Category Archives: 19th century life

Sunday Review: Red Clay, Running Waters by Leslie K. Simmons

Many of us know at least a minimal amount about the tragic Trail of Tears, in which the U.S. government forced the Five Civilized Tribes of the Southeast (Cherokee, Chickasaw, Choctaw, Creek, and Seminole) to leave their ancestral lands and move to the Indian Territory (now the state of Oklahoma) west of the Mississippi River. Thousands died during the journey.

What is less known are the events that led up to this calamitous outcome. In her biographical novel Red Clay, Running Waters, Leslie K. Simmons provides an in-depth look at how the Cherokee fought to retain their homeland by focusing the story on one important figure: Skaleeloskee, known to history as John Ridge. The son of a Cherokee leader, John was sent from his home to a mission school in Connecticut at the age of 16. He excelled at his studies and became an accomplished orator. He also fell in love with Sarah Bird Northrup, the white daughter of the school’s steward.

In the 1820s, a relationship between a native man and white woman was controversial, and the young couple’s desire to marry creates a firestorm of opposition. However, the two had formed a deep bond, forged in part because of their attraction to each other but more importantly because of shared ideals. Simmons excels at portraying their love, both in the beginning infatuation stage and over the course of time. After persisting for two years, John and Sarah finally were allowed to marry in 1824. The prejudice and discrimination they faced because of their relationship was merely a foretaste of what was to come.

Sarah traveled with John to Georgia to live in the Cherokee Nation, which stretched across parts of Tennessee, Georgia, and Alabama. The Cherokee were in the process of developing a constitutional government similar to that of the United States. John became a member of the National Council. However, because of Americans’ lust for good farmland and the 1828 discovery of gold in Georgia, the United States began to pressure the Cherokee to cede their homeland and move.

One mistake whites often make when thinking of native peoples is assuming that they are somehow monolithic in their thinking and in their attitudes toward whites. As I learned while writing my own novel Blood Moon: A Captive’s Tale, that is often not the case. Factions existed among the Cherokee with strongly held, opposing opinions about how to deal with the U.S. government’s demands. John, supported by Sarah, fought hard for what he thought would be the best solution, but equally passionate leaders argued for other outcomes.

Simmons portrays the conflict in detail in her novel. The arguments were complex, and some of the people involved were inconsistent and at times devious. Although highly educated and skilled at both writing and speaking, John wasn’t always trusted by more traditional Cherokee who viewed him as “too white.” The situation in the novel vividly shows the dilemma often faced by native peoples: do they adopt white ways to gain tools to help fight for their people, or is the cost too high in the loss of their culture and perhaps legitimacy in the eyes of their people?

This novel will be especially appreciated by readers who enjoy policy debates and situations with multiple shades of grey rather than a clear blank-and-white outcome.

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Filed under 19th century life, American history, Cherokee, Historical fiction, Native American, Trail of Tears

Sunday Review: The Wildes by Louis Bayard

A friend I respect recommended this novel to me, so I bought it without knowing anything more than that it had something to do with Oscar Wilde and his family. I’m ashamed to admit that, despite being a literature major in college, I had no idea that Wilde had a wife and two sons (perhaps because I was educated at a very conservative college that would NEVER dream of teaching this particular writer).

As is appropriate for a novel about a playwright, this story is told in five acts. The first act recounts, from the point of view of Wilde’s wife Constance, a seemingly idyllic summer holiday in the country. Idyllic, that is, until Constance gradually realizes that the relationship between Oscar and one of their guests—Lord Alfred Douglas, son of the Marquess of Queensberry (the man who came up with the rules of boxing)—is more distressingly intimate than she’d suspected.

A brief entr’acte summarizes the scandal that ensued after Queensberry, offended by what he viewed as the corruption of his son, accused Wilde of sodomy. Wilde sued him for defamatory libel, but Queensberry was able to produce evidence that the charge was true. Wilde was convicted of gross indecency for homosexual acts and sentenced to two years hard labor. The punishment destroyed his health, and he died a few years later.

The remainder of the novel examines the effect of the scandal on his family. Act two focuses on Constance’s time in Italy, where she fled under an assumed name (Holland) to protect her boys from the scandal. She was suffering a debilitating illness that was poorly understood at the time and also died too young. Act three focuses on the eldest son, Cyril Holland, and his time as a sniper in World War I, a military assignment that led to his death. In this telling, he is determined to maintain a gruff, “manly” demeanor to differentiate himself from his father. Act four focuses on the younger son Vyvyan Holland in later life and a confrontation with the man whose relationship with Oscar Wilde destroyed the family. The fifth act is speculative, so I won’t describe it except to say that it moved me deeply.

I enjoyed the innovative structure and the opportunity to learn about this aspect of Oscar Wilde’s life. He was an original thinker and an astute observer of society, and I can only wonder what literary gems we lost because he was persecuted to an early death. I recommend the novel to lovers of historical fiction, English literature, and LGBTQ+ issues.

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Filed under 19th century life, Book Reviews, England, fiction, Historical fiction, LGBTQ+, Twentieth century, World War I

Sunday Review: Remarkable Creatures by Tracy Chevalier

Remarkable Creatures is a historical novel about two remarkable women who lived in the first half of the 1800s: Mary Anning and Elizabeth Philpot. During a time when women were thought not to have the intellectual capacity to understand science, let alone contribute to its store of knowledge, these two made fossil discoveries that changed our understanding of geology and the vast amounts of time that Earth had existed.

Mary Anning is the daughter of a struggling working-class family in Lyme Regis on the southern coast of England. When her father, a carpenter, dies in debt, the family is thrown into grinding poverty. However, Mary has a surprising talent: an almost instinctive ability to find fossils buried in the cliffs of what is known as England’s Jurassic Coast. The money the family makes selling her finds helps them to survive.

Elizabeth Philpot is both twenty years older than Mary and a member of a higher social class. Her situation is like something in a Jane Austen novel; she and her two unmarried sisters move to Lyme because it is a less-expensive place for three single women of limited (but sufficient) means to live. Despite their very real differences, Mary and Elizabeth become friends and fossil-hunting partners.

The novel tackles many issues: class differences, the obstacles encountered by women scientists who wanted to be taken seriously, the way wealthy dilettantes exploited those who did the grueling work of fossil hunting and preservation, and the conflict that many people of the time period felt between their religious beliefs and the growing evidence of extinct prehistoric animals.

This was my favorite of Chevalier’s works since Girl with a Pearl Earring. The characters are expertly developed, and the alternating points of view allow us to hear both voices clearly. As always, Chevalier has a deft hand with descriptive details. Highly recommended.

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Filed under 19th century life, Book Reviews, England, fiction, Historical fiction, Novels about women

Sunday Review: The Social Graces by Renée Rosen

The Social Graces tells the story of the rivalry between two women, a generation apart, who led New York Society in the late 1800s.

Caroline Schermerhorn Astor was known as THE Mrs. Astor. If you weren’t among the 400 socialites invited to her annual ball or her summer clambake in Newport, RI, you simply weren’t part of the elite. And people with “new money”—the railroad barons, etc.—didn’t have a prayer of receiving one of her coveted invitations. That is, until determined, clever Alva Vanderbilt came along.

This sharp dichotomy between old and new money is tremendously ironic. The founder of the Astor fortune, the first John Jacob Astor, was hardly a cultivated person. I describe him this way in my first novel, The Ambitious Madame Bonaparte:

Astor was a short man with dark blond hair, drooping brown eyes, and a large pointed nose. He spoke English with a German accent, and his manners were nearly as rough as the fur trappers who had made his fortune, but Betsy liked him because they shared the traits of ambition, determination, and practicality.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure how much I’d like a novel about two wealthy, privileged women competing to be the queen of New York society. However, I thought that, in their separate narratives (each has third-person point-of-view chapters threaded throughout the book), Rosen dramatized enough of the heartbreaks they endured and the life lessons they learned to convey their essential humanity. Both women make terrible mistakes with regard to their children, but in this portrayal at least, I never doubted their good intentions. (I’ve read enough other accounts of Alva Vanderbilt to wonder if Rosen was perhaps being too kind.)

Rosen made one other choice in the novel that I absolutely loved. Two of my favorite pieces of literature—the short story “A Rose for Emily” by William Faulkner and the poem “Richard Cory” by Edwin Arlington Robinson—share an unusual characteristic: both are narrated by the collective voice of the community in which the main character lives. I have always felt this modern version of the Greek chorus adds a unique perspective and have wished that more authors would make use of the technique.

Well, Rosen has a third voice to her narrative, in addition to the focusing closely on the lives of each woman. She has chapters narrated by “society” that give the collective opinion on the actions of Caroline Astor and Alva Vanderbilt. The last word, so to speak. This device reveals more of the broader impact of the two women, and I found it very effective.

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Filed under 19th century life, American history, Book Reviews, fiction, Historical fiction

Sunday Review: Booth by Karen Joy Fowler

This is the first book of Fowler’s I’ve read, and I didn’t know what to expect. I checked it out of the library because learning more about the famous, or infamous, Booth family intrigued me.

For those who don’t know, John Wilkes Booth, the man who assassinated Lincoln, was a younger son of a famous family of 19th-century Anglo-American actors. Their father, Junius Brutus Booth, was highly acclaimed as was John’s older brother Edwin. Another brother, Junius Jr., was also an actor although not as highly regarded. I already knew from past research that during the Civil War Edwin actually saved the life of Abraham Lincoln’s oldest son, Robert—an event that can truly be described as stranger than fiction. So I wondered what other surprising things I might learn about the Booths.

The book is divided into sections offering the point of view of different members of the family, including sisters Rosalie and Asia and brother Edwin. In the author’s note at the end, Fowler tells us that although Rosalie existed, almost nothing is known about her—her existence in the surviving family records is summed up by the repeated epithet “poor Rose”—so that narrator is an almost entirely fictional creation. In Fowler’s hands, she is old-fashioned, less gifted than her creative siblings, unusually close to her mother, haunted by the memory of the many brothers and sisters who died young, and in constant pain from worsening scoliosis.

Asia is devoted to her family, particularly her brothers. To her, being a Booth is everything, so she plans to chronicle the careers of her thespian father and brothers. Yet, she is unconventional in her own way and provides an entirely different perspective on the Booth tribe than her much older sister does. Asia is the one who most represents what it is like to adore a relative who later commits a monstrous public crime.

Edwin is the Booth most haunted by the legacy of the family patriarch. As a boy, he was charged with accompanying his father on tour and trying (impossibly) to keep him from drinking. Edwin longs without much hope for Junius Sr. to acknowledge him as the heir best equipped to carry on the Booth acting legacy. These family obligations and his own personal failings oppress Edwin for years, along with a growing rift with John, who becomes increasingly radical as the war marches to its bloody end.

This then is the family that produces the assassin who became perhaps the most vilified American of the late 1800s. The book sustained my interest throughout; the shifting points of view provide sometimes contradictory opinions that help show what a tangle it can be to sort out what goes into the making of a killer.

My main complaint, however, is that the novel felt to me more like an intellectual exercise rather than an emotional journey. I remained largely unmoved even by the end of the story, and for that reason, I feel that the book falls short of the great novel it might have been.

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Sunday Review: Painting the Light by Sally Cabot Gunning

I was first drawn to this historical novel because it’s about an artist. As it turns out, the subject of painting plays less of a role in the story than I’d hoped, but I still enjoyed it thoroughly.

Ida Russell has been battered by life’s storms. Before the story opens, every member of her family of origin has died from drowning: her father and two brothers by accident, her mother by suicide. Before these tragedies, Ida was a promising painter and art student in Boston. However, lonely and weighed down by grief, she decides after an all-too-brief courtship to marry Ezra Pease, a sheep farmer from Martha’s Vineyard.

After the marriage, Ida discovers to her chagrin that Ezra is a lazy farmer, an unkind husband who alternates between inattention and disparagement, and a habitual gambler who takes part in nightly poker games in town. The charm he displayed during their courtship has vanished, along with her family property, which he sold as soon as he had the legal right as her husband to do so. The running of the household and many of the duties of the farm fall to Ida, leaving her no time to paint. Two years into their marriage, Ezra and Ida are barely on speaking terms.

Ezra and a friend named Mose open a salvage company, and the work occasionally takes them away from home—absences that Ida relishes—but that business doesn’t prosper any more than the farm does. Shortly after the novel begins, Ezra and Mose leave for a salvage job in Rhode Island. While they are away, a terrible storm hits, and their company boat catches fire and sinks. A ship named the Portland traveling to Rhode Island also sinks with great loss of life. A few days afterward, Ida is stunned to receive a letter from Ezra written just before he and Mose were about to board the ill-fated vessel. Although their bodies never wash ashore, they are presumed dead because only a small portion of those lost in the Portland are ever recovered. Although Ida retains little love for her husband, losing another person to drowning feels like an unnecessarily cruel trick of fate.

As Ida sets to work trying to make sense of her husband’s assets, she encounters Mose’s brother, Henry Barstow, a man she’s met before and liked. They team up to settle the estate and see if anything remains for either of them to inherit. Ida’s financial situation is dire. Ezra’s lies and deceptions—and the destruction of the salvage boat—have left her with nothing to live on but the grudging support of her husband’s aunt. Complicating matters, Ida finds herself more and more attracted to Henry, who is married but also in a foundering relationship.

Ida makes many discoveries through the course of the story—about her husband, about secret schemes, and about the island residents it takes her so long to come to know. Most importantly, she learns to rely on herself and to feel confidence in her own opinions rather than society’s dictates. 

Highly recommended.

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Sunday Review: Where the Light Enters by Sara Donati

This novel is the sequel to the 2015 novel The Gilded Hour, which I also enjoyed.

Where the Light Enters takes place in New York in 1884, and through it, the reader gets to glimpse both those who are comfortably well off and those who are struggling just to survive. As in the previous novel, the two main characters are Doctors Anna and Sophie Savard. Anna is a surgeon. Sophie is a double rarity—not only a female physician, but also a multiracial one—which causes her to experience double-pronged discrimination. 

Anna and Sophie are cousins, but because both were orphaned as children, they were raised together by an aunt and are as close as (or possibly closer than) sisters. The story opens at a particularly difficult time for Sophie; she is returning from Europe, where her husband went to be treated for tuberculosis—without success. Now, as a widow who has inherited a substantial estate, she must decide whether to return to her medical practice and how else to carry on with her life when all she wants to do is grieve the man she has loved since they were children.

In the previous book, the two doctors—and their midwife aunt—came under the scrutiny of Anthony Comstock because of his crusade against the propagation of knowledge about birth control. Comstock appears in this novel as well, falsely accusing one of the cousins of urging a patient to have “an illegal operation,” i.e. an abortion.

Anna is married to Detective-Sergeant Jack Mezzanotte, whose large Italian family plays an important role in both books. Shortly after their marriage, Anna and Jack take in three Italian immigrant orphans, but the Church objects to the children being raised by people who aren’t “good Catholics.” The fate of the three Russo children is a thread that continues into Where the Light Enters.

Jack’s work as a police detective is another thread that ties both books together. In the first novel, he and his partner Oscar try to solve a series of six grisly murders that were apparently intended to punish women for seeking an abortion. The investigation of those cases continues into the second novel and grows more urgent when new cases arise that appear to be related to the earlier murders.

For me, the characters are what make this book an unforgettable experience. I loved Anna, Jack, Sophie, and Rosa especially, but all of the main and secondary characters are vividly drawn. The author does an adequate job filling the reader in on the essentials from the earlier story, so it’s not necessary to read the two novels in sequence, but I recommend doing so.

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Oneida: Perfectionism and Free Love

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For the next few months, I will be writing about various utopian communities that I have been researching as background for my next historical novel. The first one is the Oneida Community.

The founder of Oneida was John Humphrey Noyes, who lived from 1811 to 1886. In 1831, Noyes experienced a religious conversion at a revival meeting led by Charles Grandison Finney at the tail end of the Second Great Awakening, a period of religious fervor in the United States that lasted about forty years. Finney was one of the theologians of the period who believed in the doctrine of Christian perfectionism, the idea that believers could be free of sin after their conversion.

Noyes was heavily influenced by this doctrine. After his conversion, he wanted to attain sinlessness, but he was not sure how to achieve it. He began to attend seminary, first at Andover and then at Yale, but his academic studies did not provide the answer he sought. One night in 1834, after preaching a sermon whose theme was, “He that committeth sin is of the devil,” Noyes had a mystical experience as he lay awake in bed. He felt “a stream of eternal love” flow through him three times in succession, and after that, he believed that his heart was clean, his life was sinless, and that God lived within him.

Within two years following this epiphany, he had started a community of “Bible Communists” in Putney, Vermont. Members lived together, worked together, worshipped and studied together and eventually held all property in common. In his most controversial move, Noyes began to preach free love and his own unique doctrine of complex marriage. Each female adult member of the community was the wife of all the men, and each male adult member was the husband of all the women. The reason for this is that exclusive ties of monogamy were considered the source of jealousies and problems. In complex marriage, sexual relations were permissible among any consenting heterosexual partners as long as the men pulled out before orgasm to prevent pregnancy. The community practiced selective breeding, deciding as a group who would be allowed to have children together. As soon as children were able to walk, they were taken from their parents and raised by the community so they would not be corrupted by the worldly teachings under which their parents had been raised.

Needless to say, such practices were highly controversial in the mid-nineteenth century. Noyes was arrested for adultery. Jumping bail, he moved to Oneida, New York, and established a new community. There, the Oneida Community developed successful industries, including the manufacture of a particularly effective steel trap, silverware, and embroidered silks.

Despite their economic success, the community was regarded with suspicion and hostility by their neighbors because of complex marriage. In 1879, Oneida abandoned the practice at their founder’s recommendation. Noyes and a few followers moved to Canada. The remaining members also gave up their socialist institutions and reorganized their businesses as a joint stock company, which continues in operation today.

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Research Photo Sunday

More photos from my trip to Conner Prairie, last summer.

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Doing Distressing Research

Because of my current treatment plan (for breast cancer) and my resulting emotional fatigue, it’s been hard to get excited about working on the new novel. Another reason for my reluctance was the type of research I was doing.

The novel I’m planning to write is based on the true experiences of a woman who was taken captive during one of the most brutal Indian wars in U.S. history. To get a broader background, I decided to read a 400-page book on the beginning of the conflict. I have to say, it was one of the hardest reads I’ve done in a long time. The book went into excruciating detail about the violence committed during the conflict. Some of it was really barbaric.

It’s not like I’ve never done this sort of research before. As a textbook editor and writer, I have covered some really horrible periods of history in which humans have committed unspeakable horrors against each other. Immersing myself in such knowledge always depresses me. I remember one three-week period in which I had to write a chapter on Reconstruction. Having to spend all my working hours dealing with stories of lynchings and the other forms of terrorism inflicted on the recently freed slaves left me feeling so sad and heavy. I was never so glad to be finished with a chapter!

With that assignment, at least, I knew I’d be done after a relatively short time. In contrast, my novel will probably take me a couple of years from research to final revisions. As I read that book that described attack after attack, I began to wonder if I’m really up to dealing with this oppressive material—especially since I’m already dealing with other stressors.

Well, for the time being, I’ve decided to soldier through. I’m just going to have to alternate the upsetting reading with research about more pleasant things, such as fashion or native culture. Fortunately, my main character didn’t personally witness too many barbarities, so I can limit my exposure to that material should I need to. At least, that’s the plan for now.

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