An Agrarian Republic: Farming, Antislavery Politics, and Nature Parks in the Civil War Era

An Agrarian Republic

CIVIL WAR AMERICA

Gary W. Gallagher, Peter S. Carmichael, Caroline E. Janney, and Aaron Sheehan-Dean, editors

This landmark series interprets broadly the history and culture of the Civil War era through the long nineteenth century and beyond. Drawing on diverse approaches and methods, the series publishes historical works that explore all aspects of the war, biographies of leading commanders, and tactical and campaign studies, along with select editions of primary sources. Together, these books shed new light on an era that remains central to our understanding of American and world history.

An Agrarian Republic

Farming, Antislavery Politics, and Nature Parks in the Civil War Era

Adam Wesley Dean

The University of North Carolina Press

Chapel Hill

© 2015 The University of North Carolina Press

All rights reserved

Set in Miller by codeMantra

Manufactured in the United States of America

The paper in this book meets the guidelines for permanence and durability of the Committee on Production Guidelines for Book Longevity of the Council on Library Resources. The University of North Carolina Press has been a member of the Green Press Initiative since 2003.

Cover illustration: Winslow Homer, The Veteran in a New Field (1865). Metropolitan Museum of Art, www.metmuseum.org.

Complete cataloging information can be obtained online at the Library of Congress catalog website.

ISBN 978-1-4696-1991-0 (pbk: alk. paper)

ISBN 978-1-4696-1992-7 (ebook)

For Joan and Gary

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1 / A Question of Slavery in the West

2 / Free Soil and the Rise of the Republican Party

3 / Land-Development Politics and the American Civil War

4 / The Creation of Yosemite and Yellowstone

5 / Seeking Peace in the South and West

CONCLUSION /

Retrenchment in the South, Allotment in the West

Notes

Bibliography

Index

Acknowledgments

I dedicated this book to Joan Waugh and Gary W. Gallagher, my two main academic mentors throughout my undergraduate career at the University of California, Los Angeles, and my graduate studies at the University of Virginia. Joan encouraged a nineteen-year-old student from Utah to start thinking and writing historically. She convinced me that it was indeed possible to have a career as an academic historian. I still remember her care in reading and editing my senior thesis, meeting with me on weekends in Westwood Village to discuss changes. Joan also drove me to the Huntington Library to meet scholars in residence—an opportunity rarely afforded undergraduates. I think her influence shines through in every word I write.

Gary took a chance on a young scholar straight out of college with big ideas and a bit of intellectual overconfidence. Slowly, I developed a truer type of wisdom: just how much I had yet to discover about nineteenth-century U.S. history and the American Civil War. It is this wisdom that I seek to convey to each and every one of my own students at Lynchburg College. Gary provided wit, careful advice, criticism, and needed encouragement over my five years at the University of Virginia. Every student who takes one of Gary’s classes, joins him on one of his famous battlefield tours, or has the privilege of working under his supervision as a Ph.D. student is truly blessed.

Even earlier, when I was an awkward teenager in Salt Lake City, Utah, high school teachers Carl Sturges, Bill Baxter, and Carolyn Hickman kindled my interest in history and challenged me to become a better writer. Thanks to their guidance, I entered college as a dedicated history major.

I would also like to thank the Jefferson Scholars Foundation at the University of Virginia. Julie Caruccio, Jimmy Wright, Doug Trout, and all the staff, past and present, at the foundation encourage a blend of scholarship, teaching, and leadership that make for a unique graduate school experience. Without the support of the foundation and donors like John L. Nau III, I could not have attended one of the best history programs in the country. Finally, I would like to especially thank Brian Balogh, Edward Ayers, and Michael Holt as meaningful professors in UVA’s history department.

Friends and family are also indispensable. This book would not be possible without the advice and support of Adam Robert Trusner. Adam and I spent countless nights at the University of Virginia range sipping bourbon and talking about the ideas that would eventually flow into the pages of this book. Anyone who has met Adam knows his unique blend of incredible intelligence, generosity, and wide-ranging historical insight. My golden retriever, Greeley, spent many days curled up at my feet while I wrote this manuscript and encouraged much needed walk breaks. Jesse, Nathan, and Linda Dean all offered support during this project. In the summer of 2014, I had the honor and pleasure of marrying Dr. Kara Eaton. Kara is a brilliant musician and educator. She helped me put the finishing touches on this book and continually reminds me of the importance of patience.

Finally, I need to thank the University of North Carolina Press and the Lynchburg College History Department. Mark Simpson-Vos introduced himself after I participated in a panel at an American Society of Environmental History meeting. Mark is now the editorial director of UNC Press. The organization is lucky to have him. I also appreciate the now-retired David Perry’s advice on the publication process and talks about fly-fishing. Lisa Brady, Aaron Sheehan-Dean, and an unnamed reviewer also deserve tremendous thanks for making this book more effective. Despite their careful attention, all facts and interpretations presented in this book are solely my responsibility.

I had the honor of joining the Lynchburg College history department as a tenure-track professor in 2012. Drs. Scott Amos, Nichole Sanders, Lindsay Michie, Brian Crim, Dorothy Potter, Clifton Potter, Michael Santos, and James Owens have created a wonderful working environment that encourages the exchange of ideas. I would also like to thank Dean Kimberly McCabe, Dean Sally Selden, and Vice President Julius Sigler for supporting faculty research and writing. Lynchburg College is truly a special place.

Introduction

In the spring of 2013, I made my first trip to Charleston, South Carolina. Despite years of living in the South, first as a history graduate student and then as a professor specializing in the Civil War era, I had never visited Charleston and perhaps its most famous landmark: Fort Sumter. Upon arrival at the fort on a rainy and humid day, the friendly National Park Service ranger gave a presentation. The first five minutes of the talk focused on the causes of the Civil War. Why, the ranger sought to explain, did South Carolinians fire on Fort Sumter on that fateful day in April 1861? First touching on the controversy over slavery in the West, the ranger concluded with a statement that many Americans have long believed. The North had an industrial economy in conflict with the agricultural people of the South, he asserted. Despite admonitions by several scholars since the 1950s, who point out that most northerners were farmers as well, such views continue to percolate among the historically interested public. Part of the reason is that though historians know that most northerners lived in rural communities in 1860, they continue to present the industrial revolution as the leitmotif for nineteenth-century America.

There is nothing inherently wrong with such a story. The United States did become the world’s preeminent industrial power. By 1900, the former Confederacy lagged far behind New England in manufacturing. Even in 1861, the eleven Confederate states had about as many manufacturing workers as the North had manufacturing facilities. The origins of these differences can also be seen in hindsight. In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, an economy of small farms and artisans gave way to a system in which farmers and producers created goods for a distant marketplace. The transportation networks critical to industrial capitalism started to dot the North prior to the Civil War. Yet, the standard narrative presented about the 1800s can prevent historians—both public and academic—from gaining a deeper understanding of how northerners lived their lives and interpreted political events in light of their occupation as farmers. Until 1920, most Americans continued to live in rural areas. Farmers produced both for themselves and urban markets. Historians should not argue that manufacturing facilities and big cities represented the North when the majority of northerners were still involved in farming and lived in rural communities.¹

Indeed, while the North had more industrial capacity than the Confederacy at the start of the war, most of its people were still small farmers. Over 14.5 million lived in rural areas with populations smaller than 2,500, while just 5 million lived in cities such as New York, Boston, and Chicago. The labor force in the North consisted of 10,533,000 people, of which 60 percent did farmwork. Small family farms predominated among the over 1,300,000 landholdings in the free states. The average farm size was 113 acres in rural New York and Pennsylvania, 125 in today’s upper Midwest, and 169 in the areas beyond the Mississippi River. While increasing land prices in the late 1850s hurt the goal of farm ownership for many northerners, most still sought small plots of land. Lands in the West seemed to provide the best opportunity, making the question of slavery’s presence in the region particularly salient.²

While both northerners and southerners were mostly farmers, they had different land-use practices. In the 1850s, in contrast to their southern neighbors, many northerners adopted the ideal of farming a small plot of land for multiple generations—a principle called agricultural improvement by contemporaries. This ideal reflected physical differences in the soil between the North and the South. As Lisa Brady points out in a recent environmental history of the Civil War, in areas loyal to the Union, nutrient-rich alfisols laid the foundation for the practice of continuous cultivation. . . . Ultisols, which have limited nutrients, are the most common soil types across much of the region that became the Confederacy, making shifting cultivation the more profitable and prevalent form of agriculture. Using soil for multiple generations seemed practical and wise in the North, while in the South, the soil encouraged farmers to abandon their fields after five to six years. Thus, while the majority of farmers in the South were likewise engaged in subsistence production, their farms appeared much different to their northern brethren.³

The central contention of this book is that the political ideology of the Republican Party, the antislavery organization that proved so wildly popular in the North during the 1850s, was fundamentally agrarian. Republican thinking on a wide range of issues depended upon an environmental understanding of social development. Similar to Thomas Jefferson, whose party served as their namesake, Republicans believed that wise land management was inseparable from the ideal society. Tilling the soil for multiple generations on small farms produced progress—or, to use a popular nineteenth-century term, civilization. Small farmers were a critical component of another idea that historians have long recognized as crucial to understanding the North during the Civil War: the Union. Republicans believed that a West settled by small farmers would strengthen the all-important American Union—a term denoting not just the nation-state but democracy itself. The converse was also true. Unlike Jefferson, the Virginia slave owner, Republicans believed that slave-based monocultures destroyed the soil. The wasteful practices on plantations encouraged constant western movement in search of new land. The reason, Republicans surmised, that the slave power sought to expand the institution in the wake of the Mexican-American War was that white southerners were running out of land to farm at home. Slave owners, in Republican thinking, also owned too much land. Big farms, or land monopolies, to use a term from the time, produced aristocrats incompatible with democratic government.⁴

Understanding the Republicans as men and women with backgrounds in small farming who linked appropriate land use to political stability and cultural progress unveils new links and commonalities between seemingly disparate historical events. At first glance, the events explored by this book appear disconnected. Chapter 2 examines the rise of antislavery sentiment in the North after the Mexican-American War. Chapter 3 investigates federal policy during the Civil War and the attitudes of common Union soldiers toward southern farming practices. The fourth chapter covers the establishment of Yosemite State Park and Yellowstone National Park. Chapter 5 explains how the Republican ideal of small landholders conserving the soil applied to both the South and West during Reconstruction. A critic might well ask what national parks have to do with Reconstruction policy or the rise of free-soil sentiment in the North. The answer is that all episodes reflect an underlying Republican belief that tilling the soil for multiple generations on small farms produced a strong nation. Using slave labor, by contrast, promoted waste, barbarism, and disunion. By necessity, this book focuses on the links between antislavery politics, Civil War policy, national parks, and Reconstruction. Specialists in each of these topics might be disappointed, but the benefit is a greater understanding of the connections among them.

Dealing with ideology as a historian is a likewise perilous undertaking. What does the term actually connote? Whose ideas are being discussed? The ideas of average people? Elites? Politicians? Men? Women? White people? Members of a racial or ethnic minority? The problems extend to evidence. Can one person belonging to any of these groups be said to speak for that group or for an entire organization such as the Republican Party? What about a region such as the North? Despite these troubling questions, ideology is a concept worth studying. In Free Soil, Free Labor, Free Men, his famous study of the Republican Party, Eric Foner provides a good defense for histories of ideas. Ideology, in Foner’s view, is a system of beliefs, values, fears, reflexes, and commitments . . . of a social group, be it a class, a party, or a section. These beliefs, fears, values, and commitments spurred action. Two other deans of nineteenth-century American history—Sean Wilentz and James McPherson—have noted the unusual level of ideological fervor of the period. Wilentz notes that during the 1860 election, Republicanism had become a virtual political religion in much of the North, spurring huge amounts of voters to the polls. McPherson argues that the majority of northerners who fought the Civil War cited ideology as the main reason for enlistment.⁵

Environment is also a tricky word. When leading class discussions on the term, I find that most of my students think of the environment as the natural world. Students often cite plants, trees, mountains, and animals, sometimes with and sometimes without human control, as constituting the environment. Yet, the environment also includes varying degrees of human-constructed landscapes—from cities without a green space in sight to public parks and gardens to the small farms that most northerners worked on in 1860. Scholars often refer to these landscapes as the built environment. People in the nineteenth-century understood their environment—both built and natural—predominantly through work. For northerners, small and tidy farms that had good soil signified the ideal landscape. Slave plantations appeared wasteful and the exhausted soil became proof of the inferiority of slave-based monocultures to free-labor northern farms. The analysis extended to the built environment. Traveling south, many northerners reported on the alleged inferiority of southern towns due to slavery. The relationship northerners had with the environment helped produce the ideology they brought to the political, social, and military conflicts of the Civil War era.⁶

Chapter 1 describes how Americans in the late 1700s to the mid-1800s connected land use with what people at the time called republicanism. Republicanism held that in order to have a small central government, citizens needed to be virtuous and orderly. The land ordinances of 1784 and 1785, as well as the Northwest Ordinance of 1787, promoted schools and communal living to encourage public virtue. While the Jeffersonian agrarian ideal and the initial critiques of slavery expansion during the Missouri Crisis influenced the Free-Soil and Republican Parties of the 1850s, there were few links between promotion of smallholder settlement and antislavery thought. Though the Northwest Ordinance contained a prohibition of slavery, many supporters of the law only opposed slavery’s restriction from the Old Northwest, where they deemed it to be environmentally inappropriate. Some of the law’s supporters had no problem with the institution expanding to the modern-day states of Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama—the so-called Old Southwest.⁷

The first chapter also investigates how, during the second-party system pitting Whigs against Democrats, ideas about proper land use became intertwined with larger questions of national development. Democrats believed in opening western settlement so that more land could become available to small farmers. Whigs wanted a vibrant internal market in the United States, advocating high tariffs to protect U.S. manufacturers and government funding to transportation projects. Desiring to build up existing U.S. towns rather than engage in further expansion, Whigs believed in restricting western settlement and recommended that farmers use land for multiple generations. Slavery was tangential to these concerns, with a few Whigs hoping that scientific agriculture and economic progress would eliminate the white South’s need for the institution. For example, popular farming expert John Lorain commented in 1825 that better soil cultivation would allow Virginians . . . with safety to themselves, their family and property, [to] set their negroes free. Only after seeing the aggressive efforts slave owners undertook in the 1840s to expand the institution did some northern Whigs and Democrats come to view slavery itself as the primary threat to small farmers and the land they worked on.⁸

Chapter 2 covers the rise of the Free-Soil and Republican Parties in the 1850s. While historians have given much scholarly attention to the ideology of the Republicans, citing their promotion of free labor and hostility toward the slave power, this chapter uncovers the agrarian nature of the Republican appeal. Such an understanding is critical given how popular the Republicans were with farmers. William Gienapp, the preeminent historian of the party in the 1850s, points out that Abraham Lincoln’s 1860 presidential majority rested very heavily on his commanding majority among farmers. . . . [H]is margin was much less pronounced among workers and other groups. The party believed that civilization and loyalty in the West could only be secured by societies of small farmers practicing scientific land management. Yeomen farmers, Republicans argued, formed the strongest attachments to the Union. The land-use practices of slaveholders served as a foil to the northern ideal. Slave plantations exhausted the soil and caused nature to wither and decay. The slave South’s low literacy rates, barbaric habits, dirty buildings, and lack of economic opportunity reflected its poor treatment of farmland. The immense landholdings produced an aristocracy threatening to the Union. Politicians warned that if permitted in the West, large slave plantations would exhaust the soil, ruining land better utilized by small farmers.⁹

This chapter should not be construed to imply that free states and slave states were destined for conflict in the 1850s. There was no inevitable clash of civilizations. White Americans had devised political compromises to deal with the slavery question while writing the Constitution and again in 1820 and 1850. Even in 1860, most Americans did not foresee a war despite the fierce presidential contest. They wrote excitedly about the gold rush in Colorado, awaited news of the completion of the first telegraph line linking California with the Eastern Seaboard, and fretted about a possible Mormon uprising in Utah. Nor is the discussion of land-use politics intended to replace slavery at the heart of sectional crisis; the Civil War was about slavery and everything it represented. Rather, I want to show how ideas about land use both influenced and were influenced by the larger debate over slavery.¹⁰

Chapter 3 deals directly with the Civil War, exploring the secession crisis in California, wartime federal policy, and the beliefs of Union soldiers. Each of these episodes, seemingly disconnected, show how Republican opposition to slavery was based, in part, on a vision of proper land use. Republican criticism of slavery’s land-use practices influenced Union support in California during 1861. According to contemporaries, California was in the process of transitioning from a rough-and-tumble frontier to a more settled agricultural society. Union loyalists argued that the state’s agricultural potential could be compromised if California sided with the South and slavery. Northern soldiers made similar arguments about the slave plantations they encountered while on military service. Farmers made up nearly half of those who served in the Union army. The size, scale, and soil-management practices of slave plantations frightened these men. Soldiers argued that the concentrated wealth represented by plantations encouraged disloyal sentiments. Influenced by antislavery writings highlighting the damaging effects of plantation agriculture on the soil, these men also commented that slavery was wasteful, destructive, and unsustainable. Some believed that slavery made the otherwise beautiful natural landscape of the South ugly and decrepit.¹¹

In Congress, Republicans made similar claims that slavery destroyed the land. Only free people could build ideal farming communities. When southern Democrats left for secession, Republicans saw a golden opportunity to promote small farms and agricultural permanence in the West. Ignorant of environmental realities in the region making small farms difficult to maintain, they insisted that the West could become civilized and loyal if settled by yeomen. Congress passed the Homestead Act, the Pacific Railroad Act, and the Land Grant College Act. It also created the U.S. Department of Agriculture (USDA). The Homestead Act promised a free farm for any family willing to work hard and move west. Farmers could learn the most advanced techniques in agricultural colleges and through USDA publications, practicing new techniques on their homesteads. With education, a small farmer could plant multiple years of crops without exhausting the soil, enabling his or her family to become members of a growing community. A transcontinental railroad would supposedly connect white westerners with the rest of the United States, enabling them to sell their crops on the international market. One of the most surprising discoveries of my research for this chapter concerns Radical opposition to slavery prior to the Emancipation Proclamation. Viewing small farmers as a natural barrier to the extension of slavery, many Republicans pushed for these four laws as a means to keep slavery from moving westward. They feared that the conflict would end with slavery largely intact.¹²

Chapter 4 investigates the creation of Yosemite State Park in 1864 and Yellowstone National Park in 1872. The story of these parks has often been told in the realm of environmental history, with scholars presenting their early history as a parable about the virtues of preservation overcoming human tendencies toward use and exploitation. Yet, both parks had their origins as pieces of legislation crafted by the Republican Party and debated within that party. Park backers believed that experiencing natural beauty would civilize the average person and improve his or her intellectual abilities. Supporters also argued that America should follow its republican principles by making scenes of natural beauty accessible to everyone, not just the wealthy. Finally, they claimed that the government’s ability to establish parks in the midst of a bloody civil war showed the strength of the Union.¹³

The early opposition to the parks, championed by Radical Republican George W. Julian of Indiana, argued that the land should instead be reserved for yeoman farmers. No longer was the debate over land use and the corresponding social structure a fight between slavery and free labor. It was also about contrasting notions of aesthetics, natural beauty, and property rights. For die-hard supporters of small landowners, farmers enhanced areas of stunning beauty by turning them into pastoral paradises. Julian explained, I think it might have been far wiser to carve it [Yosemite] up into small homesteads, occupied by happy families, decorated by orchards, gardens, and meadows, with a neat little post-town in their midst, and churches and school-house crowning all. The Indianan favored what scholar Leo Marx calls the middle landscape, a pastoral environment where nature and settlement met. Early environmental controversies were not about preservation versus destruction. Instead, they were connected to the main political currents of the time.¹⁴

At the end of the Civil War, Republicans believed that improving the soil through hard work and scientific knowledge was the key to a strong nation. Being the most loyal segment of society, small landholders practicing agricultural permanence could help restore the Union. Thus, the fifth and final chapter explains how Republicans applied their ideas connecting land use with social structure to both the South and the West during Reconstruction. Republicans called for an end to the treaty system characterizing Indian and United States relations. They argued that forcing Indians to become small farmers would open up more land for whites and help civilize recalcitrant tribes. Likewise, some Republicans believed that the big plantations of the South needed to be divided and redistributed to former slaves and white unionists so that a yeomen class could form in the South. The Southern Homestead Act of 1866 used 1862 legislation pertaining to the American West as a model to grant small plots of public land to Unionist whites and freedmen in the former Confederacy. Additionally, Republicans insisted that education for freedmen and Indians would civilize both groups and encourage better land-use practices. Both the government and self-proclaimed philanthropic organizations established schools in the South and West.

Similar to the scholarly accounts of the early history of Yosemite and Yellowstone, there has been little interest in connecting the events of southern Reconstruction with one of the other big stories of the time period: the sordid treatment of Native Americans by the U.S. government. Historian Jonathan Earle comments: It is worth pondering how different the history of the postwar United States might have been had free-soil programs like free homestead been extended to ex-slaves and Indians. There is no need for pondering. The Republican Party did apply free-soil principles to the West and the South during Reconstruction. The civilizing policies intended to force tribes to adopt farming shared the exact same ideological foundations as the southern land-redistribution and education schemes. Historians generally treat land redistribution in the South as one of Reconstruction’s lost moments, while being sharply critical of federal allotment policies in the nineteenth century. My contention is that the same ideology underpinned both efforts. Republicans tried to change who would access, organize, and gain profit from land.¹⁵

Several individuals appear throughout the book because they show how ideas about the relationship between land use and social structure shaped mid-nineteenth-century American politics. George W. Julian, an understudied antislavery politician from Indiana, and Frederick Law Olmsted, the famous landscape architect, are the most prominent. Olmsted was a gentleman farmer in the late 1840s and early 1850s who worked to avoid soil exhaustion and improve small farm production through crop diversification, the application of fertilizers, and experimentation. He later became a fierce critic of slavery, arguing that the institution ruined valuable farmland. Julian first became involved in politics as a Free-Soil Party congressman from a rural, Quaker-dominated region of Indiana. Worried that slavery’s agricultural practices would destroy western lands, leaving them useless for his agricultural constituents, Julian wanted to restrict the institution from the West and grant homesteads to landless northerners. While Olmsted and Julian came from the same intellectual milieu, the men came to blows over the establishment of nature parks. For Julian, Yosemite and Yellowstone threatened his vision of an agrarian west filled with small yeoman farmers and free of slavery. For Olmsted, nature parks helped civilize western farmers by exposing them to natural beauty. During Reconstruction, Olmsted moved back to New York City to finish Central Park. Julian became an influential Radical, arguing for land redistribution and granting political rights to freedmen.¹⁶

Samuel C. Pomeroy and Cornelius C. Cole also feature prominently in these chapters. Pomeroy, a somewhat corrupt Republican politician from Kansas, fought during the 1850s to keep the territory free from slavery. Later, he became a proponent of Radical Reconstruction and Yosemite and Yellowstone Parks. Cole helped establish the Republican Party in California and became an opponent of Yosemite and Yellowstone. Cole’s writings show the importance of ideas linking westerners to the Union, proper land use, and civilization. The views of ordinary people are also included. Regimental histories, diaries, and letters of rural-born Civil War soldiers conveyed views on land use and slavery that were similar to those of political elites. The impressions of John Roy Lynch, a slave and later a Republican congressman from Mississippi, appear in the chapter on Reconstruction. Informative as well are letters written by Native Americans hostile to the civilization measures enacted by the government and by African Americans concerned about the level of violence during Reconstruction.

Evidenced by the number of students who signed up for Civil War classes during my undergraduate days at the University of California, Los Angeles, and who continue to do so where I currently teach at Lynchburg College, Americans have a thirst for knowledge about the bloody conflict. More books have been published about the Civil War than any other topic in American history, beyond the capacity of individual scholars to read and absorb. These facts beg the question of whether academia and the larger public need yet more books about the war. One trend, which I observed in graduate school, is toward greater specialization. Battle histories examine the minutiae of regimental movements during military engagements. Tomes have been dedicated to the study of President Lincoln’s cabinet. Other works leave the realm of politics and war to study the home front and slavery. Recently, environmental historians have begun examining the Civil War. While great insights have come from this scholarship, I worry that the narrow focus of historians on specific themes or episodes—be it slavery, the war, politics, or the environment—prevents readers from understanding how interwoven these spheres were to the men and women of the Civil War era. The goal of this book is to illuminate such connections. While engaging in tumultuous politics, radical social change, and violence, northerners brought with them the values and beliefs cultivated through their relationship with farmland. They believed that the America of small