into the turf, and I stumble as the dogs bound for the house and leave me hobbled. We all laugh at me as I return my damp foot to my pitiable, dung-covered shoe. I can’t help stepping on lots of black sheep clods all the rest of the way. The essence of what I call restorative husbandry is giving me a little trouble, and I have lost some of the desire to embrace my subject, but my visit has somehow inspired Keilty. My grandmother referred to manure as like having diamonds. The more manure you had, the richer crops you could grow; the more crops you could grow, the more livestock you could have. Think of that! An upward spiral in affluence and stability from a long-labored soil, land restored and not degraded by unceasing food production, simple practices promising sustainability—these we do not ordinarily associate with the environmental history of North America.

That story is all about greed and waste. Europeans arrived tens of thousands of years after the ancestors of the American Indians and went about dividing land, cutting trees, damming rivers, shooting buffalo, ripping up mountains for minerals, killing off whales, and skimming fertility over and over again in every new place. The free-for-all continued until a few people warned that game animals and timber supplies would not recover without human intervention. The United States put these fears into public policy by nationalizing millions of acres, mostly in the West, in order to regulate the private use of resources, and that became conservation. Yet this is only one thread of a richer story, and it has nothing to say about Michael Keilty’s grandparents. Animal manure anchored a nutrient cycle with the potential to create a steady state between taking away and putting back. Not only that: when farmers in the past husbanded soils in addition to plants and animals, they installed a system that never needed to be fed with fresh land. In short, these practices conserved not only fertility at the farmstead but also a greater landscape of forests and lowlands; and by allowing families to stay rather than migrate overland, they offered stability to rural communities. Historians have recently begun to tell a more complicated story of conservation, with attention, for example, to the resistance of people living in places where the government imposed boundaries and regulations that had never existed before, but farmers are often not included in these stories.

The improvement of agriculture represented an important event not only in the history of North America but in the history of civilization. Following a three- or four-thousand-year period of domestication, which took place in locations throughout the world beginning ten thousand years ago, little changed in the ways people kept their animals and tended their crops until the sixteenth century. A number of medieval inventions, like the horse collar and the three-field system of rotation, certainly qualify as notable, but the methods that finally reached their highest expression in England in the 1750s—which I explain in great detail in their place—amounted to an infusion of intellectual energy unlike any other since domestication itself. This book makes shooting glances back—way back—to the first Neolithic practices, because I see the changes that emerged in Britain and the United States as consequential in a longer history. Placed next to the long view, the short period between the War of 1812 and the California Gold Rush may not seem like much to get excited about. It was just a moment, but one worth our understanding, for in the moment before the Far West became part of the United States and before railroads and full-scale urban industrialism took off, a group of farmers imagined a process of production that also brought about the reproduction of their land. In 1820s America it still seemed possible to contain the bad tendencies of consumption within a delicate system of return, powered by the sun and managed by cultivators who saw soil as the totality of matter passing through their hands.

Some readers might regard the 1820s as distant enough to be ancient, but at least one concern from that time has recently become central to the concerns of our own. The most perplexing environmental problems can no longer be blamed on reckless corporations dumping their refuse into rivers or cutting forests outside the law. Instead, they arise from the sum of individual decisions about consumption and disposal, which cannot be monitored as easily as the pollutants leaving a factory smokestack, resulting in astonishing changes to the Earth. When it comes to the external consequences of how we live day to day, many people in developed countries refuse to draw a line between liberty and responsibility. It may be our liberty to create solid waste for landfills or to load carbon into the atmosphere by driving long distances, but when does it become our responsibility to act differently whenever possible? The story of agriculture early in the nineteenth century is not about environmentalism, a twentieth-century political term if ever there was one, but it is about consumption and its consequences at a time when individuals could not and would not be held accountable for their abuse of land. The farmers I highlight recognized limits where others did not. With the exception of American Indians, who did some of the same but differently, no one in American history preceded them in these ideas.

If I have a single point to make with this book, it is that farming matters. It is the central biological and ecological relationship in any settled society and the most profound way that humans have changed the world over the last ten thousand years. Farming defines a specific landscape, the middle landscape—that place somewhere between wilderness and city where settled societies produce all of their food. Farms are where people engage in aggressive manipulations of plants and animals and also where they learn the limits of what they can take from nature. Farming occupied the vast majority of Americans in the nineteenth century, tied up most of the capital, and created the most essential commodities. The environmental history of North America is unintelligible without agriculture because husbandry embodied the force of settlement, created cultural landscapes, sustained the entire population, and produced commodities for trade and manufacturing. Environmental change did not cease after land had been cleared and farmed for a generation. Deforestation, erosion, the destruction of habitat—farmers caused them all. Historians have tended to overlook the mucky detail of this story for the simple reason that they have not known how to read it. They have slighted the dirt under the fingernails of rural life even though practice and process were fundamental to writing about the countryside during the early nineteenth century.

I have been digging in the mucky detail. I want the reader to see cultivation as a crucial force in the environment and farmers as the most important conservationist thinkers in the United States before the 1850s. I do not write about a single state or region, nor do I dwell on any specific piece of landscape for very long. I emphasize Pennsylvania and South Carolina because those two states form a contrast and allow comparison between farmstead and plantation. My working assumption is that the ways in which people derive their livelihood open a view to larger trends in politics, economy, society. What involves me most is a short span of years when the cycling of nutrients through soils, animals, and crops became synonymous with progress. Contained in the smells and chemical reactions of the barnyard is an entire history of the American environment told from ground level. Improvement blended ecology with ideology, practice with politics, nature with the future of the Republic.

Meinert and I left Michael Keilty in his broad-beamed house after exchanging handshakes and e-mail addresses. Later we visited a modern dairy operation with cement floors and an enclosed milking parlor for hundreds of cows, where I saw a pool half an acre large filled with liquid effluent. The smell hit me like a wave of heat. Food production is fraught with many more messy questions than millions of consumers care to consider. Strangely, what comes out of the other end of a cow opens a dynamic view to the environment.

This book is written in three long chapters, each divided into sections of varying lengths. Chapter One considers the idea of improvement and its context in the political economy of the early Republic. Chapter Two visits the problem of restoration and reform in two states from the 1820s to the 1840s. My intense focus on only a few farmers and planters allows me to write larger regional stories around them, based on an array of printed sources. The argument concludes in Chapter Three with the legacies of rural reform. Landscape gardening, irrigated settlement in the Far West, and the rush of mechanical and chemical innovation that evolved into industrial agriculture link back to the farmers of the 1820s. Most significant of all, improvement fed a certain current that became conservation, signified by the life and work of the scholar and statesman George Perkins Marsh. Whereas most books about conservation begin with Marsh and his seminal Man and Nature; or, Physical Geography as Modified by Human Action (1864), this one concludes with him as the product of a prior movement. Yet these chapters do not offer a perfect explanation for the demise of improvement. The energy that fed it was conserved, but it can never be recaptured in its earlier form.

One

Let us boldly face the fact. Our country is nearly ruined.

—John Taylor (1819)

The times are changed; the face of the country is changed; the quality of the soil has changed; and if we will live as well, and become as rich and respectable as our fathers, we must cultivate their virtues; but abandon their system of farming.

—The Farmer’s Manual (1819)

The changes, which these causes have wrought in the physical geography of Vermont, within a single generation, are too striking to have escaped the attention of any observing person, and every middle-aged man who revisits his birth-place after a few years absence, looks upon another landscape than that which formed the theatre of his youthful toils and pleasures.

—George Perkins Marsh (1847)

FORMING THE FURROW SLICE

Agriculture is an act intimate with the rest of nature. Like the apparent separateness of species in an ecosystem, the boundaries of any farm belie a deeper connectedness. Agroecology is akin to the study of similar triangles, in which the smaller figure shares the proportions of the larger. Take water’s path through the biosphere. Small-scale transpiration from roots to leaves involves the entire hydrology of a region, the shape and altitude of its watersheds, the granulation and retention of its soils, and, finally, its climate. Porous borders between human-managed and wild nature appear at every turn. Farms cut out of forests retain all sorts of buried seeds waiting for fire or drought before they can germinate. Deer like to graze the young shoots at edges and corners between clearings and canopies. With all of these relationships unfolding at the same time, where should we stand for a view of cultivation as a subset of the natural relationships in any environment? The most vital place lies between what farmers could control and what they could not, between plants and animals on the one hand and geology and climate on the other. Soil.

As the first and most immovable resource of agriculture, soil was the country. Families carried their corn and hogs long distances, but soil was what they found where they set down and sometimes what they confronted. They might take from it or add to it by treating its fertile nutrients as a rotating fund, but they could change its essential characteristics—emerging from moisture, elevation, and the entire biota—only within tight margins. As a subject for interpretation, soil is rich in material. It formed the living tissue between economy and ecology, the plane that unified food production with events in the greater environment. Early in the nineteenth century, soil became the focal point for a conception of nature as strictly limited.

The only fertile soil is topsoil, a layer of black loam just two feet deep where all cultivation takes place. All the plants known to dry land grow in topsoil, so it creates most of our food and oxygen. It is the flash point for everything on Earth and unifies, in one body, the three great spheres of life—the gases of the atmosphere, the minerals of the lithosphere, and the organisms of the biosphere. Topsoil is ever being renewed. Pause at any road cut to observe a narrative of biochemical reactions and constant weathering. At your feet are deep deposits of parent rock that blend into higher levels made up of granular minerals, including silicate clays, iron and aluminum oxides, gypsum, or calcium. This makes up subsoil. Just above, in a stratum black in color, soft to the touch, and dense with life, is topsoil. Roots braid through it, and worms and insects tunnel around in it, making it spacious and pliable. Microorganisms consume its dead plants and animals, break them down to basic nutrients, and in this way turn tissue back into plant food. A single gram of it might contain billions of bacteria, a single square foot might host a multitude of bugs and fungi. Topsoil holds most of the available water in any ecosystem. Without this reservoir, moisture finds the nearest watercourse; land dries out; climate changes. It is a filter and a container, a mass of integrated micro and macro matter, and a living substance that cannot be understood by reduction. Its final form contains so many members and symbiotic relationships that it constitutes, in the words of the soil scientist Nyle Brady, the genesis of a natural body distinct from the parent materials from which the body was formed.¹ Soil is the tablecloth under the banquet of civilization: no matter what people build on it, when it moves all the food and finery go crashing. It is the skin of the Earth and is so completely associated with cultivation that it takes a name descriptive of the very act of opening land: the furrow slice.

Farmers gave it names that reflected their work in it, part of a nearly forgotten language of husbandry. There is no better word than tilth to illustrate agriculture as a soil practice. In its earliest, Old English form, with a first recorded usage dated to 1023, tilth referred to any labor applied to land for subsistence. Since work indicates the thing being worked upon, tilth soon described farmland under cultivation and the condition of that land. Worked land was land in tilth, or simply tilth. Even more graphically, tilth described the feel of a prepared surface, the depth of it over the top of a boot, the way it fell away from the leading edge—the crumb. Fragrant and deep, with the consistency of butter or stiff dough, tilth defies description as dirt. Why all this attention? Because land includes so much out of human control—the bedrock, the blue sky—and tilth names the one part of land most directly a farmer’s burden and responsibility.

Tilth implies the plow, maker of the slice. The plow is an implement used to open the ground by turning it over to form long trenches called furrows. It is a frame with a blade or stick that cuts while being pushed or pulled. There seems to be no recorded reference to the plow in English before 1100, but soon thereafter it began to leave its imprint. It has been sulh and ploh and ar, as in arable. Its spelling could not be pinned down before the sixteenth century, with some writing it pleuche or plwch or pliff. Plough or plow has been in use only since about 1700. It can be combined with a hundred words for various meanings, all related to clay and clod: plough-feast, -harness, -mark, -rein, -servant, -team, -wheal, -woman. In some regions of England plough-boys collected plough-penny on Plough-Monday, when a tenant was bound to plough for his lord. Like tilth, land took the name of the action upon it, as in they stepped out of the yard and walked through the fresh plow. The plow is at once the symbol of domestication and the world’s most feared ecological wrecking ball. It unearths micro environments, destroys nests and burrows, throws open moisture. Whether they accept the charge or not, plow-people become the caretakers of soils. They become the roots and the sod and sometimes even the rain. They become the holders of the fertile layer not only because they depend on it but because they can destroy it. Here is a contract with nature that has not always been honored: rip the earth but be there to stop the bleeding.

If agriculture is a controlled disturbance, then churned-up ground is its worst upheaval, carrying the constant threat of fertility lost to crops and the weather. When they took the trees and broke the ground on a steep slope, when they cut furrows in a wet country or in a dry and windy one, farmers brought on a dreaded reaction. Erosion is the ground giving way, and since that ground feeds counties, countries, and continents, erosion suggests a squandered future, a foolish settlement. Tillage makes soil vulnerable to a rate of weathering by wind and water thousands of times faster than the processes that create soil. Erosion takes the ground in two general ways: gullies and sheets. In the first process, water removes soil by creating small channels or rills that become larger gullies as they widen and deepen geometrically until they consume vast areas. With vegetation removed and the surface broken on a slope of greater than five or ten degrees, rain can bring down a hillside within a few years. Even the raindrops themselves do damage. They strike exposed dirt, loosen it, and destroy its delicate granulation. The smaller particles are then easily transported by running water. Badlands result, with pedestal-like formations and no surface for cultivation whatsoever. In the second process, wind and water sweep and skim the surface for years. Fertility falls, crops are flooded or blown away, or their roots are exposed, or they are covered with dust. Barren expanses result, with subsoil laid open.

One Vermont farmer reported the case of the Tinmouth plains, apparently a region of loose soil over hardpan. A rich muck ran away down the watercourse within a generation, silt for harbors, leaving him at a loss:

Twenty-five years ago, I ploughed fields on the Tinmouth plains, which had then a covering of six inches or more of this muck, and they had then been cropped some ten or twelve years; these fields have now not one particle of muck or mold! What has become of it? For the first five to ten years, as I am informed, no fields produced finer crops of wheat than these; the muck has now all disappeared; nothing but the granite sand remains, hardening as we descend, till at one foot or less we get into a perfect hard-pan … . Where once the sickle paid its annual visits, it is known no longer.²

A soil with little structure, its heavy roots and covering vegetation removed, will slide away, leaving nothing but naked rock.

Exhaustion is another kind of erosion. Although dirt might not fall off the farm, its nutrients can be removed by plants until nothing but poverty grass will grow. As the New York farmer and editor Jesse Buel reminded his readers, Every crop taken from a field diminishes its fertility, by lessening the quantity of vegetable food in the soil. Unless, therefore, something in the form of manure is returned to the field, an annual deterioration will take place until absolute barrenness ensues. The relationship between profitable yields and the balance of nutrients in soils emerged as one of the most intractable problems in American agriculture before the twentieth century, because, though farmers understood that fertility could be taken, few understood the best way to put it back and almost no one knew the chemistry behind any process. Plants use sunlight to photosynthesize sugars from carbon dioxide and water, and they also synthesize amino acids and vitamins from inorganic elements—especially nitrogen, phosphorus, and calcium—taken up from soil.³ Domesticated animals provided an escape from this one-way alley leading to depletion because their dung was relatively rich in nutrients and, when properly applied to fields, restored most of what crops removed. Erosion and exhaustion were not always easy to differentiate, however, and farmers rarely made any attempt to tell the difference. Lost fertility is itself a kind of erosion, and some forms of erosion are only perceptible, at first, by declining yields. Exhaustion often stood for any noticed deterioration in fertility or the volume of tilth. Cotton planters called land oldfield, a term for acres worn out and fit for pines, whether its topsoil had gone to market or down the gully.

People are anchored in place only as securely as the ground they till. Lost soil is unrecoverable, and the pace of its formation is so slow that the end product must be considered nonrenewable. One survey of a southern district in the 1930s found earthworks abandoned on land not cultivated since 1887. Under the pine crowns, on high ground, the researchers found fifty years of accumulated topsoil one-sixteenth of an inch deep. At that rate of creation the pines would see their first inch in eight hundred years, their first foot in ninety-six hundred years—the age of agriculture itself. In human time it can be lost forever. No matter the mode or the cause, where topsoil is removed or degraded agriculture is impossible and a settled people cannot persist. Subsoils are the bones of the earth. They have no living organisms and no rotting plant food, and they hold little water. All these are lost with topsoils, and people follow.⁴

When the hunters of the Fertile Crescent ceased moving from place to place in search of food beginning about ten thousand years ago, they commenced a new relationship with the earth. The domestication of einkorn wheat and two-rowed barley did not alter their commanding position as top predators in the food chain, nor did it stop them from hunting and trading over great distances in an extensive relationship with their environment. But one thing did change. When they settled, humans derived a larger portion of their food from the farmstead. Living in one place, tilling there year after year, brought the possibility of scarcity home. Whereas before the great transition they rid a region of game through overhunting and followed another herd or traveled from a place bearing roots to where they could find fish, they now wedded the source of their subsistence. But agriculture is an uncontrolled experiment. For over 99 percent of human history, people hunted and gathered their calories. Place the past three million years of primate evolution equal to a day, and the age of agriculture begins at 4.8 minutes before midnight. Settled society is so new that we are still trying to understand its basic patterns, and it is not at all clear that fixed cultivation is as well adapted or will last as long as the methods of subsistence it replaced.

Historians have often referred to the civilization of ancient Mesopotamia, embracing the floodplain of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers in Iraq, as the most foreboding example of how the first settled people jerked the ecological