Sorry about the lull, guys. Been busy with grad school stuff, and had a nasty case of pneumonia there for a while. Here, have a video of a cat dressed like a Confederate officer.
Sorry about the lull, guys. Been busy with grad school stuff, and had a nasty case of pneumonia there for a while. Here, have a video of a cat dressed like a Confederate officer.
Normally I’d be thrilled to find a lawmaker who’s passionate about historic preservation, but Rep. Benton’s motives seem…well, to say they’re “other than noble” would be putting it charitably:
He flatly asserts the Civil War wasn’t fought over slavery, compares Confederate leaders to the Founding Fathers and is profoundly irritated with what he deems a “cultural cleansing” of Southern history. He also said the Ku Klux Klan, while he didn’t agree with all of their methods, “made a lot of people straighten up.”
No, your eyes aren’t deceiving you. That’s an elected official defending the KKK in the year 2016. According to Benton, the Klan “was not so much a racist thing but a vigilante thing to keep law and order.” And to promote the wearing of festive, pointy-headed costumes, one might add.
Benton’s views are why for years he has pushed legislation that would protect the state’s historical monuments from being marred or moved. This year he is stepping up his efforts with two newly introduced measures, one of which seeks to amend the state constitution to permanently protect the carving of Confederate President Jefferson Davis and Gens. Robert E. Lee and Stonewall Jackson at Stone Mountain.
Aaaannnnnddd this is one reason why it’s hard for conscientious preservationists who prefer to leave historic monuments in their original context to make their case. There are plenty of folks out there who have no desire to endorse or perpetuate the sentiments these monuments’ creators wanted to express; they just want to leave historic landscapes intact so that we can interpret them as we would a historic home or an artifact. But with yahoos like Benton running their mouths, it’s easy to assume that the only folks who oppose removing Confederate monuments are racist ignoramuses. The best thing Rep. Benton could do for historic preservation would be to put as much daylight between himself and other preservationists as possible.
Oh, and he doesn’t think the Civil War was about slavery, because of course he doesn’t.
Benton, a retired middle school history teacher, equates Confederate leaders with the American revolutionaries of the 18th century — fighting a tyrannical government for political independence.
“The war was not fought over slavery,” he said. Those who disagree “can believe what they want to,” he said.
He used to teach middle school history, and now he’s a legislator. You decide which is more disturbing; I’ll be slamming my forehead against a desk somewhere.
The trailer for Free State of Jones is out. In case you haven’t seen it, here you go.
It’ll be interesting to see if this movie has any effect on popular notions of the Civil War, the South, and the Confederacy. People have a tendency to equate the “Civil War South” with the Confederacy. Using “the South” as shorthand for “the Confederacy” in the context of the Civil War is something we all do from time to time, but it’s important to remind ourselves that the two weren’t synonymous.
The Civil War divided Southerners just as it divided the nation as a whole. This wasn’t just true in the sense that some states in the South never seceded; it was also true of many people living within Confederate territory. For many Southerners faced with conscription, shortages, home guards, and requisitions of goods, the idea of rallying around the Confederate flag became more and more distasteful as the war dragged on. And, of course, some Southerners in Confederate-held territory were never crazy about secession to begin with, as was the case for many people here in East Tennessee.
It’s also noteworthy to see a movie depicting blacks and whites engaged in anti-Confederate resistance. The point here is not to fashion some myth of interracial amity in the nineteenth-century South. The point, rather, is to consider black Southerners as Southerners—in other words, as real people with some degree of agency living in the South, rather than an inert mass simply awaiting the war’s outcome. In other words, when we speak of a divided Civil War South, it’s easy to forget that white Southerners weren’t the only potential source of anti-Confederate dissent within the region.
I think a cinematic reminder of these Southern divisions in the Civil War would do us all some good, whatever region of the country we hail from. A lot of neo-Confederates equate critiques of the C.S.A. with attacks on the South as a whole. I can heartily agree with them that a lot of Americans carry unjustified and pernicious prejudices regarding this region, but remembering that “the Confederacy” and “the South” weren’t synonymous might help us all examine the C.S.A. a little more dispassionately. Conversely, folks from the North who let the darker aspects of the South’s history determine their attitudes toward the region and its people might rethink those attitudes after seeing Newt Knight’s story. Even in the 1860s, there were Southerners doing unexpected things.
Like much of the rest of East Tennessee, Greene County was heavily Unionist during the Civil War. When the state held a secession referendum in June 1861, 78.3% of voters from Greene County opposed leaving the Union.
Indeed, one Greene County resident became the most prominent Southern Unionist in the nation. Andrew Johnson—the only Southern senator to remain loyal to the U.S., military governor of Union-occupied Tennessee, and Lincoln’s second running mate—started his political career in Greeneville, and his home and grave are still there.
These are just a few of the reasons why County Commissioner James Randolph’s recent proposal to fly the Confederate battle flag at the courthouse made absolutely no sense.
He wants to see the Confederate flag displayed at the courthouse as a “historic exhibit,” his resolution states.
The resolution also states that the flag should be displayed to honor Tennesseans who fought for the Confederacy and that the flag represents “heritage and history that our county should be proud of.”
The Confederate flag’s display has proven to be a divisive issue, as some say it represents history and heritage while others see it as representative of slavery and oppression.
Randolph previously said in an interview with The Greeneville Sun that the State of South Carolina’s removal of the flag from its state capitol provoked him to propose the resolution.
Just so we’re clear here: Randolph thought it would be a good idea to fly the Confederate flag…
Little wonder that when Randolph’s fellow county commissioners got together to vote on his resolution a few hours ago, they roundly rejected it. In fact, the proposal received twenty negative votes, with just one in favor. (The “yea” vote, natch, was Randolph’s.) That’s even worse than Greene Co. Confederates’ showing in the ’61 referendum.
Of course, what people in the rest of the country will take away from this episode isn’t the commission’s 20-1 vote against Randolph’s resolution, but the fact that somebody made the resolution to begin with. And that’ll suffice to confirm every ignorant stereotype they have about East Tennessee in particular and the South in general.
I am so, so, so sick of these kerfuffles over the memory of the Civil War.
Francis Alexander Ramsey was a Pennsylvania native who arrived in Tennessee around the end of the Revolutionary War, got involved in the Franklin movement, served as clerk of the Southwest Territory, and was a founding trustee of what eventually became the University of Tennessee. About the same time that Tennessee became a state, he hired an English carpenter named Thomas Hope to build a fine home of pink marble and blue limestone at Swan Pond, his plantation near Knoxville at the confluence of the Holston and French Broad Rivers. The house is still there, and a few days ago I decided it was high time I saw it in person.
Ramsey House is one of the most beautifully constructed and restored of all the historic house museums I’ve visited. Once referred to as “the most costly and most admired building in Tennessee,” it would have been quite a bit more substantial than most of the other homes on the frontier near the turn of the nineteenth century. The quality of Hope’s craftsmanship is evident in the limestone trim and the carved corbels underneath the roof corners.
Cabins and small homes on the early Tennessee frontier typically had kitchens that were either detached from the main house or linked to it by a covered dogtrot. Ramsey House’s kitchen, by contrast, is attached to the main structure. The tour guide told me this was at the insistence of Francis Ramsey’s wife.
The interior is just as impressive as the exterior, furnished with period pieces that include some Ramsey family items, like the Chippendale chairs and tea service in one of the downstairs rooms.
When Francis died in 1820, the house passed to his oldest son William, Knoxville’s first elected mayor. William later sold the home to his brother, the eminent doctor, historian, and public works booster J.G.M. Ramsey, who in turn gave it to his son as a wedding present in 1857 and moved a short distance away to his own estate of Mecklenburg.
The house’s link to J.G.M. Ramsey was one of the main reasons I wanted to see it, since every aficionado of early Tennessee history is bound to cross paths with him sooner or later. Although his contributions to the state’s transportation development and finance were considerable, Ramsey’s role as chronicler of Tennessee’s past was probably his most important legacy. Some of the most prominent players in Tennessee’s formative years were guests at Ramsey House when J.G.M. was growing up, and he developed a passionate interest in the Volunteer State’s history, reflected in his massive collection of manuscripts and books. The crowning achievement of this historical work was his massive Annals of Tennessee to the End of the Eighteenth Century, published in 1853 and still an invaluable resource for students of the early southwestern frontier.
Above all else, he was a committed believer in states’ rights and a defender of southern interests, serving as a Confederate treasury agent on the outbreak of the Civil War. His zealous support for secession ended up taking a tremendous toll on his family. The Union occupation of Knoxville in 1863 forced him to flee Mecklenburg, his daughter was exiled from the city, and his youngest son Arthur was one of the many Tennessee troops killed in action at Piedmont, VA in June 1864.
One wartime loss was as devastating for later Tennessee historians as it must have been to Ramsey personally—a Union arsonist put Mecklenburg to the torch, and its priceless collection of historical papers and relics went up in smoke. Ramsey himself blamed his nemesis William Brownlow, an outspoken Unionist with whom he had been at odds since before the war, for instigating the arson. One of the reasons Ramsey’s Annals is such an important resource is because much of the primary material that went into the work went up in flames along with his home. (Speaking as somebody who could’ve made use of those documents, I can tell you that if I find the arsonist in the afterlife, there’s going to be trouble.)
After the war, Ramsey was able to get a presidential pardon from Andrew Johnson. The family eventually returned to Knoxville, but J.G.M.’s son sold the ancestral home in 1866. The Association for the Preservation of Tennessee Antiquities acquired it in 1952 and furnished it to match the period of Francis Ramsey’s occupancy, using items donated by descendants and an inventory of the patriarch’s estate.
In addition to the house, the site has a small visitor center with a gift shop, an exhibit of family relics and archaeological materials excavated on the grounds, and a short film. I definitely recommend a visit if you’re in the Knoxville area; it’s an architectural gem and a fascinating glimpse into the lives of one of Tennessee’s most important families.
You might also want to visit the site of Lebanon-in-the-Fork Presbyterian Church, just a couple of miles from Ramsey House. Rev. Samuel Carrick established Lebanon-in-the-Fork in 1791, making it the oldest Presbyterian church in Knox County. The church building is gone, but the graveyard is well worth a look. The grave of Carrick’s widow is Knox County’s earliest marked burial, dating to 1793.
Several generations of Ramseys are also buried here: Francis…
…and young Arthur.
Also in the Ramsey plot is a memorial for Reynolds Ramsey, father of Francis and a veteran of the Revolutionary War who was at Trenton and Princeton. J.G.M. remembered his grandfather as a “tall and graceful” man who “never entered a room with his hat on and never retired from it without a graceful bow and a modest and sincere adieu.” I suspect it was J.G.M. himself, with his interest in history, who made sure his grandfather’s tombstone mentioned his Rev War service.
Reynolds isn’t the only Rev War veteran buried at Lebanon-in-the-Forks.
Jeremiah Jack, another Rev War vet buried in the churchyard, was one of Knoxville’s early settlers. Ramsey’s Annals includes a brief account of a canoe trip Jack and another man made to Coyatee to purchase corn from the Cherokees:
During the infancy of the settlements on Nollichucky, corn had become scarce, and availing themselves of a short suspension of hostilities, Jeremiah Jack and William Rankin, of Greene county, descended the river in a canoe, for the purpose of bartering with the Indians for corn. They reached Coiatee without interruption. The warriors of that place refused to exchange or sell the corn, and manifested other signs of suspicion, if not of open enmity. They entered the canoe and lifted up some wearing apparel lying in it, and which covered their rifles. This discovery increased the unwillingness of the Indians to trade, and they began to show a disposition to offer violence to their white visitants. The beloved woman, Nancy Ward, was happily present, and was able by her commanding influence to appease their wrath, and to bring about friendly feelings between the parties. The little Indians were soon clad in the home made vestments brought by the traders—the canoe was filled with corn, and the white men started on their return voyage well pleased with the exchange they had made, and especially with the kind offices of the beloved woman. On their return, the white men landed and camped one night, a mile above the mouth of French Broad, on the north bank of the little sluice of that river. Mr. Jack was so well pleased with the place, that he afterwards selected it as his future residence, and actually settled and improved it on his emigration to the present Knox county, in 1787.
A few items relating to the Civil War and the ways we remember it caught my attention lately.
First up, when Pope Francis visits Philadelphia, he’ll be speaking behind the same podium Lincoln used to deliver the Gettysburg Address. Right now it’s at the city’s Union League for safekeeping.
By the way, the Union League is worth a visit if you’re ever in Philly. As Dimitri Rotov noted recently, it’s got a fine collection of Civil War art and memorabilia. I got to spend some time there a few years ago on a business trip (one of the perks of working for a Civil War museum is traveling to neat places for work), and it’s a fantastic building to wander around in if you’re a history buff.
Second item: an opera based on Cold Mountain just premiered in Santa Fe. Seems like a suitably operatic subject, but I doubt they’ve found a way to pull off the Battle of the Crater inside an auditorium.
Third, it looks like Jefferson Davis will be staying in the Kentucky Capitol for the foreseeable future. The state’s Historic Properties Advisory Commission voted to keep the Davis statue while adding some “educational context.” As I’ve said before, I think leaving historic monuments intact while providing some interpretation to put them in their context is the best course of action in these situations.
One thing that really surprised me about the Davis issue was the reaction among black Kentuckians. In one poll, they were pretty evenly split between support for keeping the statue (42%) and support for removing it (43%). The percentage of black Kentuckians in favor of keeping the statue was much lower than that for whites (75%), but still a lot higher than I would’ve expected.
Reflecting Kentucky’s Civil War divisions, the Davis statue shares the Capitol with a likeness of the state’s other wartime president, Abraham Lincoln.
One of our Marble Springs staff members is moving on to a position at a Civil War-related site, the T.R.R. Cobb House in Athens, GA. Cobb was a lawyer who figures prominently in Georgia’s legal history, but he’s best remembered as a member of the Confederate congressional committee responsible for drafting the CSA’s constitution and as the organizer of the Georgia Legion. His military career didn’t last long; he bled to death from a mortal wound received at Fredericksburg, but the Legion went on to serve in many of the war’s bloodiest battles. I don’t know if he was any relation to Wilbur Cobb of Ren & Stimpy fame, but I desperately hope so.
Anyway, we had a little send-off for our colleague (who we were very sad to lose) a few days ago, and she mentioned that she’s about to start studying up on Cobb’s life and times for her new job. After years of working on the Tennessee frontier, it’ll be quite a change.
It occurred to me that this is one of the differences between public historians and their academic counterparts. Academic historians have the tremendous luxury of specialization. They spend years immersing themselves in the literature and primary sources of a particular field, and their success depends on how well they can navigate within it. Of course, they’ll end up teaching courses that fall outside their specialization. When it’s their turn to teach the survey course, they’ll have to have a working knowledge of a tremendous swath of historical knowledge. And the academic who can rework his or her specialization to fit a particular department’s strengths and expectations will be at a great advantage on a job search. But if they’re lucky, academic historians will spend much of their time on whatever it is they’ve chosen to study.
Public historians, on the other hand, have to learn to adapt. Their reading and research will depend much more heavily on the job they find themselves in than on their own inclinations. Again, the differences aren’t absolute; some public historians will be fortunate enough to find a position that suits their particular interests and expertise, just as some academic historians will find it necessary to adapt quickly to meet the needs of a department looking to hire new blood. But adaptation is more likely to be a fact of life for the public historian.
A change of job doesn’t just mean a change of zip code and getting to know a new city. It also means getting acquainted with a new mental geography: new contexts, new historiographies, new themes. It might mean a crash course in World War I for your first job, labor history for your second, the antebellum South for your third. One of my former bosses has worked at museums specializing in subjects as varied as the Trans-Mississippi West, the history of firearms, and Abraham Lincoln. I know people who have been posted at sites dealing with the pre-Columbian Southwest and the Kentucky frontier, Jacksonian canals and the Civil War, twentieth-century education and eighteenth-century Appalachia.
On top of all this, remember that public historians have to be generalists in another sense, too. They have to be familiar with the tenets of historical research as well as all the practical know-how required to manage a museum or a site: preservation, exhibits, budgets, pedagogy, and so on.
Adaptability and versatility just might be the two most important qualities for the aspiring public historian. It’s not a career choice for the faint of heart, but if you like learning new things, it’s a heck of a lot of fun.