Ohio History Journal

BOOK REVIEWS

Anyone interested in history, especially of the nineteenth century, will be energized by the complex revelations and new material in Joyous Greetings. Bonnie Anderson succeeds in demonstrating, without question, the boundary-breaking international nature of "the woman question" in the nineteenth century. Interweaving gender with the political and social context since the French Revolution, she has told an exciting story. A wealth of detail from years of archival research brings to life German, French, English, and American leaders of the early women's movement.

Utilizing a structure that is both thematic in terms of women's life cycles and roughly chronological, Anderson explores the situation of middle-class Victorian women. She clarifies how the separate spheres concept arose with the Industrial Revolution as production moved outside the home. "Separate spheres" implies an equality, but the areas allotted each sex "became increasingly unequal" as women's work within the household was less visible. Thus, a sign of status was a wife not working (for wages). Clothing changes for both sexes in the nineteenth century also showed how gender differences came to be more important than class differences. Men of both the aristocracy and the middle class came to accept the simpler coat and trousers with white shirt of the bourgeoisie, eschewing the aristocratic knee breeches, corsets, high heels, wigs and make-up of earlier times. But tight lacing, high heels, ankle-length skirts and petticoats, and exotic hairstyles were still demanded of both middle-class and aristocratic women. Dress reform was a hotly contested issue throughout the period, as shown by the ill-fated attempt to introduce the bloomer costume of loose pants under a calf-length skirt.

After exploring how the twenty exceptional women in her core group managed to "become rebels," Anderson describes how they began to connect with each other via reform organizations (like the abolitionist movement to end slavery), early socialism, immigration and travel, political exile, and the proliferation of women's newspapers and books about women's situations in other lands, such as the Swedish Fredrika Bremer's Homes of the New World (1853) and the English Harriet Martineau's Society in America (1837). Anderson employs the geologic metaphor of volcanic eruption, often used in the 1840s to signify political unrest, to elucidate the growth of women's demands. French revolutionary women in 1 848 called themselves Les Vésuviennes, after the volcano in Italy, and Fredrika Bremer named the period a "social volcano."

The conclusion describes the crushing of the radical women's movement after the failed continental revolutions of 1848-49, citing the repressive legislation in France and Germany, and, especially after the beginning of the Civil War, the retreat in the U.S. and England from all-encompassing demands for women to campaigns focused only on women's suffrage. I would argue, however, that stalwarts like Elizabeth Cady Stanton in the U.S., Fredrika Bremer in Sweden, Barbara Leigh Smith Bodichon in England, and Jenny d'Héricourt in the U.S. and France did continue the larger fight, while newer organizers like Frances Power Cobbe in England, Dora

d'Istria in eastern Europe, Selma Borg in the U.S. and Finland, and Matilda Joslyn Gage in the U.S., built on the ideas and inspiration of the earlier pioneers, continuing women's demands in education, the law, religion, violence against women, and work.

On every page there are exhilarating, apt quotations as we come to know the work of these women from five nations. Still, the author's practice of using the English names of journals and newspapers rather than their French or German titles is frustrating for anyone trying to find a source. Voice of Women is used, not La Voix des femmes, and Women's Newspaper instead of Frauen-Zeitung.

Joyous Greetings joins other works recently published on international feminisms: Leila Rupp's Worlds of Women: The Making of an International Women's Movement (1997), Margaret McFadden's Golden Cables of Sympathy: The Transatlantic Sources of Nineteenth-Century Feminism (1999), and Karen Offen's European Feminisms, 1700-1950 (2001). Nineteenth-century historiography undoubtedly will be significantly affected by this wealth of source material and the movement's rescue from oblivion.

Margaret McFadden, Appalachian State University

Blue Jacket: Warrior of the Shawnees. By John Sugden. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000. xvi + 350p.; maps, illustrations, notes, bibliography, index. $29.95.)

John Sugden admits to being viewed as something of an eccentric by his British colleagues. Born in Hull, England, trained in three English universities, and the former director of studies at Hereward College, he has spent the last thirty years studying American Indians, in particular the Shawnees in the Ohio Valley. Sugden has already written two books on Tecumseh for respected American presses and a monograph on eighteenth-century Shawnee culture published by a German ethnological association. Blue Jacket is his fourth effort relating to the Shawnee and, in many respects, is his best yet.

If Sugden is singular in his academic interests, neither is he afraid of controversy. His introduction immediately attacks the long-held belief that Blue Jacket was not an Indian but a captured white man, remembered as Marmaduke van Swearingen. Recognizing the myth's durability, Sugden carefully deconstructs it, revealing its original source as an Ohio journalist writing in 1877 and greatest reinforcement through Allen Eckert's Ohio frontier novels and the modern summer drama performed near Xenia. Sugden is certainly not the first professional historian to demonstrate the myth's inability to stand up to historical scrutiny but is likely the most thorough. He points out that it was believable, even by Blue Jacket's own descendants, because the chief married a white woman and fathered children recognized as "half-bloods."

More important than restoring the chief's ethnicity is Sugden's goal of reestablishing the prominence of Blue Jacket and the Shawnee in the military and political history of the eighteenth-century Ohio frontier. This is done, admittedly, not so much to denigrate the role of Little Turtle and his Miami Indian brethren as to restore the Shawnee chieftain and his people to the rightful position they occupied among their contemporaries. Like the controversy over Blue Jacket's personal history, Sugden examines and evaluates the origin of Little Turtle's claim to

ascendancy and reveals that the Miami chieftain himself or his son-in-law, William Wells, provided the information. No less a figure than Major General Anthony Wayne recognized the rivalry and competing claims of the two leaders. While crediting Blue Jacket with the Indian leadership at St. Clair's Defeat, the author admits that a host of factors—among them individualistic Indian fighting techniques, shortages of manpower and firearms, and lack of supplies—worked against any one Indian truly having overall control (p. 109). And Sugden concedes that even the "independent witnesses with no apparent axe to grind" who named the Shawnee as leader still constitute, as with many components of his biography, "thin evidence" (p. 118).

While historians may debate battle leadership, there should be no doubt about Blue Jacket's importance in the negotiations that preceded the Treaty of Greene Ville. In fact, as Sugden points out, it was Blue Jacket who pulled together a peace party of Indians. At the risk of his own prestige, he was the first to approach General Wayne to discuss peace terms, and the general, who understood the chief's importance to the process, went out of his way to accommodate him. Blue Jacket's personal intervention was, according to the son of Alexander McKee, "the cause of the Indians coming in" (p. 195). With Wayne's concurrence, the Shawnee war chief offered safe places for villages, food, and trade goods and was responsible for transferring the Indians, including substantial segments of the Wyandots, Delawares, Ottawas, and Miamis, from British to American influence. Ironically, the Shawnee chief was unable to deliver four-fifths of his own people to Greene Ville.

In reinstating the Shawnee to their proper position, Sugden has not fallen into the trap of oversimplification. Blue Jacket was a powerful war chief, but he did not operate within a vacuum of Shawnee leadership. Authority was shared with individuals such as his orator half-brother Red Pole, whose death early in 1796 was a serious blow to Blue Jacket and the Shawnee nation. Nor does the author see the Shawnee as monolithic. He recognizes the diversity of opinions that could exist amongst a people living in widely dispersed villages under the influence of strongwilled, individualistic leaders. Captain Johnny, for a time the nation's principle civil chief, and his Shawnee band remained under British influence into the first decade of the nineteenth century. The main split in the Shawnee came in the wake of the treaty when a large body in Auglaize and Logan Counties guided by the acculturationist Black Hoof were at odds with nativist elements under the Prophet and Tecumseh. Despite his striking success as an entrepreneur in the frontier white economy, Blue Jacket eventually formed an alliance with the nativists.

Sugden sheds light on the influential role played by the Lasselle family during the period. Antoine and Jacques "Coco" Lasselle were French-Canadian traders in the Detroit area during the third quarter of the eighteenth century and the early nineteenth century. The latter brother became Blue Jacket's son-in-law by marrying his daughter Mary in the 1790s, and, Sugden speculates, became an especially close confidant. These Francophiles were quick to remind the Shawnees and others of French successes whenever warfare erupted in Europe. In fact, accusations by English traders and military officers that the two brothers were undermining the British-supported Indian confederacy (p. 148) forced them into the Indian line of battle at Fallen Timbers in order to prove their fidelity (p. 173).

Sugden's research comes full circle in his claim that Tecumseh's confederacy had its origin in the Blue Jacket-led confederacy of the 1790s (pp. 227-228). Having begun his Shawnee historical odyssey with Tecumseh, he ends it by tying up his research on Blue Jacket there. Because Blue Jacket spent his later years in the

company of the younger Shawnee leader, Sugden envisions a mentoring relationship between the two (p. 258). "Plans of intertribal unity" (p. 313) were not new but old and the end of a strategy begun by other Shawnees half a century before.

Many snares lie in wait for the Indian biographer. Not the least is the sparsity, and at times questionable, veracity of resources. These force historians who, like Sugden, are interested in explaining their subject's behavior, into areas of supposition and speculation. Sugden faithfully indicates where he does this and when he is expressing opinions, although casual readers may sometimes miss his cautionary words like "presumably" and "probably."

In sum, this British scholar provides Blue Jacket and the other Indians who surrounded him on the Ohio frontier with human dimensions. The Indians on these pages have feelings but also suffer hard-heartedness; they meet with both successes and failures, and equally display aspirations and indifference. They are, just like their white counterparts, imperfect human beings. But because of this historian's honest portrayals, the reader comes closer to understanding an Indian point of view than in most previous treatments of the period. Sometimes the author's evidence is fragmentary, but he always reveals his exhaustive research and explains his reasoning process. Eccentric or not, Sugden has done historians of the Ohio frontier a great service.

David A. Simmons, Ohio Historical Society

Inside Hitler's High Command. By Geoffrey P. Megargee. (Lawrence: The University Press of Kansas, 2000. xxi + 327p.; illustrations, notes, bibliography, index. $34.95.)

Geoffrey Megargee, who received his Ph.D. in History from Ohio State University in 1998, has provided a badly needed organizational history of the German High Command during World War II. Based primarily on German archival and published sources, Inside Hitler's High Command explodes numerous myths regarding the efficiency of German military decision making and regarding the sole responsibility of Adolf Hitler for Germany's military disasters.

The author begins by reminding the reader of German general staff traditions which emphasized an officer's character rather than his intellectual acumen and which held that operational planing alone, if properly worked out, could surpass any obstacle. Such tendencies remained regardless of Hitler, but also despite changes in warfare foreshadowed in the interwar period such as the need to plan joint operations and garner superior intelligence. The deficiencies were masked by Germany's early victories, but they became frighteningly clear during the Eastern Campaign. The USSR was judged—by staff officers as well as by Hitler—on notions of its supposedly inferior national character. An understaffed and under-trained army intelligence office committed horrendous errors regarding enemy capabilities, while logistical problems were never worked out sufficiently in the expectation of victory in a single grand offensive.

Megargee is at his best in demonstrating how Germany's military suffered from a chaotic institutional structure, and a review cannot do justice to his meticulous work describing the conflicting maze of authority within the command chain. An understaffed Supreme Command (0KW) lacked the personnel and authority to fulfill its theoretical function of unifying the three service branches, thus leaving

Hitler with the final authority to arbitrate between constantly bickering officers after long periods of confusion and wasted staff work. Each operational theater, meanwhile, had its own chain of command, from Poland, which was left to the Army High Command (OKH), to Norway, which was under direct 0KW supervision, to Crete, which was a Luftwaffe theater, to North Africa, which was technically under Italian command. The simple transfer of increasingly scarce troops and supplies from one theater to another could not occur without days of argument. And as the war progressed, Hitler and his top officers housed in Hitler's East Prussian headquarters became increasingly isolated from their own staffs and divisional commands. Distrust and resultant exaggerated reporting up and down the chain(s) of command complete the dismal picture of a military command at odds with itself.

Finally, Megargee wrecks the picture, carefully cultivated in the postwar testimony of Hitler's generals, of competent officers led by an incompetent Führer. True, Hitler's micromanaging, amateurishness, and tendency to interrupt briefings with lengthy monologues did not help German staff work. But numerous senior officers shared Hitler's attitudes, aims, and operational decisions. Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt approved of the halt before Dunkirk. Army Chief of Staff Franz Halder (1938-1942) agreed with Hitler that the USSR would fall in a single offensive despite Germany's limited resources, and he was taken by complete surprise by the Soviet winter offensive in 1941. His successor Kurt Zeitzler (1942-1944) insisted on speedier staff work with smaller staffs, while demonstrating full devotion to Hitler. And the list goes on to include such luminaries as General Heinz Guderian, whose self-serving memoirs still sell well in Germany today. Overall, Megargee has provided an essential history from a new perspective that should be on the shelf of every scholar of the Second World War.

Norman J. W. Goda, Ohio University

John D. Clifford's Indian Antiquities; Related Material by C.S. Rafinesque. Edited by Charles Boewe. (Knoxville: The University of Tennessee Press, 2000. xxxi + l'75p.; illustrations, notes, selected bibliography, index. $30.00.)

If you are interested in the first flowerings of American archaeology, especially in the early Midwest, you likely have a reprint of Caleb Atwater's 1820 "Description of the Antiquities Discovered in the State of Ohio and Other Western States," the first volume of the American Antiquarian Society's "Archaeologia Americana." The Circleville, Ohio, resident's weighty tome is a well-placed keyhole for letting us look into that lost world of the very early nineteenth century, where "antiquarians" were slowly becoming "archaeologists" in the shadow of Romanticism. Instead of museums, "Cabinets of Curiosities" were maintained in public places like Independence Hall in Philadelphia as a way of experiencing "the Sublime" without traveling to Mont Blanc, by viewing horrors, mysteries, and wonders from far away or long ago, and academic departments of natural history, classics, and language were very slowly starting to weave the fabric of a new discipline to study the artifacts of the past that appeared in those curio cabinets.

On the heels of Atwater's work was the contentious figure of Constantine Rafinesque, remembered for his distinctive name if not for many other achievements in early American archaeology. This Transylvania University professor of botany and natural history became an indefatigable identifier and lister of prehistoric sites

particularly in Kentucky. More infamously, he claimed to have discovered late in his life a collection of Indian pictographs called the "Walam Olam," generally regarded today as a fake likely created by its discoverer to advance certain linguistic theories about Indian migration.

But it was a Lexington, Kentucky, businessman and early archaeological enthusiast, John D. Clifford (1779-1820), who brought Rafinesque into the limelight, wrote archaeological theory that saw print before Atwater, and influenced his "Description of Antiquites" with the range and force of his conclusions, which largely paralleled Atwater's own. Rafinesque's attempt to claim pride of place for his now-deceased friend and benefactor after Clifford's death and Atwater's publication began an enmity that would cast a shadow over not only Rafinesque's stature in early archaeological developments, but would help to completely obscure Clifford's work behind them both.

Adding to the difficulty in appreciating the influence of Clifford's work on Atwater is that his writings appeared in a short-lived, poorly-circulated publication, the Western Review and Miscellaneous Magazine. Very few libraries today have copies of this early literary and scientific endeavor. This is the great gift that Charles Boewe has provided in assembling Clifford's published letters and articles from the Western Review, along with a number of pertinent letters and reviews by Rafinesque that closely follow Clifford's death, including those that began the feud with Atwater. In fact, sometimes Boewe seems to be more motivated to restore Rafinesque's reputation than he is to remind us of Clifford's place in archaeology's early days beyond the Alleghenies. This mixed agenda leads to the occasional cryptic remark, such as on page xxx where we are informed of a trove of material at the American Antiquarian Society that may have the potential to let Rafinesque be taken more seriously—but never tells us what those manuscripts are about. Clifford's works, on the other hand, are clearly presented in all their tragic brevity, and those who have Atwater's "Antiquities" on their shelves will certainly welcome the opportunity to place this collection next to that work, where it deserves its pride of place, so long obscured.

Clearly, the early history of archaeology in America is a rich and still largely untapped vein of ore, well worth further digging and delving. For those interested in exploring some of these as yet unexplored passages, Boewe offers a bright if flickering torch to carry the search deeper.

Jeff Gill, Hebron, Ohio

Southern Migrants, Northern Exiles. By Chad Berry. (Champaign: University of Illinois Press, 2000. xiii + 236p.; bibliography, index. $44.95 cloth; $21.95 paper.)

In the course of teaching American history, I often raise the issue of ethnicity, asking my students about their own ethnic origins. Many are very conscious and knowledgeable about their roots, while others profess to have little idea. Reflecting the ethnic diversity typical to the United States, their responses regularly cover a broad range of national or cultural backgrounds, spanning the areas and peoples of Africa, Europe, Asia, and Central America. Frequently, however, and to my initial surprise, many of my Ohio students self-define their ethnicity as either "Hillbilly," "Hilligan," or possibly, Appalachian. These common responses led me to the question, "Why are there so many people of Appalachian descent in north-central

Ohio?" The answer to this remained fuzzy until I came upon Chad Berry's engaging Southern Migrants, Northern Exiles, which provides a wonderful analysis of life in the prewar South, the white migration to the North, and the slow and awkward process of assimilation.

Actually, this migration is already well known to many. Millions either read or watch Harriette Arnow's The Dollmaker each year, which portrays the northern journey of white southerners seeking work in wartime industry. Focusing on the hardships of the Nevels family, Arnow illustrates the difficulties they experienced in adapting to both Detroit culture and to work inside the auto plants. Though quite popular as fiction, historians have largely overlooked this fascinating saga, more attentive to the larger and longer transition of African Americans from farm to factory. In Southern Migrants, Northern Exiles, Berry finally turns a scholarly eye to the experience of these white migrants, presenting a very comprehensive overview of their transition from rural to urban, industrial life.

Berry tells the complete story of this migration and cultural transition. This wide breadth is the greatest strength of his work, first providing the reader with a full understanding of why these people chose to leave their homes, the process of their move, and how they acclimated to their new environment. Not stopping with the migration itself, Berry follows the lives of several families up until recent years, examining how they either successfully adapted to urban culture, or possibly, how they ultimately decided to return to the South. More than just a story of demographic shift, Berry demonstrates how these migrants introduced their own style of evangelical worship and other aspects of their indigenous culture to their new urban neighbors. Berry shows how these white southerners not only filled critical wartime labor needs, but also enriched the diversity of urban life. In return, they faced endless discrimination, enduring negative stereotypes, inferior employment, and cruel insults for decades.

In addition to providing a well-structured and readable overview of this white migration, Berry also revises the accepted timeline for when this exodus occurred. Earlier studies look almost exclusively at the phenomena of wartime migration to fill labor voids in northern industry. Such work concentrates on the "pull" of the factories, depicting impoverished workers lured north with the promise of generous wages. This premise assumes the only "push" northward to be the dire poverty of the southern hill regions, disregarding other potential factors that might prompt emigration. Berry probes beyond these simplifications, documenting that large-scale white migration began decades before World War II, and continued for decades afterward. In fact, he asserts that the largest migration took place between 1945 and 1960, and continued steadily through the 1960s. Acknowledging the economic pull of wartime employment, Berry's analysis goes much further, examining the influences of extended family, mid-century cultural change, and the complex allure of city life.

Above and beyond his fine scholarship, Berry also shatters the simplifications and stereotypes that plague those of Appalachian descent. Berry's migrants are not a monolith of poverty and despair. Just as with most other immigrant "ethnic groups," the lives of his southern migrants varied greatly, with some achieving wealth, some remaining poor, and the majority finding reasonable prosperity and comfort. Most largely assimilated to their adopted environment, while others purposely retained much of their cultural heritage. Southern Migrants, Northern Exiles opened my eyes to the importance of this interesting, yet seldom-told story. Though not as dramatic as Arnow's fiction, Berry's narrative and analysis are brilliant and captivating,

shedding light on an unheralded transition in twentieth-century America. His work will appeal to scholars, students of American history, and most of all, to readers curious about the history of Appalachian culture.

David Gerard Hogan, Heidelberg College

C. Wright Mills: Letters and Autobiographical Writings. Edited by Kathryn Mills with Pamela Mills. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000. xxvii + 378p.; illustrations, notes, chronology, index. $34.95.)

This volume of letters and unpublished autobiographical writings of renegade sociologist C. Wright Mills, edited by his daughters, covers Mills's entire life, from his upbringing in Waco, Texas, through his college and graduate school days, to his years as a professor at the University of Maryland (1941-45) and Columbia (1945-62), where he established himself as one the America's most prominent—and controversial—intellectuals.

This collection reinforces the widely shared view that Mills's death in 1962, at age forty-five, cut short a career of great promise. Mills was a man of enormous energy and outsize ambitions. He wrote or coauthored six books, edited several others, and turned out literally dozens of scholarly articles. He was far from being a typical academic, however. Mills rode to work on a motorcycle, built his own house, and, most importantly, provided a badly needed critical perspective on American society during a period when all too many intellectuals retreated into the cocoon of bland functionalist analysis and sterile "consensus" history.

Mills's rebellion began early. In 1935, as a freshman at Texas A&M, he audaciously wrote letters to the editor of the student paper attacking the "sham, hypocrisy and feudalistic customs" of college life there. Mills soon transferred to the University of Texas, where he completed his undergraduate work, and went on to graduate school at the even more liberal University of Wisconsin. The letters in this volume enable the reader to observe the intersection of Mills's personal and professional lives as he built an extraordinary network of like-minded friends who provided him with moral support and, often, practical advice for his multifarious writing projects.

An important turning point in this personal oddysey was the publication of White Collar: The American Middle Classes (1951). More letters are devoted to Mills's grappling with this project than any other. This correspondence makes clear that much of Mills's caustic assessment of the "new" white-collar world of the postwar era was rooted in his personal experience with it in academia. One letter suggests that the chapter in White Collar comparing professors to business managers was based upon the year he spent as a visiting professor at the University of Chicago, whose once legendary sociology department by then was in sharp decline.

Publication of The Power Elite in 1956 further solidified Mills's reputation and expanded his influence beyond the United States. Much of the correspondence of his last six years was with scholars and activists in Europe and Latin America. While planning for other scholarly projects, Mills now devoted his immediate attention to more pressing issues. Two short volumes sharply critical of U.S. Cold War policies, The Causes of World War III (1958) and Listen, Yankee (1960), a sympathetic view of the Cuban revolution, led to surveillance of Mills by the F.B.I. At the time of his death, he was at work on a book about intellectuals in the U.S., Europe, and the

Soviet Union to be entitled The Cultural Apparatus, but never completed it.

Mills is best described as an independent leftist, a kind of populist with brains. "You see," he told one friend, "I've set my stuff always against various forms of liberalism because those are dominant. But it could just as well—in fact easier for me—be set against Marxism . . . . way down deep and systematically I'm a goddamned anarchist." He referred to himself as a "spiritual Wobbly," "the opposite of a bureaucrat," someone who "doesn't like bosses—capitalistic or communistic—they are all the same to [me]" (pp. 217-18, 252). In a revealing comment, he subscribed the causes of his intellectual independence not to the radical ideologies of the thirties but to "a very sensitive mother who imparted to me, thank God, many 'feminine' sensitivities in the middle of Texas, which insulated me, made me repelled by the rural and military crudities" he found around him there (p. 250). Also important was the model of racial tolerance that his mother set in her dealings with the Mexicans who lived near Mills's family.

Beginning in 1956-57, when he was a Fulbright Professor at the University of Copenhagen, Mills travelled extensively in Europe. The experience further alienated him from the mainstream of American life, which he found provincial and uninspiring. His interaction with other cultures provided opportunities for selfreflection, and he began a diary in the form of an ongoing correspondence with a fictional Russian named Tovarich. "In Europe, it has been said, an American discovers America," Mills wrote in one such letter. "But to do so that he must first discover himself. It may be an old self long buried, or a new self in the making, but if he is trying to be honest, the first question he must ask is not What Are You but What Am I?" (p. 298).

For a prominent writer, Mills had a rare humility. He continuously tried to learn from critics of his books and was perpetually dissatisfied with the quality of his intellectual efforts. By any objective standard, Mills produced a great deal of valuable scholarly work, but he was never content with traditional academic writing. The popularity of his later works attested to his growing mastery of a style that could entertain as well as enlighten readers. Had Mills lived only a few years longer, he undoubtedly would have left academia altogether, becoming what he really always wanted to be: a freelance writer and social critic. Ironically, this was exactly the kind of intellectual that Mills, in White Collar, had said was rapidly going out of existence in mid-twentieth century America.

Mills urged his friend, novelist Harvey Swados, to accept an academic appointment, because teaching was "the only half-free way of life in the US because despite everything, it allows you freedom and a physical chance as it were, to write as you like" (p. 213). By the late 1950s, however, Mills himself was increasingly dissatisfied with the limitations of that life, especially its bureaucratic aspects. "I just can't take these people seriously," he complained of his colleagues at the University of Chicago. "They have their own problems . . . not those of research people or writers or people trying to find out how to live. I'm afraid my attitude shows thru and so I've ceased to behave. I just yawn when I want to and attack whoever talks foolishness" (p. 132). The threat of McCarthyism, he believed, was less dangerous than the self-imposed censorship of most academics. Too many professors "intimidate themselves; they coordinate themselves instead of acting and speaking as they really think and as they would like to do" (p. 198).

Mills provides a valuable case study of an engage intellectual's attempt to combine work and life in a satisfactory way. While working on White Collar, Mills wrote that "flamboyance" was the "only way to live: the only personal answer to

bureaucratic precision and form which, part of the managerial demiurge, would stultify everything we do and are." Elsewhere, he favorably quoted W. H. Auden: "To grow up does not mean to outgrow either childhood or adolescence but to make use of them in an adult way . . ." (pp. 115, 248). The prefatory essays by Mills's daughters illustrate the ways in which he tried to apply this axiom to his own family relationships. Their remembrances, and the excellent Introduction by former student Dan Wakefield, provide valuable context for the documents reproduced in this excellent collection.

Kenneth L. Kusmer, Università di Genova

Not For Ourselves Alone: The Story of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. By Geoffrey C. Ward and Ken Burns. (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1999. xi + 240p.; illustrations, selected bibliography, index. $35.00.)

The gambit, "Haven't read the book, waiting for the film" does not work in the case of Not For Ourselves Alone: The Story of Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony. Simultaneously in 1999 the book was issued as the companion volume to the PBS documentary film. Faced with a choice of the order in which to experience the two works, I decided to watch the film first since I am a documentary filmmaker and a women's history scholar. The book followed; in both instances, I was thoroughly engaged.

In the Preface of the book, award-winning documentary filmmaker Ken Burns, director and producer of Not For Ourselves Alone, noted that Elizabeth Cady Stanton was "a name I only vaguely recognized." His editor, Paul Barnes, whose "infectious enthusiasm for Elisabeth Griffith's biography" convinced Burns to place Stanton on the list of future film projects, introduced him to her.

Paul Barnes had never heard of Stanton until he read a review in the New York Times Book Review of In Her Own Right, Griffith's life of Elizabeth Cady Stanton. He mentioned it to his friend Geoff Ward, historian and screenwriter, who had the book and loaned it to Barnes. Geoffrey C. Ward would eventually be the writer for both the documentary Not For Ourselves Alone and the text upon which it is based. In part, herein lies the success of the book and the film. The complement rests in the outstanding illustrations using primary source materials including archival photographs and footage, manuscripts, and contemporary photos of the environs that lend the nineteenth-century ambience of time and place.

For those of us immersed in women's history, the trail of discovery on the part of these men does not elude us; we are simply grateful! The outcome in the form of the book and the film is impressive. Both employ a chronological narrative to trace the lives of two extraordinary women, Elizabeth Cady Stanton (1815-1902) and Susan B. Anthony (1820-1906). They first met in 1851 at Seneca Falls, New York, forged a friendship that spanned fifty-two years, and with missionary zeal led a crusade to secure the most basic civil rights for women. Not realized in their lifetimes, the struggle continued for decades until with the passage of the Nineteenth Amendment, on November 2, 1920, American women for the first time went to the polls in every precinct in America and voted.

The comfortably paced film appears quiet and introspective enhanced by the musical score drawn from the time period but lacks the drama that the story demands. Actress Sally Kellerman is the narrator while Ronnie Gilbert gives voice

to Elizabeth Cady Stanton and Julie Harris to Susan B. Anthony. Interspersed are "talking heads" who are notable women historian essayists and biographers of Stanton and Anthony. In a film, it must be recognized the message is transmitted primarily through the visual and supported by the audio offered by the script. To editor Sarah Hill goes the accolade for the quality of this production.

The book is more compelling in its portrayal of the highly dramatic events that punctuated the life and times within which these indefatigable women devoted themselves to the cause of women's rights. The text is exceedingly well designed with illustrations ideally situated to complement the text where more information is provided than is possible in a film script. Beyond this the book offers the opportunity to set one's own pace, to hit "pause," "rewind," "fast forward," "stop," and to reflect.

Foremost in the text are superb interpretive essays by women's history scholars: "Women Without Rights" by Martha Saxton, "Taking Possession of the Country" by Ann D. Gordon, "A Friendship Through History" by Ellen Carol DuBois. Two essays by the principals, "Homes of Single Women" by Susan B. Anthony and "The Solitude of Self" by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, are particularly moving. Curiously, here may be found an explanation for the manner of address exchanged in by these two nineteenth-century heroines. Despite their bold challenges to the roles of women in the public domain, were they after all captives of their time and station? Was it in deference to an age difference of five years and marital status that one was called "Mrs. Stanton" and the other "Susan"?

Gladys Haddad, Case Western Reserve University

The Politics of Long Division: The Birth of the Second Party System in Ohio, 1818-1828. By Donald J. Ratcliffe. (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2000. xvii + 455p.; illustrations, tables, notes, bibliography, index. $65.00.)

A distant but no less interested observer of Ohio's early and formative politics, Donald Ratcliffe of England's University of Durham should soon become even more familiar to historians of America's antebellum politics. Ratcliffe has already written extensively on the early stage of Ohio politics and typically he provides an engaging, even idiosyncratic view of traditional historiographic questions. His recent and quite impressive reexamination of the origins of the Jacksonian party system in Ohio should only extend this well-earned reputation for both thorough and provocative research.

Perhaps due to his observer's perch from far across the Atlantic, Ratcliffe relishes the opportunity to challenge conventional thinking, often pointing out flawed arguments or lapses in research. His work is marked by a careful attention to detail and a critical eye for hyperbole or overstatement. He especially enjoys tossing out tantalizing tidbits of information, in one case reviving the none-too-heroic reputation of Ohio's favorite son, William Henry Harrison. American historians seldom treat Old Tippecanoe as a serious political figure, no doubt a strategy inherited from Harrison's political rivals. Yet not only does Ratcliffe argue that Harrison enjoyed a powerful political presence in Ohio, but he adds that the Old General likewise boasted a legendary reputation for his amorous conquests!

On a more serious note, Ratcliffe worries that historians of the Jacksonian Age have relegated the 1820s to a "mere prologue to a more interesting tale" (p. xi). Instead, he seeks to demonstrate how the political controversies of the 1820s (and

even memories of the Jeffersonian period) shaped the more famous Jacksonian battles to come.

Ratcliffe thus endeavors to show how the Second Party System emerged in Ohio much earlier than usually thought, and due to factors different from those often assumed. The famous disputed presidential election of 1824 not only laid the foundation for the subsequent political orientation, but it too had been shaped by somewhat earlier crises over banking policies in 1818-1819 and the 1819-1821 conflict over slavery in Missouri. Ratcliffe stresses how such circumstances forced Ohio to choose between its status as a northern and a western state, and how most Ohioans agreed that Henry Clay's "American System" (though perhaps not Clay himself) offered the most likely path to prosperity. In doing so Ratcliffe illustrates in a refreshing way how much impact the slavery issue could have at this relatively early date, although he also shows how this concern lost favor among many Ohio voters by the 1830s (partly due to renewed concerns about a black influx into the state).

Ratcliffe might actually quibble with the notion that all politics are local, but he does constantly demonstrate how essentially national issues could shape local loyalties and alignments. At times his approach does betray a contrary nature. That is, we should regard 1820s politics as more important than those of the 1830s, but only in terms of shaping that later debate. And, one must completely follow and understand local politics and leaders, but mainly to appreciate how these reacted to truly important national political issues. Yet, there can be no doubt about the value of the Ratcliffe approach.

He commonly rejects simple explanations for more complex, multi-leveled arguments, and he employs statistic analysis that takes multiple variables into account. At the same time, scholars familiar with decades of research on Ohio politics will find names, events, and theories revived and extended in interesting new ways.

Ratcliffe is especially adept at explaining how Andrew Jackson emerged as a major figure in Ohio politics despite questions about his status as a military chieftain, slaveholder, and inconsistent (at best) supporter of economic development. Besides possessing an ethnocultural appeal to certain Ohioans (chiefly Scotch-Irish and German voters), Jackson particularly benefited from a surge of new voters in 1828, primarily younger ones touched by memories of Jackson's heroics in the War of 1812. While thus implying that Ohio's Jacksonian supporters allowed such emotion to triumph over a rational calculation of the state's interests, Ratcliffe's analysis serves to both identify and account for this somewhat paradoxical voting behavior.

Primarily an intensive reexamination of Ohio politics in the 1820s, this work deserves serious attention from all students of antebellum American politics and society. Ratcliffe puts to the test various and popular theories involving class conflict, democratic politics, ethnocultural analysis, and the emergence of a market economy. No single approach emerges triumphant or unscathed, yet each in its own way receives its just due. Ratcliffe possesses a unique capability to recognize and even pay homage to the work of others in the field while simultaneously identifying the limitations of such research. In the end, the patient and diligent reader receives a most valuable primer on the formative age of Ohio's politics.

Vernon L. Volpe, University of Nebraska at Kearney

Sowing the American Dream: How Consumer Culture Took Root in the Rural Midwest. By David Blanke. (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2000. xiii + 282p; notes, appendixes, index. $59.95 cloth; $21.95 paper.)

David Blanke's thesis that Midwestern farm families in the later part of the nineteenth century utilized their shared heritage to create consumer strategies to combat economic problems is certainly thought provoking. He is to be commended as a historian for attempting to integrate disciplines as diverse as consumer economics, rural sociology, and agricultural economics in analyzing and defending this thesis, but the breadth of the task creates an elusive goal.

Challenging Henry Thoreau's view of farmers as capitalistic victims and Hamlin Garland's perception of farm families as bereft of community and blind to social realities, Blanke contends that rural Midwesterners were among the first Americans to create consumer strategies to challenge manufacturers and retailers.

Blanke describes in detail the factors that led to the formation of the National Grange of the Patrons of Husbandry in 1868, and recognizes that the Panic of 1873 led to the organization's rapid growth, but he fails to provide readers a framework for evaluating its peak membership of more than 858,000 in 1875. Although the Grange was strongest in the Midwest and varied from county to county, it represented a minority of the nearly four million farms enumerated nationwide in the 1880 census. Without this perspective Blanke's analysis of its economic power in creating cooperative purchasing units lacks context. He describes Grange members as "middle-rank" farmers, supporting this categorization by a quantitative analysis of a Delaware County, Indiana, sample that includes 162 Grange members and 110 nonmembers from four townships and compares average real estate and personal property holdings from the 1870 census for each group (Appendix I). Inexplicably, he fails to utilize agricultural census data from the same year that would show the value of farm equipment and livestock owned, and the value of farm products sold or consumed within the year. Such data, of course, would reveal far more accurately how typical Grange members were of the "commercial farmers" of whom Blanke speaks (p.154).

Although historians generally cite the granary-rate regulations negotiated with Midwestern railroads as one of the Grange's major successes, the organization's rapid membership decline—to approximately 124,000 by 1880—is inadequately explained by Blanke's economic focus. The political and social agendas of the Grange cannot be dismissed as "social digressions" (p.167). Although Blanke chose to confine his analysis to the nineteenth century, it is difficult to place the Grange's cooperative marketing and purchasing goals into perspective without considering the later but more lasting Farm Bureau Cooperatives and the twentieth-century rural electrification cooperatives that so successfully brought power to farm homes and specialized agricultural operations such as dairies.

Blanke presents a statistical analysis of advertisements from sixty-one randomly selected issues of the Chicago Tribune, Indianapolis Journal, Milwaukee Daily News, Oshkosh City Times, and Ripon Free Press from 1863 to 1878 (Appendix II). Although he categorizes these by type of advertiser and type of product, readers do not gain a perspective on the variety of products available to the majority of farm families who traded primarily in county-seat towns or small villages. He gives no voice to the numerous farm wives who consistently traded their butter and eggs at the local general store and were as bound by its prices and products as industrial workers forced to purchase household supplies at a "company store."

One of Blanke's most interesting chapters describes the rise of the mail-order catalog business in the Midwest—beginning with Montgomery Ward & Co. in 1872 and the later but competitive Sears, Roebuck & Co. The simultaneous development of the Montgomery Ward catalog and the Grange movement demonstrated the urban retailer's superior ability to integrate the rural consumer into the modern massconsumer society. Blanke appropriately attributes this success to the central business management experience and capitalization of the retailer—factors that were sadly lacking among Grange members.

Historians will be able to mine flecks of gold from Blanke's data, but a narrower focus might have produced two valuable studies—one relating rural Midwestern consumer culture to- the evolution of marketing and purchasing cooperatives and the other its influence on the emergence of mail-order catalog retailing to serve rural consumers.

Virginia E. McCormick, Worthington, Ohio

Rosie the Rubber Worker: Women Workers in Akron's Rubber Factories During World War II. By Kathleen L. Endres. (Kent State University Press, 2000. l76p.; illustrations, bibliography, index. $45.00.)

As the title suggests, Professor Endres presents a history of women workers in Akron's rubber factories during World War II. Endres utilizes manuscript material from B.F. Goodrich, Firestone Tire and Rubber Company, and Goodyear Tire and Rubber Company along with oral interviews, photographs, and primary source documents to give us a local picture of the female experience in rubber factories. The book is designed for the general reader and laid out in six chapters heavily annotated with archival photographs. A brief bibliography follows the text.

Endres bases her story on the World War II image of "Rosie the Riveter" and how that image compares to the female workers in Akron's rubber factories. Rosie became the generic term for all women war workers in the United States. With some sixteen million men in the military, employment opportunities for women expanded at unparalleled rates. Women became the national heroines as welders, riveters, solderers, and drill press operators for the war effort. Endres attempts to distinguish Akron's Rosies from the popular image of Rosies nationwide, but actually the two images are very similar. One of the main premises of Endres' study is that the Akron rubber workers differed from the popular Rosie image. Endres uses the former model of Rosie as a young woman who is working for the first time in the workforce "only for the duration" and looks forward to returning home as a housewife and mother. By 1970, Sherna Gluck, Alice Kessler-Harris, Ruth Milkman, and Susan Hartmann found that the original image of Rosie was incorrect. Rosies were older and married and fully three-quarters of them had worked before the war. And 75 percent of the 13,000 women war workers who were polled by the Women's Bureau of the Department of Labor wanted to remain in the workforce in the postwar period.

Endres' Rosies fit this revision and the Akron women rubber workers' experience parallels that of women in factory work across the country. For example, a majority of women in Akron's rubber factories during World War II were not new to factory work. Beginning in 1 850 women represented 60.7 percent of all workers in the rubber and elastic goods industries. Women's manual dexterity relegated them to the lighter, gender-specific jobs producing sundries, toys, boots, and shoes that

compensated in low pay and low status. By 1920, the production of automobile tires skyrocketed which meant creating more jobs for men and decreasing women's share of the rubber industry workforce to 21.8 percent.

Similarly, Akron's factories mirrored the national experience of wartime production in other ways: Akron experienced critical labor shortages; previously working women advanced to the factories for higher pay; European Americans resisted working with African American employees; a two-tiered, gender-based work model usually prevailed with the men holding the supervisory positions; women experienced sexual harassment by men; unions (dominated by men) reluctantly pursued females' claims of pay discrimination; older women and younger women worked separately; female absenteeism was twice as high as male; and the factories dealt superficially with female absenteeism (i.e., "presenteeism" campaigns rather than programs to help women ease their home responsibilities with Victory Shifts, day care centers, and other possible opportunites). In summary, continuity of women's roles rather than change faced the Akron rubber workers in the postwar period. European American women and African American men and women were overwhelmingly fired to make jobs for the returning Veterans. Women returned to traditional female employment.

By giving names and faces to Akron's Rosies, Endres enriches our understanding of the period and personalizes the national image of Rosies by looking at individual women's experiences in Akron's rubber factories from 1870 to 1946.

Julieanne Phillips, University of Dayton

The Hunting Pioneers, 1720-1840: Ultimate Backwoodsmen on the Early American Frontier. By Robert John Holden with Donna Jean Holden. (Bowie, Maryland: Heritage Books, Inc., 2000. xii + 232p.; map, notes, bibliography, index. $21.00 paper.)

EuroAmerican settlers venturing beyond inhabited areas faced numerous problems. Not only were such bold people marginalized socially and economically, they also faced many physical dangers inherent in living in isolated areas. Moreover, by encroaching on Native American lands, the potential for bloody conflict became a significant risk.

Since Frederick Jackson Turner forged a framework for looking at western settlement with his frontier thesis in the late nineteenth century, historians have been fascinated with articulating the "frontier experience." Such is the task Robert John Holden and Donna Jean Holden set out to accomplish in The Hunting Pioneers. Drawing on travel accounts written by Americans and visiting foreigners, Holden and Holden glean descriptions of these men—and occasionally their families—who "reveled in their freedom and independence" (p. vii). In so doing, they distinguish between hunting pioneers and farming pioneers. The former "depended primarily on hunting for food, raised small patch crops only as a supplement to their diet, and let any livestock they possessed run loose in the woods." Meanwhile, farming pioneers "depended primarily on crops and domestic animals for food, hunted game only as a supplement to their diet, and closely tended or fenced in their livestock" (p. 6). Because of the information provided within their sources, this story is virtually all one about frontiersmen, not women.

As a descriptive history, Holden and Holden seek to provide their readers with a

correct portrayal of the "lifestyle" of frontiersmen. Beginning with an introduction that accurately lays out what will be discussed in each chapter, they offer the reader an overview of the hunting pioneer experience and concomitant "ethos" (p. 2). The relative isolation of these pioneers held particular importance, especially when considering the "wilds" of nature and the "freedom" of living apart from society. After quickly finding the cultural origins of the hunting pioneers in both a Swede-Finn emigration to the new world in the mid 1600s and a Scotch-Irish immigration in the early 1700s, Holden and Holden argue these hunting pioneers continually struggled to free themselves from encroaching settlements of farming pioneers, imperial struggles, and Native American violence. In a lengthy chapter on "Wilderness Warfare," the authors implicitly relate frontier battles with hunting pioneer wilderness experiences. Holden and Holden follow this discussion with detailed descriptions of hunting pioneers in the Ohio River valley and the Illinois Country, as well as the movement of hunting pioneers toward the southern interior and across the Mississippi River. Through these chapters, the authors continue to elaborate on themes of violence, settlers encroaching on the independence of hunting pioneers, relations with Native Americans, and the lifestyle of this type of pioneer.

Although well constructed, this book suffers from a couple of problems. Although Holden and Holden go through great pains to show the "independence" of hunting pioneers from society, these frontiersman always seem to be tied to the developing economy, engaged in imperial struggles and generally interacting with "society." Perhaps for this reason, the authors constantly preoccupy themselves attempting to prove hunting pioneers' rejection of society for frontier life. In part, problems arise because Holden and Holden do not illustrate why hunting pioneers made the decisions they did other than linking it to ambiguous notions of "freedom" and "independence." For example, why did some hunting pioneers side with the Patriots in the Revolutionary War, while others chose to fight with Loyalists? Why did some "hunting pioneer families" plant roots and become "farming pioneer families," while others chose to move on? Although The Hunting Pioneers is an entertaining book, readers should ask why some of these questions are left unanswered.

William H. Bergmann, University of Cincinnati

Troubled Memory: Anne Levy, the Holocaust, and David Duke's Louisiana. By Lawrence N. Powell. (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2000. 616p.; illustrations, maps, notes, bibliography, index. $34.95.)

Most of Powell's Troubled Memory, which draws heavily from contemporary accounts and memoirs, provides the reader with a compelling narrative of the experiences of a Jewish family in Nazi-occupied Poland. Students of German history will benefit from the detailed accounts of German occupation and of the horrific conditions to which Polish Jews were subjected (e.g., the daily struggle to find food, work, and housing in the ghettoes, profound psychological disorientation, problems of dissimulation and escape).

Unlike other accounts, Powell's subject is not the isolated individual but rather a family unit. The very presence of children, the reader learns, had a profound effect on the problems and options facing the parents, especially when the family fled the Warsaw ghetto and lived among non-Jews. Where should the children stay while the

parents were at work? Would the children remain silent during Nazi raids? How were the children to be educated? Would the children inadvertently reveal their family's identity? By recounting the decisions and actions taken by the Skorecki's, Powell adds to our understanding of the complexity of the circumstances of Jews in Nazi-occupied Europe.

Other than some instances of unneeded and distracting detail (unpronounceable Polish street names) and occasional inane remarks about someone's "boyish handsome [ness]"(p. 243) or "wavy hair and movie star good looks" (p. 181), Powell generally avoids the pitfalls typical of biographical accounts: in many cases, he uses the particular experiences of the family's ordeal to illuminate larger historical issues. The reader is, for example, particularly alerted to the dynamics of the Jewish community under siege. Differences in age, social standing, gender, ideological persuasions, and religious observance are among the factors which shaped Jewish social relations. It was not, in short, a monolithic community whose experiences of and responses to persecution were uniform. Indeed, Powell's account includes the multiplicity of tensions, which fragmented the community (e.g., over jobs, charges of collaboration). Powell is also quite effective in showing the chaotic nature of the Nazi regime and the confusion among the Nazis over the resolution of the "Jewish question."

Neither does Powell fall victim to a Goidhagenesque caricature of non-Jewish Germans and Poles. The survival of the Skoreckis was, in part, due to the support of Polish employers and citizens, the occasional German soldier, and even a high-ranking member of the 55.

The first and final two chapters emphasize Ruth's survivor-daughter, Anne, and her confrontation with David Duke in 1990. Given the recent literature on Holocaust memory and politics, it is curious that Powell does not address the confusion and near-pathological obsession of survivors with the Holocaust. Duke did not, for example, represent a threat of Nazi revolution. Duke's senatorial campaign represented a threat primarily to African Americans, not Jews. Powell does not expose Anne's misperceptions, leaving the reader with a very problematic understanding of Nazi Germany and contemporary America.

The final chapter, moreover, mirrors other efforts to popularize and instrumentalize the Holocaust. As at Yad Vashem, Powell's narrative emphasizes Jewish heroism and resistance (albeit resistance to the American radical right rather than to the Nazis). Like Spielberg's Schindler's List, so, too, does Troubled Memory have a happy end: Jewish victory over evil. Moreover, just as in the Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington, D.C., the Holocaust and Anne's battle with Duke serve to affirm proverbial American values, such as tolerance, the rule of law, and the defense "of historical truth." As a whole, Powell's narrative is redemptive: Anne's victory over Duke is the culmination of her parents' victory over Nazism. The final chapter, "Redemption," mythologizes the Holocaust by bringing closure and thereby meaning to the irrational destruction of human life and the fortuitous survival of its victims.

Robert Sumser, Wright State University

Golden Cables of Sympathy: The Transatlantic Sources of Nineteenth-Century Feminism. By Margaret H. McFadden. (Lexington: The University Press of Kentucky, 1999. xiv + 270p.; illustrations, notes, appendixes, works cited, index. $29.95.)

In this wide-ranging and engaging work, Margaret H. McFadden explores the growing network of communication among women in Europe and North America between the 1820s and 1880s that gave rise to the international women's movement. Populated by such diverse figures as Lucretia Mott, George Sand, and Frances Power Cobbe, the study traces the "complex lines of international contact, association, friendship, argument, and correspondence" that led, by century's end, to "a fully mature international women's consciousness and organizational articulation" (p.l'72). Indeed, the 1888 founding of the International Council of Women—the first international women's organization—represented the culmination of a much older tradition of transatlantic female connection and support hitherto obscured by history.

Borrowing concepts from social network analysis, McFadden describes that tradition as a "matrix" from which first a feminist consciousness, and later an autonomous women's movement, would develop. Fostered by rapid improvements in communications technology, increased travel opportunities, and higher literacy rates, women's international contacts and relationships multiplied in the decades after Lucretia Mott's famous trip to the 1 840 World's Anti-Slavery Convention in London. McFadden has painstakingly followed these linkages back and forth across the Atlantic, revealing an intricate web that connected women across the boundaries of language and culture. Stretching from North America to the British Isles, across continental Europe to Russia, Scandinavia, and Finland, the matrix was generated by a heterogeneous assortment of female adventurers, evangelicals, social reformers and utopians, political activists, and literary celebrities. To be sure, not all—or even most—of the women encountered here espoused explicitly feminist views. Some, like the Methodist evangelist Phoebe Palmer, took thoroughly conservative positions on the question of women's proper role, while others, like famed novelist Harriet Beecher Stowe, devoted themselves to other causes. Nor were such women necessarily interested in fostering ties with other women, let alone uniting to advance women's rights. But by flouting convention in their own lives, and more importantly, by assuming a public voice through speaking and writing, they helped other women to imagine a world of expanded opportunity—a small but vital step in the creation of feminist consciousness. And through their personal connections with other socially prominent women in different countries, they contributed something more concrete to the future women's movement: an "old girls' network" that would facilitate more formal organizing.

Of course, some women were acutely aware of their circumscribed sphere, and clearly hoped to enlarge it by forging international bonds with other women. Lucretia Mott, Anna Doyle Wheeler, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Fredrika Bremer, and Frances Power Cobbe are five such "mothers of the matrix" singled out by McFadden for particular attention. Unlike many of the other women profiled, they were committed feminists (though their views often differed) who actively cultivated internationality and served as role models to younger followers.

McFadden has recreated a nineteenth-century world of female association, and this is her book's primary virtue. That the women who inhabited it shared correspondence, friendship, and ideas despite differences of language, culture, and

less often, class, seems beyond dispute: judging from the meticulously reconstructed lines of acquaintance among them, that world appears to have been small indeed. Harder to assess, however, is the precise nature of the relationship between transatlantic women's networks and the emergence of the organized women's movement. It is puzzling that McFadden devotes a mere two pages to the founding of the International Council of Women, a subject that demands greater attention. A more probing investigation of that relationship will have to await future treatments, though McFadden has ably prepared the way.

Charlotte Weber, Ohio State University

Banners to the Breeze: The Kentucky Campaign, Corinth, and Stones River. By Earl J. Hess. (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000. xiv + 252p.; illustrations, maps, notes, bibliographical essay, index. $32.00.)

The University of Nebraska Great Campaigns of the Civil War series, edited by Anne J. Bailey and Brooks D. Simpson, has already produced a number of good books on the battlefield history of the Civil War. Earl J. Hess, a well-respected historian from Lincoln Memorial University in Harrogate, Tennessee, has now added a monograph on an aspect of the war in the West.

In 1862, Braxton Bragg and Edmund Kirby Smith led Confederate forces into Kentucky, a border state torn in its allegiance between the Union and the Confederacy. During that same period, Sterling Price and Earl Van Dorn led other Confederate soldiers against Union-held Corinth, Mississippi. At the end of the year, Braxton Bragg's army fought Union forces under William S. Rosecrans to a bloody standstill at Stone's River/Murfreesboro in Tennessee. Union forces, after a promising start in 1862, were on their heels at the end of the year. Here, says author Hess, was a great opportunity for the Confederacy, but it failed. "Ultimately," he concludes, "the Confederate failure to take the strategic initiative [in 1862] from their enemy and control the course of the war in the West doomed the entire Confederacy" (p. 234). Hess makes a good argument, the crux of it supporting the position of many other historians that the Civil War was won (or lost) in the western theater. His book is straightforward, detailed, and presents the basic information clearly. This is good tactical history presented within an overview of the strategic framework. Anyone interested in a succinct account of the war in Kentucky, upper Mississippi, and Tennessee in 1 862 will find this book helpful.

Still, this monograph is not what it is advertised to be. The editors, as they have in earlier books in the series, state in their introduction to this book that what follows is incorporation of traditional battlefield history with the findings of new broader scholarship. Scholars today have moved beyond simply describing the movement of troops on the battlefield to discuss the impact of the battlefield on white civilians (men, women, and children), slaves and free blacks, and the common soldiers themselves. The new military history now places battles into broader frameworks, discussing them, not in battlefield isolation, but in the context of political, social, economic, gender, racial, and a host of other contexts.

Unfortunately, Banners to the Breeze does not fulfill this promise. It is good oldfashioned battlefield history. Every once in a while, the author mentions political leaders and international reaction, but he does so only incidentally. Notably missing from the book is any real incorporation of the military's impact on white civilians,

blacks, and any number of other matters.

Some readers, of course, may want only a battlefield history of the period under consideration, and they will find this book satisfying. Others expecting the new approach promised in the introduction will have to look elsewhere.

John F. Marszalek, Mississippi State University

A Fragile Capital: Identity and the Early Years of Columbus, Ohio. By Charles C. Cole, Jr. (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2001. xi + 292p.; illustrations, notes, index. $45.00.)

Columbus, Ohio: A Personal Geography. By Henry L. Hunker. (Columbus: Ohio State University Press, 2000. ix + 22Op.; illustrations, notes, tour guide. $35.00.)

Ohio's capital city, Columbus, is overdue attention from scholars. For decades the city's image has widely been one of Cowtown, USA, a place not to be taken too seriously by academic writers, and, on autumn Saturdays, a certain institution "up North." To Cole and Hunker go the honor of giving untilled yet fertile Columbus two examinations it much deserves. The nearly simultaneous release of both works—published by Ohio State University Press—illustrates a sustained interest in "nearby" history, as well as, perhaps, the commitment of the publisher to regional studies. For those unfamiliar with a city boasting no "basic set of amenity resources" (Hunker, p. 27) the authors have brought readers two welcome, companion works devoted to opposite yet not dissimilar bookends of the past two centuries. A Fragile Capital, compiled by Charles Cole, Jr., director emeritus of the Ohio Arts Council, chronicles the first four decades of Ohio's largest city. Here is a meticulously documented volume teeming with primary sources arranged topically yet without the choppiness that may have resulted were this work a collection of essays. Going beyond the hagiographical accounts of white male leaders profiled in earlier anecdotal histories, Fragile Capital traces the lives of ordinary citizens. To paraphrase the urban historian Carl Abbott, Cole treats his subjects not as "atomized individuals but as members of a complexly structured society." Emphasizing the shift from a product to service economy, Henry Hunker's Columbus Ohio: A Personal Geography examines with engaging and authoritative passion the past half-century of the city's growth and civic culture from an urbanistic perspective. It is the most recent work published under the banner of OSU Press's Urban Life and Landscape series, edited by the indefatigable and esteemed historian Zane L. Miller. What emerges are highly readable portrayals of a city that transformed itself from an agrarian frontier culture into what some observers have broadly described as the "urban sweepstakes" of American civic life.

Bridging both works are several important historic themes. Rejecting the notion of a static society, the dynamic issues facing early Columbus are part of the dialogue that challenges the city today—land annexation, migration, segregation, land speculation, state support for education, and perhaps most intriguing, self-image. More documentary than quantitative, Cole delineates social tension and migration as core urban growth issues while Hunker, professor emeritus Ohio State, describes the city from an organic perspective through the geographer's lens of demographics, critical mass, and land development. Growth, the mantra of past and present urban boosters, had by the close of the twentieth century evolved into a tangled web of

congestion, sprawl, and geographic isolation. While in Cole's hands Fragile Capital is less analytical in its portrayal of the city's early trends, Hunker seldom holds back his enthusiastic observations about Columbus, critically marshalling his thoughts in describing the process of what determines a "developer's city"-how it developed, who were the key players, and how the projects were located and financed. In so doing Hunker complements and expands Patricia Burgess's earlier study Planning for the Public Interest (1995), placing communication and technology at the crosshairs of the city's growth. Ultimately, both authors support the convention that demographics is destiny, and to truly be recognized by contemporaries as a "real city," a critical mass of population and cultural identity is needed.

A capital before it was a town, Columbus emerged by 2000 as Ohio's largest and only expanding major city. Beginning in 1880, when the city began overtaking civil townships, Columbus leveraged the provision of water and sewerage in annexing middle class neighborhoods, particularly those developing "upstream," or northward, from the urban core (Hunker, p. 97). From 1950-2000, borrowing a script more reminiscent of American Sunbelt cities, Columbus grew from forty square miles to over 200, becoming the nation's fifteenth largest city and sixth-rated metropolitan area for generating a favorable business climate. Such insatiable growth, cautions Hunker, has not come without a civic price. In nearly creating a community without an identity, Columbus has demolished many of its most recognizable historic landmarks, notably Union Station, the Neil House, and the Kelley Mansion (Hunker, p. 123). In their wake the city has created 66,000 parking spaces in its central business district. Is it any wonder, mulls the reader, why residents have so little awareness of the city's past?

If Hunker sardonically profiles the city's late twentieth-century obsession toward major-league status, Cole contends much of Columbus's early existence was defined by its worthiness to be Ohio's third capital. Between 1812 and 1816 several contenders lobbied for the coveted status of capital city, a designation that was not officially resolved until 1846. In charting the city's first half-century, seventeen chapters guide the reader through Columbus's social, political and economic adolescence. Cole's pen is sharpest when chronicling the everyday lives of women, blacks, and the understudied shadow aspects of Columbus's labor force, public hangings, and the cholera epidemics. Amidst such major milestones as completion of the National Road and the city's first cost overrun, mundane glimpses of daily life, including Anson Buttles's bathing in the Scioto River, offer amusing yet telling insights. It is the personal element, seen through the stories of the author Margaret Coxe, activist Jane Jones, and the unheralded Kelton family that bring human faces to this compelling story. Cole's sober account of the Ohio Pen, modeled on the Auburn system of silence and contract labor, along with its harsh approach to corporal punishment, also reveals a great deal about Ohioans' antebellum attitudes toward incarceration.

Despite appalling conditions inside the Ohio Pen, and persistent problems smoldering outside the prison walls with racism, evidenced by the disturbingly slow repeal of the state's Black Laws and exclusion of blacks from many city institutions, coupled with the continued segregation of the city's poor through the twentieth century, many nonetheless felt life in Columbus was generally good. "A Family Costs Very Little Here," wrote one immigrant in 1841 (Cole, p. 208), while a century later Beth Hunker, the author's spouse, contemplating life in post World War II Columbus, described the city as an "easy" place to live (Hunker, p. 65). Of course such comments are relative. The reality remained only one in five males owned real

estate in 1850 (Cole, p. 91), while residential isolation and urban abandonment became troubling consequences of a growing city. Power and influence, both conspicuous and sublime, gravitated toward a select few at Broad and High Streets where for much of the twentieth century a commercial elite of the Wolfe, Lazarus, and Galbreath families governed the city de facto. The proud self-image of a folksy, simple cowtown with its home-grown leaders and unpretentious Midwest values had by century's end been transformed. In surpassing old rivals Cincinnati and Cleveland as the state's largest city, once provincial Columbus had arguably achieved by 2000 major-league status, a sort of post-modern coming of age. Its sophisticated, well-educated and youthful work force, energizing the city's emerging civic and cultural institutions, in particular a new professional hockey franchise, fostered the "big city" image sought by the builders of this once fragile capital. Perhaps, someday soon, the appendage "Ohio" can be dropped by publishers from such book titles, and Columbus, for better or for worse, will have shed its bovine imagery and finally "arrived."

Stephen C. Gordon, Ohio Historical Society

Remembering the Boys: A Collection of Letters, A Gathering of Memories. Edited by Lynna Piekutowski. (Kent, Ohio: The Kent State University Press, 2000. xxvi + 299p.; illustrations, appendixes, index. $45.00.)

This book offers yet another contribution to the recent spate of print and media productions recalling the effects of World War II upon Americans. Within her comprehensive coverage, Lynna Piekutowski focuses her work on the diverse ramifications that these far-reaching hostilities brought to administrators, students, and former pupils of Western Reserve Academy, a small but prestigious secondary boarding school in Hudson, Ohio. Piekutowski, a retired academy faculty member, employs a variety of documents—the school's records, its newspaper, and its alumni magazine. However, her concentration is on 850 letters which represent illuminating interchanges between former students then serving their country and their old school mentors, particularly their beloved headmaster, Dr. Joel B. Hayden. Accordingly, after a brief introduction to the venerable institution and its final peacetime academic year (1940-41), Piekutowski chronologically reproduces this wartime correspondence. Simultaneously, she cites the effects that hostilities had upon the academy: rationing; curtailment of social functions and interscholastic activities; a stress on physical fitness; curriculum adjustments; staff shortages combined with increased school enrollment and faculty departures; and the direct contribution to the war effort of student-produced tools in the school's converted machine shop. But it is the letters from the former "boys" that form the crux of this volume, together with several poignant condolence messages to families of forty-six "boys" who died during the conflict. Their names were affixed to a school memorial, and are listed in the book's appendixes along with academy students who died in military service since 1945.

Western Reserve Academy, when World War II commenced, was an all-male, almost all-white, politically conservative institution catering to upper-middle-class families—admittedly not representative of those American secondary schools that furnished most of the men to our armed forces. Still, regardless of social or intellectual backgrounds, the combatants in this mammoth conflict experienced a commonality of sentiments such as loneliness, boredom, apprehension, and uncertainty. This fact clearly emerges within the correspondence of such previously

indulged young men. In addition, their communications from far-flung theaters of action may have prompted Dr. Hayden understandably to comment, "we no longer live in a big world." Similarly, the notations that several former students had encountered each other in faraway lands possibly influenced the headmaster to reflect that while the war had scattered the "Reserve family" across the world, ironically it had also "brought them closer together." This closeness and genuine affection for their alma mater is repeatedly evident in numerous letters sent back to Hudson, reaffirming a special gratitude to the academy and the administrators who had nurtured them. The messages also proclaimed confidence in victory and the justness of the Allied cause in which one alumnus idealistically declared (1944) that the war, "must be followed by a peace which at least aims at liberty and justice for all."

This seemingly narrowly focused volume is a welcome addition to the personal side of the World War II era which has been featured in books such as Tom Brokaw's The Greatest Generation and The Greatest Generation Speaks. Ms. Piekutowski has assembled and composed a very commendable work, and my reservations are admittedly minor. For example, she is mistaken when she declares (p. 282) that "Japan declared war on China in July 1941." In fact, there was no declaration of war, and the Japanese continually referred to the conflict as "the China Incident." Also, I believe that annotations to several servicemen's letters could have been enhanced by employing available primary source army and navy documents, and secondary sources such as Samuel E. Morison's multi-volume, History of United States Naval Operations in World War II. This reviewer, an alumnus of Western Reserve Academy (1949), was undeniably affected in reading this work that related to his own distant youth. My closing remarks, consequently, should include my own gratitude to Western Reserve Academy; its respected former wartime faculty, now all deceased; all of its "boys" who participated in this great war; and particularly the forty-six academy "family members" who perished during the monumental struggle. They died, as Abraham Lincoln declared during an earlier struggle, "that this nation might live." And for all these roughly 900 worthy individuals discussed, a concluding line from Oliver Wendell Holmes would perhaps be most appropriate: "Dear Father, take care of thy children, THE BOYS!"

Sheldon S. Cohen, Loyola University Chicago

Encyclopedia of Marks on American, English, and European Earthenware, Ironstone, and Stoneware: 1780-1980; Makers, Marks, and Patterns in Blue and White, Historic Blue, Flow Blue, Mulberry, Romantic Transferware, Tea Leaf and White Ironstone. By Arnold A. and Dorothy E. Kowalsky. (Atglen, Pennsylvania: Schiffer Publishing, Ltd., 1999. f188p.; illustrations, glossary, bibliography, indexes. $69.95.)

At first glance the big fat book of pottery marks that every historical archaeologist dreams of, this is actually a somewhat idiosyncratic albeit highly useful work. The subtitle is telling and more accurate than the title proper: "Makers, Marks, and Patterns in Blue and White, Historic Blue, Flow Blue, Mulberry, Romantic Transferware, Tea Leaf, and White Ironstone." The presence of the word "Stoneware" in the title especially seems a bit unfortunate, however, since the book certainly does not cover materials generally thought of as stoneware in North America.

In effect, the Kowalskys have created an enormous compendium of British and American marks found on pottery that interests them. It would not be my first choice

for the purpose of identifying an unknown pottery backstamp; but, to be fair, that is not the intent of the book. As Geoffrey Godden, to whom the book is dedicated, aptly puts it in his studied foreword: "The end result may be rather uneven, due to personal taste, situation or pure chance but the benefit is undoubted." Although Godden is writing about specialist books and papers on different types of collectable ceramics in general, his words apply to the Kowalsky's compendium as well.

Virtually a third of the book—224 pages—is indexes and tables that are potentially quite useful in certain circumstances. If, say, one has a ceramic sherd bearing only the word "Best," Appendix B7 handily identifies this as made probably by either Mayer & Elliott or Livesley, Powell & Co. There are also tables of selected pottery chronologies, lists by name and by initials, a listing of patterns arranged by pottery, as well as a table of categories of ware produced by each pottery, various chronological listings of British potteries by Registry dates, and so forth. There is even a brief section on European potters, patterns, and marks.

To cut to the chase, the book includes marks of 106 American (U.S.) potteries and 680 British potteries. Godden, the dean of British ceramic historians, gracefully acknowledges that while the Kowalskys have not engaged in first-hand research in European archives, they have painstakingly combed the published literature and resolved many discrepancies, even correcting some of his original views and erroneous dates.

Reviewing only the U.S. section, and restricting comments to the pottery types of interest to the authors, there are a number of omissions. Pope-Gosser China, for example, definitely produced Flow Blue; the Steubenville Pottery produced Flow Blue with their Porc-granite and Canton China backstamps, which are not included. Morley & Co. is included because of its ironstone manufacture, but there is only one mark, whereas DeBolt (1994) illustrates no fewer than five Morley marks that include the word "Ironstone" or "Stone China." The Vance Faience Co. of Tiltonsville, Ohio, did not produce any ironstone, and it is extremely unlikely that any of the white earthenware produced by its successor, the Avon Faience Co., qualifies as ironstone. In any case, the "F. M. & Co." mark included under this company is unquestionably that of the Faience Manufacturing Co. of Greenpoint, New York, and not that of the Vance Faience Co. The well-known gold Laughlin Art China backstamp is not present although that line included some very impressive examples of Flow Blue.

There are also some surprising inclusions. The American Beleek Co., of Fredericksburg, Ohio, in business for a scant six months, is listed although no examples of its wares are known. The ambiguous "ACC" coat-of-arms mark is included for the American China Co. of Toronto, Ohio, but no mention is made of the Akron China Co., of Akron, Ohio, which contemporary expert William Barber recorded as using the same mark and which very likely made flow blue ware; this backstamp, incidentally, has been found at the Akron pottery site. Based upon the similarity to an undisputed Brunt Pottery backstamp, a coat-of-arms backstamp is attributed to the Brunt Pottery by DeBolt; but the Kowaiskys attribute the same mark to Knowles, Taylor & Knowles. It appears that in order to represent their early "K. T. & K." mark, the Kowaiskys used the Brunt mark, with the notation that it occurs with K. T. & K. Unfortunately, they do not actually depict the mark they describe; nor do they include an undoubted but quite dissimilar K. T. & K. coat-of-arms backstamp illustrated by both DeBolt and Gates and Ormerod. The cautious researcher needs more than their remark that this backstamp occurs with the letters K. T. & K.

For purposes of identification and dating, Debolt's 1994 Dictionary of American Pottery Marks, Whiteware & Porcelain remains the most complete and accurate study. Lehner's 1988 Lehner's Encyclopedia of U.S. Marks on Pottery, Porcelain & Clay is the most ambitious and the most comprehensive in scope but is sadly deficient in terms of accuracy. Gates' and Ormerod's 1982 The East Liverpool, Ohio, Pottery District: Identification of Manufacturers and Marks is the only monographic work to include photographs of marks and is rigorous in its standards of historic accuracy though deliberately limited in geographic scope. The Kowaiskys' compendium offers some useful approaches to identification, particularly if one is dealing with a partial mark or a particular style of pottery, such as flow blue, transferware, or tealeaf, but probably is not a necessary purchase for most historical archaeologists. It may be of limited appeal to collectors of flow blue, mulberry, tea leaf, etc., but much of the data included is available in other publications on these specific types of ceramics or other books on ceramic marks.

James L. Murphy, Ohio State University Libraries