__________
“My feet used to be cold almost always
at night, in winter. Since I have used this coal those grievances are removed
entirely.”
Mathew Carey
__________
 |
The wife of President John Quincy Adams.
(All pictures in this post from blogger's collection.) |
AS EARLY AS 1744, Ben Franklin had worried that wood as a fuel for heating and
cooking was becoming scarce in the settled regions of the Thirteen Colonies.
As
one modern historian notes, however, old-fashioned fireplaces were “insanely
inefficient,” with up to 90% of the heat disappearing up the chimney. The
discovery of anthracite coal in Pennsylvania changed the dynamic later – since
anthracite burned with less smoke than bituminous coal. The introduction of
stoves, however, struck some as “un-American.”
One
of the first testimonials for the new fuel came in an 1825 letter written by Mathew Carey, a Philadelphia publisher who
boasted that coal kept his room “a toasty 60 degrees Fahrenheit during chilly
months. ‘My feet used to be cold almost always at night, in winter,’ he wrote.
‘Since I have used this coal those grievances are removed entirely.’”
The
debate remained unsettled for several generations:
In an 1864 essay, Harriet Beecher Stowe
fulminated: “Would our Revolutionary fathers have gone barefooted and bleeding
over snows to defend air-tight stoves and cooking-ranges? I trow [believe]
not.” In his 1843 short story “Fire Worship,” Nathaniel Hawthorne argued
that gathering before a flickering hearth was crucial to bringing families and
citizens together.
“Social intercourse cannot long
continue what it has been, now that we have subtracted from it so
important...an element as firelight,” Hawthorne fretted. “While a man was true
to the fireside, so long would he be true to country and law.”
The cultural arguments piled up. Food
cooked in stoves was baked, not broiled, and that, too, offended American
tastes. Meanwhile, Andrew Jackson Downing, an early landscape architect, argued
in 1850 that stoves were “secret poisoners,” worse than “slavery ... tobacco,
[or] patent medicines.”
“People were blaming coal-fired stoves
for impaired vision, impaired nerves, baldness and tooth decay,” says Barbara
Freese, author of Coal: A Human History. It certainly smelled less
pleasant than wood. Further, coal – particularly soft coal – produces soot,
which choked some towns with dangerous particulates.
Apart from the cultural backlash, coal
was a pain to light. Anthracite stoves often required multiple attempts to
start the flame and demanded constant fiddling with a poker. An 1827 guide for
servants devoted 15 full pages to the black art. One period analysis found the
new stoves added an hour of work to a housewife’s chores.
It
would not be until 1885, that Americans – with increasing numbers living in
burgeoning cities – would burn more coal than wood.
*
February 9: No
candidate for president having won a majority of the electoral votes, the
decision falls to the House of Representatives, as set forth by the U.S.
Constitution, to decide. With each state having a single vote, the final tally
is as follows: 13 states vote for John Quincy Adams, 7 for Andrew Jackson, 4
for William Crawford.
Ladies had been excluded from the
galleries of the House originally, in accordance with British precedent. But
one night at a party a lady expressed her regret to Hon. Fisher Ames, of
Massachusetts, that she could not hear the argument, especially his speeches.
Mr. Ames gallantly replied that he knew of no reason why ladies should not hear
the debates. “Then,” said Mrs. Langdon, “if you will let me know when next you
intend to speak, I will make up a party of ladies and we will go hear you.”
The notice was given, the ladies went,
and since then Congressional orators have always had fair hearers – with others
perhaps not very fair.” (Benjamin Perley
Poole, Reminiscences; Volume 1, pp.
77-78)
*
One in five New England brides reached the
altar in a pregnant state.
The New York Times reviews Doomed Romance, which tells the story of Martha
Parker, who in 1825, ran afoul of the moral police of the era. Born in
Dunbarton, N.H. in 1804, she was one of eight siblings. They lost their father
when they were young.
With two
elder sisters, she attended the “deeply religious” Bradford Academy, in Essex
County, Mass.; the eldest, Ann Parker, soon married and went to the Palestine
mission in Beirut. Teaching at another such school, Martha was besotted with
the idea of “forsaking all” for Christ.
All went
well for her until, at 21, overwhelmed by a crush of courting during the summer
of 1825, she made a series of romantic missteps. Fatefully, she dallied with [Thomas] Tenney, her second cousin, known to her since childhood, an earnest young man
redolent of the “odor of sanctity” who had first courted another of her older
sisters, Emily. His proposal rejected by Emily, he turned to Martha, proposing
again ... causing sisterly astonishment over his fickle affections. Martha
turned him down twice but that summer changed her mind, dangling before him the
prospect of winning his “highest earthly happiness.”
His affections violently rekindled, he decided that “she loved
me ardently.” She and Tenney became engaged that December.
(Christine Leigh Heyrman, the author of Doomed
Romance, notes that double standards were common in that era, as always.
One in five New England brides, she says, reached the altar in a pregnant
state.)
Martha’s problems revolve around Tenny, and two
other suitors of greater or lesser success. The second is Elisha Jenney, a
student at Dartmouth, who tries to win her affection but fails. The third is
Elnathan Girdley, a Yale grad preparing to go to Palestine “to minister to the
heathen,” as the Times reviewer notes. When Martha first accepts
Tenney’s proposal, then tosses him over for Gridley, who seems to offer her a
chance for “missionary glory,” again, the American Board of Commissioners for
Foreign Missions becomes involved. An investigation results. No taint of
scandal can be allowed to tarnish the reputation of their missionaries, in an
era when some who travel overseas become martyrs, subjects of great admiration,
and spark for significant donations.
Martha breaks with Tenney, accepts a proposal
from Gridley, and then faces Tenney’s wrath. He labels her “a base girl, a
deceiver, a liar” in one letter. He comes to believe it is his duty to keep
such a woman from serving as a missionary in, of all places, the Holy Land, or
anywhere else. Tenney testifies against her, and, says the reviewer, the investigating
board “grilled poor Martha like a trout.”
It was even said that if she married Gridley,
it would be tantamount to “adultery.” Now she broke with her second fiancée.
Gridley headed overseas by himself, and soon died of disease in Turkey.
Under great pressure, Martha Parker agrees to marry Tenney, and is, says the
reviewer, “silenced forthwith.”
The review continues:
Mining
missionary records, Heyrman unearths some astonishing revelations. Even as
church leaders were turning the screws on women, they were tolerant (given what
would come later) of same-sex relationships. She quotes male partners in the
mission at Beirut, Pliny Fisk and Levi Parsons, who had pledged to “give
ourselves to each other,” “our hearts knit together
as the heart of one man.” A pair of Virginia Methodists went further, with one
“covenant brother” telling the other that he dreamed of “kissing you with the
kisses of my Mouth.” She finds revenge too: The Tenneys’ eldest daughter, Mary
Eliza, grew up to join the ranks of foreign missionaries with her aunt Ann’s
help, fulfilling her mother’s ambition. She became a popular writer, and
Heyrman catches her, in her fiction, dissing the very prototype of her
“unprepossessing” father.
