Hector Cantu – Page 8 – The Intelligent Collector Magazine

Civil War question: What were these men thinking?

This albumen print of a Union encampment, most likely of the 110th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, sold for $2,868 at a November 2008 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

The last truly great Civil War book I read was Doris Kearns Goodwin’s Team of Rivals: The Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln (2005). The award-winning book focuses on the 1860 presidential election and how underdog Lincoln was able to secure the Republican nomination against three formidable opponents, and then win the presidency without a single Southern vote (he was not on any Southern ballot).

Then, it deftly explains how President Lincoln was able to recruit all three Republican opponents to serve as key members of his Cabinet: New York Senator William H. Seward (Secretary of State), Ohio Governor Salmon P. Chase (Treasury Secretary), and Missouri’s favorite son Edward Bates (Attorney General). Next was the brilliant way he managed to leverage each man’s strength and weakness into a form of political-enemy synergy.

Steven Spielberg secured the film rights before the book was written and his 2012 movie Lincoln was highly acclaimed. Out of 14 Oscar nominations, Daniel-Day Lewis won for Best Actor. But the movie was really only about the last four months of Lincoln’s life when he maneuvered to get the 14th Amendment approved. Neither the book nor film spends much time on the Confederacy or the underlying circumstances that made the Civil War inevitable.

This is not unusual, since books about Lincoln, his Cabinet and the generals of the war pop up with regularity. Relatively little has been written about the Confederacy per se (i.e. the formal government of the South). The primary focus seems confined to biographies of Robert E. Lee, Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson or the famous battles between the North and South (such as Gettysburg).

Sure, people might know that Jefferson Davis was president of the CSA or that Alexander H. Stephens was vice president. But these two men were in office the entire war, from April 1861 to May 1865. Perhaps interest in individuals is limited because, as some historians argue, the Confederate States of America represented an entire people’s effort to cling to their past. They feared after the 1860 election that Lincoln and the now-dominant Republicans would simply force them to abandon the practice of slavery. So they naively decided to secede from the Union and start their own country.

They started with seven secessionist slave-holding states and in February 1861 established a new Confederacy in Montgomery, Ala., before Lincoln even took office. After Confederates fired on Fort Sumter in April, four more states seceded and joined the Confederacy (now based in Richmond, Va.). Missouri and Kentucky were later accepted but did not secede. Two seats in the Confederate Congress were given to Southern California.

Organizationally, the Southern government was much like the North. They had a Constitution and a Cabinet with six departments that composed the executive branch. With few exceptions, they replicated their counterparts in the Union. A prominent exception: the Attorney General was elevated to Cabinet status. It grew in importance since the Confederacy had no Supreme Court; the Department of Justice arbitrated any legislation or constitutional disputes.

However, most departments discovered their limitations once the War started. The Navy began the war without a single major vessel and soon lost easy access to international sea-lanes from Southern ports. The Treasury and War departments did not have the resources of their Union counterparts, little things like enough money or an army and a non-industrial economy. Here, one must ask: Who were these men and what were they thinking?

Some deep thinkers sincerely believe it was an honest attempt to build a New South with 11 individual states forging a future based on prosperity from land and slaves. After all, only 4 percent to 5 percent had direct involvement with the institution of slavery. The majority considered their way of life inviolate enough to defend it by force of arms. However, despite obvious mismatches from virtually every aspect, that did not deter its political leaders. They assured the Southern people that courage and determination could substitute for limited resources, limited manpower and lack of foreign aid.

The South’s goal of independence was as absolute as the North’s determination to maintain the Union. Hence, the objectives of the opposing governments could be neither compromised nor harmonized. The Civil War would have to be a fight to the finish.

For four long years, against impossible odds, the South persevered and suffered. It accepted honorable defeat and then wrapped itself in nostalgia. The South’s postwar vision of “The Lost Cause” – fighting and surrendering with honor – became a soothing balm for the sores of war.

However, President Jefferson Davis would admit much later, “The simple fact was the people had gone to war without considering the cost.”

Case closed.

Intelligent Collector blogger JIM O’NEAL is an avid collector and history buff. He is president and CEO of Frito-Lay International [retired] and earlier served as chair and CEO of PepsiCo Restaurants International [KFC Pizza Hut and Taco Bell].

The New Yorker is perhaps the best magazine America has ever produced

Charles Samuel Addams’ original cartoon art for *Sad Movie*, which appeared in *The New Yorker* in 1946, sold for $40,625 at a March 2012 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

Conventional wisdom suggests that greatness did not come easily or immediately to the venerable New Yorker magazine. Founded in February 1925, its primary strengths were zeal and enthusiasm, derived primarily from editor Harold Ross. He had journalism in his blood and would be editor for every copy (1,339 issues) until his death in 1951.

Then there was the critical financial indulgence of principal backer Raoul H. Fleischmann, who founded the General Baking Company. Ross and Fleischmann formed F-R Publishing Company to publish the new magazine. Fleischmann was widely quoted as saying, “The very best thing about the first issue was the cover” – a Knickerbocker dandy (by Rea Irvin) peering through a monocle at a butterfly. Later named Eustace Tilley, the New Yorker dandy became a well-known icon.

The magazine “stank,” Fleischmann pronounced. That first year was dangerously precarious. By the fourth month of publication, circulation had plummeted from a robust 15,000 to a mere 4,000 … with a measly three to four pages of ads. Fleischmann reluctantly agreed to prop it up financially through the summer, and by the fall, it had stabilized … barely.

The 1925 cover of *The New Yorker*’s first issue, created by Rea Irvin.

But timing was favorable since New York – at least during Prohibition years – was at the peak of its gaudiest best. American writing, graphic art and musical comedy were especially lively. Soon, a host of bright, talented writers were attracted to this unconventional weekly publication. Some were already established names, like Robert Benchley and Ralph Barton, while others made the risky leap from ad agencies in the hope it was something more exciting than writing ad copy.

Gradually, the magazine morphed into a curious, almost schizophrenic publication, with parts of The New Yorker getting lighter and funnier, while its fiction, reporting and poetry got more serious. Ross banished sex in any form and scrutinized every sentence for off-color jokes and double entendres. He scrubbed the advertising to ensure it was suitable and disliked fatalistic or socially conscious pieces since they were inevitably too grim.

He was the quintessential editor who kept the copy clear and concise. In his opinion, Harry Houdini and Sherlock Holmes were the only two people in the English-speaking world everyone knew. Any lesser-known, marginal characters were quickly dispatched with a red line. Come back when they’re famous!

Well known for his extreme use of commas, one saving grace was that Ross was a true original member of the Algonquin Round Table, a group of writers, critics and actors who gathered daily for lunch to amuse each other with razor-sharp wisecracks and witticisms. Ross used his contacts with this group to help leverage the magazine since many had national newspaper columns. Also known as “The Vicious Circle,” especially after a few rounds of martinis, they delighted in sharpening their tongues. For example, someone would say “Calvin Coolidge died” and poet/satirist Dorothy Parker would respond, “How could they tell?” Or the comment about a famous actress’ theatrical performance: “Her emotions ran the full gamut from A to B.”

The group was a perfect complement to the magazine and New York’s classic elitism and charming sarcasm. In fact, a prospectus brochure announced (proudly) that it was not edited for old ladies in Dubuque. It was New York snobbery at its best (worst?).

Cartoonists Peter Arno and Helen Hokinson became regulars that first season and added to its reputation of “cosmopolitan sophistication.” One 1928 cartoon shows a mother telling her daughter, “It’s broccoli, dear” and the daughter responds, “I say it’s spinach and I say the hell with it!” (“I say the hell with it” became a common catchphrase and inspired a Broadway song by Irving Berlin). But perhaps the most reprinted cartoon in history is Peter Steiner’s 1993 gag: a drawing of two dogs at a computer with one saying, “On the Internet, nobody knows you’re a dog.”

On the serious side, after WWII, John Hershey penned a 31,000-word article in 1946 titled “Hiroshima.” It deftly conveyed the cataclysmic narrative of the 130,000 people killed through the stories of six survivors coping with the bomb’s aftermath. It was a publishing sensation and the questions it raised about humanity languish yet today. It has been called the most celebrated piece of journalism to come out of the war. This is exactly what Ross wanted. He dedicated nearly the entire issue to the article – a first for the magazine.

Another highly controversial coup was “The Lottery” by Shirley Jackson on June 6, 1948, which told a morbid, dark tale of a small town that conducts a bizarre ritual each year. It is often ranked as the most famous short story in the history of American literature (you’ll have to Google it).

Now, David Remnick, the fifth editor (starting in 1998), calmly leads the magazine to an uncertain future. The New Yorker has become the nation’s most honored magazine, with numerous National Magazine Awards and Pulitzer Prizes. Remnick’s personal awards are impressive and he has authored six important books. The New Yorker is not only the best general magazine, but perhaps the best magazine America has ever produced. At age 94, some say without it, everyone’s sights would be lower.

You decide.

Department stores once played a vital role in American life

Wanamaker’s Toy World Funnies was produced in 1933 as a promotional item for the department store’s New York location. This sample went to auction in May 2016.

By Jim O’Neal

In the complicated hierarchy of Greek mythology, the Titans were the first 12 children of Gaia (Mother Earth) and Uranus (Father Sky). They ruled during the mythical period of the Golden Age of Greek deities. In astronomy, Titan is the largest moon of Saturn, the second-largest natural satellite in our solar system.

In modern times, the adjective “titanic” derives from Titan. The famous ship Titanic was one of three RMS Olympic-class ocean liners built in the early 20th century. The other two were christened Olympic and Britannic. The Titanic sank in 1912 after hitting an iceberg on its maiden voyage. Britannic went down to a watery grave in 1916 after hitting a mine laid by a German U-boat during World War I.

Titanic was on its way from Southampton (UK) to NYC after calls in Cherbourg in France and Cobh, Ireland. On board were an estimated 2,224 passengers and crew. It is believed that about 1,500 people perished. Writer/director James Cameron’s 1997 award-winning film of the same name was a blockbuster at the box office. It received 14 Oscar nominations, snagging 11. It is in second place in box-office revenues, right behind Cameron’s other big hit, Avatar.

Titanic was the largest ship in the world and built at a cost of $7.5 million. It was also equipped with the latest in wireless technology. The crew immediately sent out a distress signal that was received in Newfoundland and retransmitted to all ships in the area. Full speed ahead! Unfortunately, none was near enough to reach Titanic before it sank.

Meanwhile, in New York City, the venerable Philadelphia Wanamaker’s Department Store had set up a unique floor exhibit (with wireless) to simply attract shoppers in the highly competitive New York market. A young employee of inventor/electrical engineer Guglielmo Marconi in NYC was routinely responsible for relaying wireless messages in Morse code to anyone in Philadelphia. His name was David Sarnoff and he would become well known for becoming the head of Radio Corporation of America (RCA) and starting the National Broadcast Company (NBC).

John Wanamaker

By chance, Sarnoff had taken a position at Wanamaker’s running the wireless communication operations, which included messages, ordering material and whatever else came along. What came along was the distress message from the Titanic that the ship was sinking and then that it had actually sank! All the newspapers had quit for the night, just after the first distress message came through. Starting early the next morning, Sarnoff was receiving names of both passengers who were rescued and those confirmed dead. The fact that Wanamaker’s was receiving real-time updates from the middle of the Atlantic was a big story by itself.

Eager crowds, not wanting to wait for newspapers with old stories, rushed to Wanamaker’s. Others went to Times Square, where a flashing billboard displayed the latest news. Names kept trickling in for three days and even set off a mini-financial panic involving the insurer Lloyd’s of London and other insurance companies. This obvious coup for Wanamaker’s was not just a lucky accident

John Wanamaker had started a small men’s clothing store in 1861 and was probably the most innovative marketing genius for the next 50-plus years. As the current crop of retail gurus bemoan the decline of retail due to e-commerce and pundits predict the slow death of shopping malls, they would be better served by studying Wanamaker the Retailer and Wanamaker the Employer.

On the retail side, consider that he opened the first retail store in Philadelphia … adjacent to George Washington’s President’s House (location, location, location). He played fine background music in the stores. He introduced orchestral concerts and circular rows of counters that guided shoppers through new merchandise. Even today, the 12-story granite-walled structure known as the Wanamaker Building houses the world’s largest Grand Court Organ with six keyboards and 28,000 pipes that transformed the shopping experience. At a cost of $105,000, it required 13 freight trains to convey it for installation.

Less grandiose was the customary practice to go into a shop and haggle until you got a good price (good luck with that today). John Wanamaker started the custom of putting price tags on every single item in the store … and then boldly advertising with big signs: ONE PRICE AND GOODS RETURNABLE.

For employees, he provided everyone with free medical care, recreational facilities, profit sharing and real pension plans … benefits that simply didn’t exist anywhere! I would love to see John Wanamaker and Jeff Bezos trading philosophies on growing a successful business. It would fascinating, despite the passage of two centuries.

Texas cowboy helped create our fascination with the ‘Wild West’

An 1885 first edition of Charles Siringo’s *A Texas Cow-Boy* sold for $28,680 at a November 2009 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

In 1885, Charles Siringo published his first book. It was an autobiography with the long and awkward title A Texas Cow-Boy; Or Fifteen Years on the Hurricane Deck of a Spanish Pony. It may have been a slight exaggeration to claim it sold a million copies (accounts vary). However, it was definitely plausible, since it was the first authentic book written by a genuine working cowboy.

Siringo had a reputation for being a reckless but courageous cowboy who was an expert shot with his reliable six-shooter. This was a fascinating combination and, when added to his real-life experiences, was exactly what ranch hands and dreamy-eyed city dwellers were eager to read about.

It’s doubtful that anyone was remotely aware of just how insatiable the public appetite was for stories about the exciting American West or the paucity of books or magazines available. This was a mysterious place filled with cowboys, ranchers, outlaws rustlers, Indians and lawmen. Stories about the “Wild West” were to become bestsellers beyond wildest imaginations.

Charles Siringo was born in Texas in 1855 and, after a few rudimentary lessons, became a cowpuncher. While still a teenager, he had his own registered brand and dreams of one day having a big ranch. This was still possible by simply rounding up a bunch of “mavericks” – unbranded cows wandering the open range – claiming ownership and slapping your own brand on them. He was never able to build much of a herd and ended up as a shopkeeper in Kansas for a few years.

However, before he was 30 years old, he had plenty of stories and a zeal for making money. The book he wrote was an immediate success and played a pivotal role in creating the enduring American fascination with the Western cowboy. He had spent 20 years working as a Pinkerton detective chasing rustlers and train robbers, sometimes even going undercover and infiltrating gangs of outlaws. Some of his more notable exploits included chasing Butch Cassidy and his “Wild Bunch” all over the Southwest until they escaped to South America (much to the relief of the railroad owners). Earlier, he and Sheriff Pat Garrett put an end to the career of Billy the Kid in a famous gunfight.

He finally left Pinkerton in 1907 but had enough real-life experience to write five more novels. He died in Altadena, Calif., in 1928 at age 73, probably unaware of just how popular stories of the West would become in books, movies and television.

By fate or coincidence, 10 years later, the most prolific chronicler of the American West would also be buried in Altadena, but this storyteller made a fortune and was the first author to become a millionaire. It was none other than the incomparable Zane Grey (1872-1939). Nobody comes close to spinning tales of this genre for so long and in every media available.

Zane Grey was from Zanesville, Ohio, and would become the best selling Western author of all time. From 1917 to 1926, he was one of the top 10 bestsellers nine times and is credited with sales of over a staggering 40 million books. Then, when the paperback format was introduced, most of his books were reissued into mass distribution.

Hollywood eagerly turned most of his stories into over 50 movies. His bestseller was 1912’s Riders of the Purple Sage; Grey sold the movie rights to motion-picture executive William Fox for $2,500. Fox went on to sell his company and it eventually grew into an entertainment giant. Last week, Disney bought 21st Century Fox for $71 billion.

Zane Grey books and movies easily made the transition to television. Dick Powell’s Zane Grey Theatre ran on CBS from 1956 to 1961 with 149 episodes. Uniquely, five episodes were so popular they ended up being spun off into their own shows: Trackdown (Robert Culp), The Rifleman (Chuck Connors), The Westerner (Brian Keith), Black Saddle (Peter Breck), and Johnny Ringo (Don Durant). And, of course, there was Grey’s novel The Lone Star Ranger, which spawned four movie adaptions.

I grew up going to the movies every Saturday and I tried to see every Western at least twice. This addiction carried over into television and I loved them all, memorizing all the actors and their role names. Somewhere in this repertoire, I suspect you will recall a favorite.

Eliminating national debt will require a bit of financial wizardry

An intimate and honest letter by John Adams to Vice President Elbridge Gerry, dated April 26, 1813, sold for $46,875 at an October 2014 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

President James Madison set the rather dubious record of having both of his vice presidents die in office. George Clinton went first on April 20, 1812. Clinton also set a record as the first person to lie in state at the Capitol. However, it was for only two hours pending finalization of his burial services.

Then Vice President Elbridge Gerry died on Nov. 23, 1814, during Madison’s second term as president. Gerry’s name is still in common use today … “gerrymandering” is a way to draw voting districts to favor a candidate or political party. Gerry also holds the distinction of being the sole signer of the Declaration of Independence to be buried in the nation’s capital. He is interned at the Congressional Cemetery, which is the only “cemetery of national memory” founded before the Civil War. Although it is privately owned, the federal government has 806 plots that are used for ex-members of importance.

Neither VPs Clinton nor Gerry were replaced, since the Constitution at the time did not have a provision for filling a vice presidential vacancy. If a VP died, the job was held open pending the next election. Congress finally got around to addressing this in 1967 with the ratification of the 25th Amendment. In the aftermath of President John F. Kennedy’s assassination, the 25th provides the specific procedures for replacing the president or vice president in the event of death, removal, resignation or incapacitation (better late than never!).

Clinton had earlier served as Thomas Jefferson’s second vice president (Aaron Burr was the first) and was one of two vice presidents who served under two different presidents. John C. Calhoun was the other to have this iffy honor.

Calhoun was VP for John Quincy Adams and then Adams’ successor, Andrew Jackson. Calhoun then resigned the vice presidency to become a senator from South Carolina. The South Carolina legislature had voted to nullify federal tariff laws and threatened to secede from the Union if the issue was not resolved. Calhoun, ever the politician, thought the tariff issue could best be resolved by Congress and he thought he would be of more help to South Carolina as a senator.

However, Jackson began mobilizing federal troops to send to Charleston and made headlines by stating he would hang Calhoun if South Carolina went ahead with their threat to secede from the Union. In December 1832, Jackson issued a “Proclamation on Nullification,” warning that disunion by force was treason! Recall that this was nearly 30 years before the Civil War started.

President Jackson remained steadfast on federal tariffs. First, he was adamant that the Constitution trumped states’ rights. Asked if he had a message to those who threatened to secede, he replied: “Yes, give them my compliments and say that if a single drop of blood is shed in opposition to the laws of the United States, I will hang the first man upon the first tree I can reach!”

Secondly, he knew the federal tariffs were critical to his firm pledge to pay off the national debt. Remarkably, Jackson made good on his promise to eliminate the national debt. On Jan. 8, 1835, the federal government paid off 100 percent of the national debt … the first time in the history of the country. Fittingly, it was the 20th anniversary of the Battle of New Orleans. The following year, an even more astonishing event occurred. President Jackson approved returning surplus treasury funds to individual states.

With the current national debt at more than $22 trillion, and another $100 trillion in liabilities (Social Security and Medicare), I suspect zero national debt will require a degree of financial wizardry not seen since Bernie Madoff was reluctantly letting people give him their money to invest.

Prohibition one of the most improbable political achievements in U.S. history

Dell in 1961 was publishing a comic-book based on *The Untouchables* television show.

By Jim O’Neal

In 1959, Desilu Productions aired the first episode of The Untouchables, a TV series starring Robert Stack. The storyline was from a book of the same title that recounted the exploits of an elite group of Prohibition agents working for the Treasury Department. They were battling the mafia in Chicago during Prohibition (1920-1933). “Untouchables” was a nickname for a small group of lawmen who refused to take bribes from bootleggers.

There was a real-life Eliot Ness (1903-1957), who had a career battling booze and bootleggers, but the 119 episodes on TV were generally fictional accounts. The show had a decent run over four years (1959-63) and the format used famous newspaper/radio commentator Walter Winchell as a narrator to make it seem more realistic. Winchell (who was paid $25,000 per program) and Robert Stack were the only two actors to appear in all 119 shows.

In 1987, there was a movie version starring Kevin Costner as Ness and Robert De Niro as a fictionalized Al Capone. Sean Connery played a regular street policeman, and won an Oscar for Best Actor in a supporting role.

Prohibition was one of the most improbable political achievements in American history. The idea that a democratic nation with millions of voting-age drinkers, more than 300,000 taverns and saloons (all eager to slake their thirst), and the fifth-largest industry were unable to prevent this legislation was unthinkable. However, the battle had been raging for as far back as Colonial times. A temperance movement had been fighting alcohol consumption on the basis that it would destroy the moral fiber of the nation. The effort was joined by political forces with booming voices (e.g. William Jennings Bryan) who were convincingly vociferous about the evils of John Barleycorn … with only limited success.

Pragmatic business leaders discouraged the use of alcohol, pointing out the negative effects on worker reliability, job-related injuries and, importantly, productivity and quality. But the problem was gradually becoming worse as the nation’s workforce refused to heed the warnings. Perhaps the loudest and most passionate opponents of alcohol were the wives and mothers left to contend with the impact on their families if the primary breadwinner was a drunk. Gradually, it seemed that the only people who were against prohibiting alcohol were the drinkers and all the people making money providing it.

Even the government seemed supportive of alcohol since one-third of federal revenues was derived from the tax on sales. However, in 1913, the 16th Amendment replaced alcohol taxes with a federal income tax, which generated significantly higher revenues. In the 1916 presidential election, neither President Woodrow Wilson nor his opponent Charles Evans Hughes even mentioned the issue. Both parties were leery of discussing it for fear of alienating either the “drys” or the “wets” in such a close race.

But the ratification of the 18th Amendment on Jan. 29, 1919, banned the manufacture, transportation and sale of liquor – introducing a period in America’s history we still call simply Prohibition. Of course, wealthy men and institutions stocked up before the legislation went into effect. Curiously, the Act did not prohibit consumption. President Wilson moved his extensive inventory into the White House as did his successor, Warren Harding. The Yale Club in New York procured a supply that would last 14 years! Cynics were quick to point out that the president could have his martini each evening, but the working man could no longer get a beer and free sandwich at his favorite saloon.

For the less affluent, 15,000 doctors and 57,000 pharmacies got a license to supply medicinal alcohol. Drugstores were discrete sources as evidenced by Walgreens, which grew from 22 stores to over 500 in short order. Another loophole was the exemption that allowed homemade “fruit juices” for consumption exclusively in the home. Wineries in California were supplanted by millions at home. If left untended, the alcohol content in grape juice could soar to 12 percent. Grape juice production exploded.

However, a more insidious source of the banned alcohol developed. As the suburban population migrated to big cities, nightlife became synonymous with “speakeasies.” All one had to do was “speak easy,” act discreet and there was a convenient door where even women were now welcomed. The battle over alcohol shifted to the supply and distribution and there was a massive increase in organized crime as they fought over territories. Law enforcement was badly outgunned or was paid to look the other way.

Welcome to the Roaring Twenties!

As the Great Depression deepened, President Franklin Roosevelt signed legislation on March 21, 1933, that legalized the consumption of 3.2 percent beer, saying, “I think this would be a good time for a beer.”

Amen.

Richard Henry Dana Jr. turned measles into an adventure of a lifetime

A Classic Comics adaptation of Richard Henry Dana Jr.’s *Two Years Before the Mast* (Gilberton, 1945) sold for $1,314.50 at an August 2014 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

People of my generation are well aware that measles is a highly communicable disease, with many people usually infected in grade school. In a typical year, up to 4 million became infected, resulting in up to 500 deaths. In 1963, an effective vaccine was developed and infections plummeted as vaccination rates soared. By 2000, measles was officially declared eliminated in the United States.

So it was a surprise on July 3, 2015, when USA Today reported the death of a woman in Washington. There was another rash of infections several years ago in Southern California and there is currently an active outbreak in the Pacific Northwest. Apparently, a bogus report in the U.K. linked autism with the MMR (mumps, measles and rubella) vaccine and although thoroughly discredited, some people are cutting back on childhood vaccinations. I imagine they’re depending on other people getting vaccinated rather than taking a personal risk themselves. This has been characterized as “the most damaging medical hoax of the last 100 years.”

One man who didn’t have a choice was Harvard College student Richard Henry Dana Jr. (1815-1882). In 1831, he contracted measles and developed ophthalmia, an inflammation of the eye that’s considered a side effect. To improve his vision problems, he became a seaman in 1834 in the hope the exposure to ocean breezes would be helpful. It’s not clear if the sea air helped, but he spent two years sailing from Boston to South America and around Cape Horn to California.

The primary purpose of these voyages was to trade goods between the United States and the Spanish Colonial missions in the ports of San Diego, Santa Barbara, Monterey and San Francisco. California’s Spanish missions were a series of 21 religious outposts founded by Catholic priests to convert American Indians.

In the early 19th century, cattle ranching was the primary industry in California. The few hundred head introduced by Spanish friars 50 years earlier had flourished and grown into seemingly endless herds that roamed California’s lush grasslands. Vaqueros on horseback slaughtered the animals, skinned them and stripped off the best meat and tallow. The remains were left for coyotes and other scavengers.

The dried hides and tallow were then traded to the various ships that traveled the Pacific Coast in exchange for a wide range of goods manufactured on the East Coast of the United States. The cowhides were inevitably known as “California Banknotes” as they were the primary medium of exchange in the lucrative hide and tallow trade.

The San Diego port became a big market since it had an excellent harbor, a climate that was ideal for drying the hides and proximity to the entire coastline. The hides were destined to become shoes and boots while the tallow was used to make candles in lieu of the whale oil lamps in the East. It seemed like an ideal situation for all (except perhaps the cattle) until Dana pointed out that Californians were trading for shoes made from their own cowhides, produced far away in New England factories. Thus the leather had traveled around Cape Horn twice before Californians got to wear it – and all the profits remained in the East.

After returning home to New England, Dana wrote the memoir Two Years Before the Mast, which chronicled his sea travels, under the heavy foot of the captain, and observed that Californians were “an idle, shiftless people and can make nothing for themselves.” West Coast ranchers shipped out well over 1.2 million hides by 1845 that decimated the herds of cattle much as the buffalo would suffer in the Midwest. As Dana would observe, “In the hands of enterprising people, what a country this California could be.”

He was obviously unaware of their propensity to build a vast network of crowded freeways where cars can zip along at 5 mph or their obsession with high-speed rail between low-density, obscure locations. However, Dana’s book became a bestseller when gold was discovered and people flocked to California from all over the world. His book was one of the few travel guides available and it was highly sought after by the Forty-Niners. It was also made into a movie, released in 1946 and starring Alan Ladd and directed by John Farrow, who married Maureen O’Sullivan and had seven children (including Mia). The film was one of the most popular films released that year.

In 1869, Dana published an update of his famous book, Twenty-Four Years After, in which he was still arguing for improved conditions for seagoing men.

Couriers through history have toted a staggering volume of items

Alf Landon’s congratulatory postal telegram to Franklin D. Roosevelt on Nov. 4, 1936, realized $7,767 at a June 2008 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

The passing of information over great distances is an ancient practice that’s used many clever techniques.

In 400 B.C., there were signal towers on the Great Wall of China; beacon lights or drumbeats also were used to relay information. By 200 B.C., the Han dynasty evolved a complex mix of lights and flags. Speed has always been a priority and took many forms, including at the U.S. Postal Service. “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds” is the unofficial motto of the Postal Service (probable source: The Persian Wars by Herodotus).

Authorized by Congress in 1792, the many forecasts of the Post Office Department’s imminent demise appear to be exaggerated. We still get incoming six days a week and a post-office driver delivered a package to my place at 8 p.m. last week … one day after I ordered it from Amazon. The post office – renamed the U.S. Postal Service in 1971 – is now running prime-time ads claiming they deliver more e-commerce packages than anyone.

Through history, postal couriers have toted a staggering volume of items, as well as a few astonishing ones. A resourceful farmer once shipped a bale of hay from Oregon to Idaho. A real coconut was sent fourth class from Miami to Detroit with the address and postage affixed to the hull. Even sections of pre-fab houses have been mailed, delivered and then assembled into full-size homes.

Accounts vary as to where the 53-cent postage was affixed to pre-schooler Charlotte May Pierstorff the day her parents mailed her to see her grandmother in Idaho. In 1914, they had discovered it was cheaper to send her by U.S. mail than the full-fare the railroad charged for children traveling alone. At 48½ pounds, little May fell within the parcel post 50-pound weight limit. She traveled in the train’s mail compartment and was safely delivered to grandma. She lived to be 78 and died in California. She’s featured in an exhibit at the Smithsonian … at the National Postal Museum.

Another cheapskate shipped an entire bank building – 80,000 bricks, all in small packages – from Salt Lake City to Vernal, Utah, in 1916. This time, the postmaster put his foot down … no more buildings! But 9,000 tons of gold bars were transferred from New York to Fort Knox in 1940-41. This time, the post office collected $1.6 million in postage and insurance. My all-time favorite was when jeweler Harry Winston donated the famous Hope Diamond to the Smithsonian in 1958. He kept costs low by sending the 45.52-carat gem in a plain brown wrapper by registered first-class mail. (Note: It arrived safely.)

The quest for speed took a quantum leap on May 24, 1844, when Samuel F.B. Morse sent the first telegraph. Standing in the chamber of the Supreme Court, Morse sent a four-word message to his assistant in Baltimore, who transmitted the message back. Members of Congress watched the demonstration with fascination. At the time, the Supreme Court was housed in the Capitol building. They finally got their own building in 1935 after heavy lobbying by Supreme Court Justice William Howard Taft.

For Americans at the turn of the 20th century, seeing a telegram messenger at the door usually meant bad news. Western Union and its competitors weren’t pleased by the fact that their roles as bearers of bad news had spread. So in 1914, they started emphasizing good-news messages, sending them in bright, cheerful seasonal envelopes. Next were 25-cent fixed-text telegrams that gave senders pre-written sentiments in 50 categories, like Pep-Gram #1339: “We are behind you for victory. Bring home the Bacon!” Forgot Mother’s Day? Use #432: “Please accept my love and kisses for my father’s dearest Mrs.” Next were singing telegrams, but they became passé and in 2006, Western shut down its telegram service.

The message of that first Morse telegraph in 1844 is a question we still ask after every innovation, whether it was faxes, the internet, email or texts: “What hath God wrought?”

Perhaps next is mental telepathy. Who knows? It will be faster and awe us once again.

As delegates hissed, Martin Van Buren became his party’s presidential nominee

Five miniature portraits of George Washington, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, James Madison and Martin Van Buren, likely produced in Europe during Van Buren’s presidency, sold for $14,340 at a May 2012 Heritage auction.

By Jim O’Neal

Andrew Jackson had been denied the presidency in the election of 1824, despite winning most of the popular votes and electoral votes. In situations where a political candidate did not secure a majority, the House of Representatives decided which of the top three candidates (by vote totals) would become president. The top three in 1824 were Jackson, John Quincy Adams and William Crawford. Henry Clay had finished fourth and was dropped from consideration.

The House then voted and picked Adams for president and he subsequently appointed Clay to be Secretary of State. Critics claimed that Clay had persuaded the House to vote for Adams in a secret quid pro quo for the Cabinet position. The dispute became notorious and was dubbed “the Corrupt Bargain” by Jackson supporters.

However, Jackson bounced back four years later and soundly defeated JQA for the presidency. This was the second time an incumbent president had been defeated. Thomas Jefferson had defeated President John Adams in the election of 1800. Both Adamses, father and son, were bitter about their defeats, and the “Era of Good Feelings” that existed for eight years (1817-1825) under President James Monroe came to an abrupt end. The deterioration into partisan politics was precisely what George Washington had warned about if political parties were allowed to flourish. He was a man wise beyond his years, as we know so well today.

After Jackson served two tumultuous terms (1829-1837), the Hero of New Orleans was tired and ready to go home. He had abandoned the idea of a third term and even seriously considered an early retirement that would allow close friend and adviser Vice President Martin Van Buren to assume the presidency. This would help ensure a peaceful continuation of Jacksonianism and put Van Buren in a strong place for the 1836 election. Van Buren consistently opposed this and finally the idea was dropped. Jackson would patiently wait for the end of his term.

However, earlier in 1835, Jackson had strongly urged party leaders to hold a national convention composed of delegates “fresh from the people” to pick the nominees. He made no secret of his personal preferences: Martin Van Buren for president and Col. Richard Johnson of Kentucky for vice president. This was not a popular choice, especially in the South, where many considered Van Buren a slick New York politician and Johnson worse … much worse. Johnson was anathema to Southerners. His common-law wife was a black woman and they had two children, which Johnson openly acknowledged.

To others, the “Van Buren Convention” was a farce. They complained that several states didn’t send delegates and others sent too many. They singled out Tennessee, which didn’t have delegates, but simply found a merchant from Tennessee who was in Baltimore on business at the time, quickly admitted him to the convention and allowed him to cast all 15 Tennessee votes for Van Buren and Johnson. His name was Edward Rucker and “ruckerize” (assuming a position or function without credentials) entered the jargon as a pejorative with an easy definition. Eventually, Van Buren and Johnson were selected as the Democratic-Republican Party ticket, with the delegates from Virginia hissing as they walked out of the convention.

Van Buren’s opposition in 1836 was composed of various anti-Jackson parties that had formed a new party called the Whigs. The old English Whigs had fought against royal despotism, and the American Whigs were dedicated to fighting “King Andrew the 1^st.” They were too dispersed to hold a national meeting, so they simply nominated regional favorite sons: Daniel Webster (New England), Senator Hugh White (South) and General William Henry Harrison (West). Their hope was to divide the electoral vote, deny Van Buren the majority and have the election settled in the House as in 1824.

The strategy failed as Van Buren got almost 51 percent of the vote and was elected president. Richard Johnson had a tougher time. Twenty-three of the Virginia delegates refused to vote for him as “faithless electors” and he was one vote short of the 148 requirements. This time, the VP election was tossed to the Senate and for the only time in history, the Senate elected the vice president of the United States, 34 to 16.

Concurrently, word was received in Washington that Sam Houston had taken the president of Mexico as a prisoner, and Texas was applying for annexation as a state. Jackson was hesitant to accept a new state over the slavery issue. However, on the last day of his term of office, he recognized Texas independence – setting the stage for future annexation. Two days later, after handing over the reins of government to now-President Martin Van Buren, he left Washington by train to return to his beloved Hermitage.

Let’s just say Julia Grant truly enjoyed her days in the White House

This cabinet card, signed by First Lady Julia D. Grant, went to auction in November 2015.

By Jim O’Neal

In May 1876, President Ulysses S. Grant and his wife Julia traveled to Philadelphia from Washington to open the Centennial Exposition in Fairmount Park. The United States was celebrating its 100th birthday and the signing of the Declaration of Independence. It was also a great opportunity to display the remarkable industrial progress that had occurred during the intervening years, especially in the 19th century. The exhibition was the result of three years of extensive planning and it was an impressive accumulation of American ingenuity.

On May 10, before an excited crowd of 186,672, Grant officially opened the fair following Wagner’s Centennial March. It was difficult to hear his speech due to crowd noise, but a flag raising and cannon volley was followed by a loud chorus of “hallelujah!” This was followed by a march to Machinery Hall, where a switch was thrown to spark the enormous Corliss electrical engine to power up all the machinery. At 50 feet tall, it was the largest in the world and powered more than 100 machines on display.

The First Lady was miffed that she wasn’t chosen to start the festivities and her pique exposed how accustomed she had grown to deference in the White House after eight years of pampering. But that honor went to Empress Teresa Cristina, wife of Emperor Dom Pedro II, the last emperor of the Brazilian empire. He had become emperor at age 5 when his father died and he reigned for an astounding 58 years (1831-1889).

Dom Pedro had visited the United States earlier and had attended one of Alexander Graham Bell’s deaf-mute classes at Boston College. Inspired by Bell’s work, he founded the first deaf-mute school in Rio de Janeiro when he returned home. Coincidently, Bell had been persuaded to exhibit his latest invention at the fair: the Bell telephone. When the affable emperor learned of Bell’s exhibit, he eagerly agreed to try the device in a demonstration for a crowd.

Placing the receiver to his ear, he was treated to Bell’s personal recitation of Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy. Delighted and astonished, Dom Pedro exclaimed, “My God, it talks!”

However, the general public proved to be less impressed and hard to sell. As one detractor complained, “It is a scientific toy … for professors of electricity and acoustics.” After convincing his father-in-law, lawyer and financier Gardiner Hubbard, Bell and his assistant Tom Watson set out on a demonstration tour. AGB would sit on a stage, connected to Watson via leased telegraph lines several miles away. After introductory remarks, Watson would sing a repertoire of tunes, including Yankee Doodle.

As an aside, AGB’s first coherent telephone message – “Mr. Watson, come here, I want to see you” – was really a plea for help. He had spilled battery acid on his pants and, instinctively, made the first emergency call in history. We know how that story progressed since we all carry around smartphones that have more computing power (and other functionality) than Apollo 11 when it made its historic manned flight to the moon in 1969.

Although Grant was cheered at the opening of the Centennial Exposition, any thoughts he had about a third term disappeared in a toxic haze of a weak economy and widespread corruption. When the Republican Convention met in Cincinnati in June, the party platform directly criticized Grant, calling the administration “a corrupt centralism … carpetbag tyranny … honeycomb federal government … with incapacity, waste and fraud.” Out of this cesspool stepped the governor of Ohio, Rutherford B. Hayes, an honest, sincere man with a commitment to limiting the presidency to a single term. Democrats picked the governor of New York, Samuel Tilden, with strong credentials having conquered Tammany Hall and the corrupt Boss Tweed ring of rogues.

Hayes won in 1876 after the most controversial presidential election in U.S. history. Grant was actually worried about a coup as Democrats, convinced the election was rigged, rallied under the cry of “Blood or Tilden.” Since March 4, 1877, was a Sunday, there was precedent to avoid having the inauguration on the Sabbath by waiting until the next day, as Presidents Monroe and Taylor had done. Grant was so paranoid about waiting an extra day that he arranged for a private ceremony on Saturday night as part of a routine dinner at the White House. Hayes was sworn in by Chief Justice Morrison Waite before the food was served.

On Monday, March 5, the ceremony was recreated (for show only) before a crowd estimated at 30,000. A teary-eyed Julia Grant was not one of them. She stayed in the White House as long as possible and I suspect she would have welcomed having another four years. She even hosted a luncheon for her successor after the inauguration. She later wrote, “How pretty the house was … in an abandon of grief, I flung myself on the lounge and wept, wept oh so bitterly.”