Hendrik Cesars and the Tragedies of Race in South Africa

By Clifton Crais and Pamela Scully

When we began researching our biography of Sara Baartman we thought we knew what we would find. Two white men brought Sara Baartman to 19th-century London, where she was put on show in Piccadilly. Every study, every bit of popular knowledge representing Sara Baartman's life as the "Hottentot Venus," had said so.

Newspapers in London at the time described Hendrik Cesars as a colonist. The extraordinary efforts to return Baartman's remains, beginning soon after South Africa's first democratic elections and ending in her state funeral in 2002, had represented her life as that of a black woman taken advantage of by white men. President Thabo Mbeki has said as much in his eulogy, extending his comments to a denunciation of Western science, indeed the entire Enlightenment.

We would discover, however, that Cesars was, in the racial categorization of the Cape, a "free black." His descendants were slaves, brought forcibly to South Africa to work on the farms and in the city. Cesars's wife also descended from slaves. The couples' life in a poor section of Cape Town remained indelibly marked by slavery. Laws prohibited them from wearing fancy clothes. They had to apply for permission to leave the area. And they were barred from many of the economic opportunities "free burghers" enjoyed. One of the men responsible for Sara Baartman's exploitation was, himself, subjected to prejudice.

South Africans, and indeed most of the modern world, can only see others for the color of their skin. Modern racism and its many legacies seems to have forever shaped how one speak of others, our very apprehensions of past and present. This is not how the world always was. Hendrik Cesars's complexion was "white", even as he was known by others in the Cape as "free black." This is why when Cesars traveled
to England Londoners saw him as a white man, a colonial settler, a mean, violent master. They could not see him for what he was, could not understand his humanity even as they criticized his actions, the decisions he made. And this is how it remains, regrettably, today.

Clifton Crais and Pamela Scully are authors of Sara Baartman and the Hottentot Venus: A Ghost Story and a Biography.

Can Witch Trials Be Reasonable?

By Katherine Howe

No matter how many Salem books appear, the question of New England witchcraft never seems to be exhausted. It forces us to confront the fragility of some of Americans' dearest assumptions about ourselves: that we are tolerant, that we value the socially marginalized, that we are rational and can be persuaded by reasoned argument. Salem means that we can't take our toleration for granted. Instead, we hunt for justification. Usually we point to “hysteria,” as though living in the past, according to a past set of beliefs, automatically makes one crazy.

But it is not so. They weren't crazy at all.

In 1690s New England, Salem was only the most extreme example of an otherwise common legal problem. We don't bother to legislate against imaginary threats, after all. The Salem participants – accusers, accused, judges, jury, theologians, the lieutenant governor – all lived in a religious system which assumed witchcraft to be real. The Salem episode was unusual for its breadth and longevity, facts not lost on observers at that time. But for people who believed themselves to occupy still-new lands “that were once the Devil's territories,” the presence of Satan working through earthly interlocutors was a credible, and terrifying, threat. Looked at from this perspective, the Salem trials resemble the most rational response available to a community struggling to free itself from the ravages of evil incarnate.

The idea of witch-hunting as rational, however, might be too chilling to contemplate. A mere decade after the panic ended, several participants began to regret their role in the trials; Samuel Sewall, a judge, and Ann Putnam, an afflicted girl, both made humble public apologies for their participation in what they now felt was a miscarriage of justice. The speed with which Salem was reconsidered, even in the colonial world, is itself reassuring – even they thought they were being crazy! Phew.

And yet, for the first many months of 1691/92, inquiry into the presence of witches in Essex County was anything but crazy. In fact, it was imperative, given the cultural and religious structures in place in that community at that time. One wonders what other assumptions, imperative in our own time, will be hysterical in another?

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Katherine Howe is author of The Physick Book Deliverance Dane, just published by Voice (Hyperion).

History as Mirror

By Edith B. Gelles

There are parallels between Presidents Adams and Obama, ways in which our current president can take comfort and, perhaps, learn lessons from this long gone predecessor. Strange as this coupling may appear, there are overarching similarities between them that should offer lessons from history for the new president.

Unlikely though real, both Adams and Obama come to their ideological commitment from similar backgrounds, common experiences that fundamentally shaped their thinking. First, both were “outsiders.” No need rehearse the President’s background that has brought a deep cultural shift in this country. But, as John Adams liked to say about himself: he was a duck among swans. The most popular and influential politicians of his age and four of the first five presidents hailed from the South.

Second, both John Adams and Barack Obama were trained in and practiced law. Training for the bar produces a method of thinking. It is a discipline that is learned and forms an automatic means of responding to problems. But neither Adams nor Obama was comfortable with the practice of law and each found a way out of its standard professional performance. “O that I was a soldier,” moaned Adams at the beginning of the Revolutionary War, but since he lacked the background to become a general, he became a politician. Mr. Obama came to politics via community organizing.

Religion created for both men not just a lifelong belief system, but a moral code and ethical approach that became part of their natures. In fact, Mr. Obama’s now more conservative religious stance conforms in many ways to John Adams’s then liberal religious approach: belief in God, in a hereafter, and the preciousness of the individual life. Moreover, their religion taught them that the divine spark in a person mandates devotion to public service, and service implied the duty to make the world a better place than they found it.

History provides a mirror, not just for us ordinary citizens to understand our own era by seeing it in context with the past with its similarities and differences, but for our leaders in their quest for solutions to their daunting challenges. President John Adams, by his example, provides some perspective to his distant successor President Barack Obama.

Edith B. Gelles is Senior Scholar at the Clayman Institute for Gender Research at Stanford University. She is author of Abigail and John: Portrait of a Marriage (William Morrow).

The Other Vanderbilt

By T.J. Stiles

In the nineteenth century, there was a man who towered over the American economy, ruthless in business yet true to his word, a physical powerhouse who hated needless chatter. His name was Cornelius Vanderbilt.

There was also a man who lurked in gambling saloons, skipping out on his debts and wheedling money out of celebrities, an epileptic full of self-important bombast. His name was also Cornelius Vanderbilt. Or, to be precise, Cornelius J. Vanderbilt, the second son of that other Cornelius.

The first Vanderbilt—known as the Commodore—was one of the most powerful business tycoons in American history. But the qualities that brought him such success make him a tough subject for the biographer. He was fierce, unrelenting, and kept his mouth shut about his affairs, let alone his feelings.

Lucky for us—if unlucky for him—he had a son who was his polar opposite, who pulled out a chain of ever-changing emotions. Corneil (as Cornelius J. was called) was addicted to gambling. He issued promissory notes he never intended to pay, pledged his allowance from his father to creditors, and even pawned his wife’s jewelry. He had a knack for convincing famous men to give him money. Horace Greeley became his patron, lending tens of thousands of dollars. Greeley even pestered Abraham Lincoln to grant Corneil favors (unsuccessfully).

Corneil violated everything in his father’s code of conduct, but the Commodore still loved his son. “Stubborn inconsistency” is how Sophia, Corneil’s mother, described Vanderbilt’s attitude toward Corneil. “He said that if Cornelius J. had a little more sense he might be fit for business; if a little less, he could be put into a lunatic asylum out of harm’s way, where he sometimes thought he properly belonged,” recalled Bishop Holland McTyeire, the founder of Vanderbilt University. “Poor unfortunate boy,” said the Commodore on his deathbed. “You make good resolutions but are not able to keep them from here to Broadway”—two blocks away.

The Commodore died on January 4, 1877, and left behind the largest fortune the Untied States had ever seen. Just five years later, on April 2, 1882, Corneil put a revolver to his temple and shot himself, dying bankrupt.

Image: Cover of Leslie's Illustrated Newspaper, showing Vanderbilt's personal physician, Dr. Jared Linsly, testifying on the first day of the trial over Cornelius' will. He left about 95% of his estate to his oldest son, William and one of his daughters sued to break the will. Corneil joined in the lawsuit at one point. William won, but he doubled his siblings' stake in the inheritance. (New York Public Library)

T.J. Stiles is author of The First Tycoon: The Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt.

Book of the Week: The First Tycoon

By Holly Tucker

In the spring of 1873, a seventy-nine year old Cornelius Vanderbilt made a $1 million dollar gift to allow the Bishop Holland McTyeire to establish a university just outside of Nashville, Tennessee.

Vanderbilt University now consistently ranks among the top twenty universities in the United States. As a faculty member at Vanderbilt, Cornelius Vanderbilt's legacy is quietly woven into my daily life. But I have to admit that I didn't know much about the university's namesake other than the basics.

T.J. Stiles' new book The First Tycoon: The Epic Life of Cornelius Vanderbilt is a masterful biography of a deeply complicated and, at times, volatile character. I know that you'll find T.J.'s upcoming guest post on the ruthless Commodore's complicated family life as fascinating as I have. As his son Corneil's travails remind us, life as a child of Vanderbilt could not have been easy.

(Image: Vanderbilt University. Kirkland Hall, which still stands--minus the right tower--on campus and serves as the central administration building.)

Historical Footprints

by Martha A. Sandweiss

In Passing Strange: A Gilded Age Tale of Love and Deception Across the Color Line, I unravel the hidden life of Clarence King, the celebrated western American explorer, who crossed the color line from white to black to marry the woman he loved. For thirteen years, from his marriage in 1888 until his death in 1901, King lived a secret double life as a black Pullman porter named James Todd. His prominent white friends never knew that King had an African-American wife and five mixed-race children. And Ada Copeland, the woman he married, had no idea of her husband’s true identity. Not until King lay dying in 1901, did he disclose his true identity to his wife.

King sought to ensure that no paper trail of his secret life would exist. But most families in late nineteenth-century America left behind some trace in the historical records, and this one was no exception.

The federal census records proved essential to my search. Historians of a certain age will recall the tedium of scrolling through endless microfilm reels of census data. Now the data is digitized and searchable. One can track characters across time. Minor characters spring instantly to life. Broad hypotheses are easily checked. I could quickly calculate, for example, how many Georgia-born African Americans lived in Manhattan in 1880. Not very many. I could then infer that Copeland had exercised a rare sort of ambition in moving north from her native state.

My students initially find census records uninteresting. But they soon see their potential. They can figure out who lived in a particular neighborhood, imagine the languages that would be heard on the street or think about the work places where people spent their days. They can ask hard questions about family structure, gender, and literacy. In short, they can make these historical records speak to individual life stories as well as to larger themes of American history.

Years ago, I approached an academic library to request that they subscribe to Ancestry.com, the best and most easily navigated of the proprietary digitized census sites. We don’t buy resources for genealogists, they said. I quickly showed them what academic historians might do with these resources and won them over. Now the librarians are among the database’s biggest fans, and I incorporate census research assignments into many of my undergraduate courses. Students initially get hooked by finding the trace of a grandparent. But they quickly discover that they can become real historical sleuths, as well, able to recover forgotten bits of the past.

Image: Wallace King, Ada and Clarence's son (right) in the family's home, 1950s. Courtesy of Patricia Chacon.

A 19th Century Abortionist

By Beverly Swerling

It’s tempting to think the abortion wars started with Roe v. Wade, but it’s not true.

In the early eighteenth century abortionists advertised in New York City broadsheets offering “guaranteed cures” for “female problems,” code for an unwanted pregnancy. The cures took the form of a variety of purges and placebos, and the non-sterile, non-anaesthetized version of what we’d now call a dilation and curettage when performed by a doctor, or a back-alley coat hangar special at the hands of an unqualified abortionist.

Just as the title quack was not a pejorative in colonial times – quackery was defended as natural and ‘homely’ – abortion was considered perfectly acceptable if performed before the end of the fourth month, the usual time for the child to “quicken.” The popular notion was that until then the fetus was not human, not ensouled, as the clergy said. By 1828, however, doctors were beginning to develop the specialties of gynecology and obstetrics. To eliminate the competition they lobbied for a law that said a person performing an abortion after quickening could be charged with manslaughter, fined $100, and sentenced to a year in prison. Their pleas were reinforced by a journalist, George W. Dixon, who saw himself as the keeper of public morality and apparently believed that if they could be sure of ending an illicit pregnancy, women would all become adulteresses and prostitutes. Under such circumstances no man could be sure of the virtue of his wife or his daughters.

None of this stopped the most famous abortionist of her day, a woman who called herself Madame Restell, from building a thriving business. On the one occasion when Madam Restell was imprisoned, the men who relied on her to look after their mistresses if needed, (philandering was fine, creating a scandal was not) paid her jailer to provide a featherbed and “delicate” food. While she was in prison the American Female Moral Reform Society visited and tried to persuade her to convert to Christianity. They were not successful. She made even more money after she was released. Enough so she built herself a Fifth Avenue mansion (on the corner of 52^nd Street) and bought a splendid coach and four with a liveried driver who took her up and down Broadway every afternoon.

For more, see Edward G. Burrows and Mike Wallace, Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898. Oxford University Press.

Beverly Swerling is author of City of God: A Novel of Passion and Wonder in Old New York.
Image: National Police Gazette, March 13, 1847

Anaesthesia's Dark Side

Guest post by Stephanie Snow

Rape, abductions, and murders are horrific crimes. But what have they to do with the history of anaesthesia? The connection is chloroform, the most popular anaesthetic of the nineteenth century and the Jekyll and Hyde of the drug market. Its anaesthetic powers cocooned patients in oblivion, protecting them from the pain of operations. But chloroform also became popular with criminals, as it provided an easy way of overpowering victims, and sometimes of killing them.

In 1857 Sir William Wilde (father of Oscar) was accused of rape under chloroform by his patient, Mary Travers. Although Mary eventually admitted in court that her accusation was false, she explained that she had chosen chloroform because it had such a "treacherous" reputation.

Certainly the appearance of chloroform in one of London's most notorious murder trials--the Pimlico Mystery in 1886 settled it in the public's imagination as one of the most dangerous drugs around. Adelaide Bartlett was accused of murdering her husband, Edwin Bartlett, with chloroform. During the trial, a picture emerged of the Bartletts' most extraordinary menage a trois with George Dyson, a Methodist minister. Edwin had apparently encouraged Adelaide and Dyson to form a relationship, in the expectation that Adelaide would marry Dyson after Edwin's death. (Edwin had a history of ill-health.) At Edwin's autopsy, scientific investigations revealed the presence of chloroform in his mouth or oesophogus. This confirmed that Edwin must have been upright and able to swallow when he took the chloroform. Adelaide admitted having chloroform in the house, but claimed it was simply to fend Edwin away if he became amorous. Was Adelaide a murderess or an innocent victim? The jury was gravely suspicious but could not convict for lack of evidence. "Now that it is all over, she should tell us, in the interest of science, how she did it," said surgeon Sir James Paget at the end of the trial. But she never did, and the case remains unsolved to this day.

Nor has the danger of chloroform faded into history. In 1994, a doctor was tried and convicted in Liverpool, UK for adbucting and raping a young woman, allegedly using chloroform, and in September of this year, the team investigating the disappearance of 3 year old Caylee Marie Anthony in Orlando, USA suspected that chloroform may have been used to abduct the child. The dark side continues...

To enter the drawing for a copy of Dr. Snow's book, click here.

Stephanie Snow is the author of Blessed Days of Anaesthesia and Operations Without Pain. She is a historian at the Centre for the History of Science, Technology, and Medicine at the University of Manchester, UK.

Book of the Week: Blessed Days of Anaesthesia

Anesthesia is a relative newcomer to medicine. Up until the 19th century, surgeries were done without effective pain management. The best bet for pain was loads of alcohol and a variety of herbal concoctions. One well-used herb: the mandrake. The little forked root made famous by Harry Potter's time at Hogwarts.

Stephanie Snow's book tells the charged story of chloroform, ether, politics, and murder in the 19th century. A smart book, a fascinating read. Dr. Snow is a Research Associate at the Center for the History of Science, Technology, and Medicine at the University of Manchester.

The Party that Changed the World

by David King

Wouldn't it be nice to have a clock that would slow down in times of pleasure and speed up in times of trial? That was once a wish of Austrian Emperor Francis I, who could certainly have used such a device in the autumn of 1814 when he opened his palace to a veritable royal mob who would never seem to agree, or leave. The occasion was the Congress of Vienna, a glittering peace conference at the end of the French Revolutionary and Napoleonic Wars.

For a time, Vienna became the capital of Europe, the site of a massive victory celebration, and home to the most glamorous gathering since the fall of the Roman Empire. Never before have more kings, queens, and princes lived in the same place for such a long period of time.

Catering to the whims of these houseguests would sometimes be exasperating. Vienna wits soon poked fun at the early impressions made by the crowned heads who would so readily accept Emperor Francis's generosity:

The Emperor of Russia: He makes love for everyone.
The King of Prussia: He thinks for everyone.
The King of Denmark: He speaks for everyone.
The King of Bavaria: He eats for everyone.
The King of Württemberg: He eats for everyone.
The Emperor of Austria: He pays for everyone.

In the end, after nine months of negotiations, celebrations, and intrigues, the Congress of Vienna would finally wrap up, drastically reconfiguring the balance of power and ushering in a modern age.

David King is author of Vienna 1814: How the Conquerors of Napoleon Made Love, War, and Peace at the Congress of Vienna and Finding Atlantis: A True Story of Genius, Madness, and an Extraordinary Quest for a Lost World.

Image source

Book of the Week: Vienna 1814

If you're ever planning a trip to Nashville, be sure to schedule it for the Southern Festival of Books weekend. It's a book-lover's feast!

While at the festival last month, I attended a talk by David King who presented his new book: Vienna 1814: How the Conquerors of Napoleon Made Love, War, and Peace at the Congress of Vienna. David is an engaging speaker and seems like a genuinely nice guy. Plus, he's been in the academic trenches as well, just north of here, at the University of Kentucky.

Most important of all...topic is simply fascinating.

What stories are there to tell when ever major world leader descends on Vienna to draw up a peace treaty? The answer: some mighty good ones.

To the Moon!

by Matthew Goodman (guest post)

In the early decades of the nineteenth century, most astronomers believed that intelligent life existed throughout the universe. The basis for this notion was less scientific than theological in nature: that God would not have created distant worlds without also placing intelligent beings there to appreciate them.

Given the widespread belief in extraterrestrial life, it was inevitable that a certain amount of attention would be devoted to imagining what such far-flung creatures might look like. According to one supposition of the time, inhabitants of planets such as Saturn and Jupiter might have eyes with enlarged pupils and highly sensitive retinas, to compensate for the reduced light from the sun. Asteroids, with their low gravitational forces, might be the home of giants (a notion contributed by the eminent British astronomer Sir John Herschel. The Scottish astronomical writer Thomas Dick suggested that creatures living on comets might have eyes with the power of telescopes, and--owing to their ceaseless travels through the universe--could well turn out to be a race of astronomers.

Still, as these questions were (at least for the moment) unanswerable, the astronomers of the time tended to fall back on the useful axiom that God would adapt his creatures to the conditions in which they had been placed. "Is it necessary that an immortal soul should be united to a skeleton of bone, or imprisoned in a cage of cartilage and of skin?" asked Sir David Brewster. "Must it see with two eyes, and hear with two ears, and touch with ten figers, and rest on a duality of limbs? May it not reside in a Polyphemus with one eyeball, or in an Argus with a hundred? May it not goven in the giant forms of the Titans, and direct the hundred hands of Briareus?".

"Of such speculations," noted John Herschel, sensibly enough, "there is no end."

Matthew Goodman is author of The Sun and the Moon: The Remarkable True Account of Hoaxers, Showmen, Dueling Journalists, and Lunar Man-Bats in Nineteenth-Century New York.

Colonial Midwifery

by Heather Whaley (Vanderbilt University)

Colonial Midwifery began with the Mayflower's journey in 1620. Bridget Lee Fuller delivered three babies during the two months long voyage and continued practice as a midwife in Plymouth for 44 years until her death in 1664. In addition, it is documented that one birth took place aboard the Arabella by a midwife that was brought on board from the Jewel. (1)

Among the many women pioneers in Colonial Midwifery a handful stand out. Anne Hutchinson was both a pioneer in civil liberty and religious toleration and a well respected midwife. One of her students, Jane Hawkins, delivered a "monster" baby and was suspected to worship the devil and practice witchcraft. Jane was later exiled along with Anne who was ultimately massacred by Native Americans. (2)

Many less known midwives were highly respected by their communities and their services were greatly appreciated. Ann Eliot was not known for anything new or controversial; however, she birthed over 3,000 children and garnered the respect of her community resulting in eight families making her the executor to their estates as they felt so indebted to her. Her epitaph reads "be ye blessing of God,…brought into this world above three thousand children." (3)

The first to employ a town midwife was New Amsterdam in 1660. The midwife was paid 100 guilders per year for attending the poor. In the south, plantations usually had a slave that acted as a midwife to both black and white mothers. As time went on, in the south, the majority of midwives were black. The further north, the more white midwives there were serving both the upper and lower classes. If she was a paid community employee she was given a house but could not refuse to help anyone who called upon her. (1)

Many of the midwives in early America acted under the supervision of Protestant bishops. This was considered important with the high infant mortality rate of over 50% in order to baptize the infant before its passing. Complications with childbirth were quite common and survival with some was rare. Puerperal fever was the most common, and became increasingly common as men entered into Obstetrics. This was because men employed more interventions and vaginal exams. In a time before the germ theory this was the cause of great infection. In the 18^th century the only relationship that was made was that hemorrhage led to the Childbed fever. This was in fact happening as materials that were not clean were used to stop the bleeding. Another common complication, "milk leg," was swelling in the leg of the mother that happened on the third of fourth day and was thought to be caused by "bad" milk coming in; as women were confined to bed for up to weeks after their birth they were actually developing clots in the legs that caused them to swell.

Going into the 19^th century, midwifery was dominated by men in America. In the late 18^th century William Shippen established the first lying-in hospital in America in Philadelphia. He also participated in the founding of the University of Pennsylvania School Of Medicine, becoming their first professor of anatomy, surgery and midwifery, quite a mix!

The beginning of formal instruction geared towards men led to the swift demise of women in midwifery and the dawning of a more scientific era in healthcare. (4)

Image: John Ashton, Chap-books of the Eighteenth Century (1882). Prints and Photographs Division, Library of Congress.

¹ Chaney, Judith A. "Birthing in Early America". Journal of Nurse-Midwifery March/April 1980: 25(2) p. 5-13.

² Litoff, Judy B. American Midwives. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1978

³ Packard, Francis. History of Medicine in the United States. New York: 1931.

⁴ Donegan, J. Women & Men Midwives. Westport: Greenwood Press, 1978.