This spring I’ll be teaching two new courses. This first is a graduate course on “Religion and Capitalism in the United States.” The new history of capitalism is bringing tremendous energy to American history generally, and historians of American religions have been producing lots of great books on the connection between religion and capitalism recently. Here is my first take at a course description:
Religion and Capitalism in the US
It seems obvious that there is some relationship between religion and capitalism, but what is that relationship? Historians of the United States have tried to answer this question in many ways; even more, it was a problem that perplexed the people whom historians study. In this class, you will meet many people whose religion led them to interact with capitalism in incredibly diverse ways. You will meet the Puritans whose work ethic supposedly created capitalism, but who insisted on resting on the Sabbath; Moravian missionaries who made converts and money; slaves, slaveowners, and abolitionists who all claimed the Bible when reckoning with the capitalist system of slavery; a Protestant writer who insisted that Jesus was a businessman, and Catholics who believed Jesus called them to a kind of socialism; Jews who mass-manufactured matzah and who were prosecuted for breaking Sunday “blue laws”; an industrialist who wrote The Gospel of Wealth, and laborers who created churches for the working class; nineteenth-century consumers who turned gift-giving into a ritual, and a twenty-first-century television personality who turned consumption into therapy; converts who thought religion required poverty, and Prosperity Gospelers who thought it promised wealth. You will read primary sources from American history, secondary works in both religious history and the new history of capitalism, and excerpts from theorists of religion and capitalism. Through these readings and your own research project, you are invited make sense of this perpetual historical puzzle.
The second class is called “The Digital Past.” It is a course taught by many people in my department. The class is both a history class, focusing on digital history methods, and a course which meets the university’s IT requirement. Here is the course description for my version of the class (heavily indebted to both Sharon Leon’s version and Stephen Robertson’s):
The Digital Past
In this class, you will to learn to do history using digital tools. The course—which satisfies the university’s IT requirement—teaches the fundamentals of information technology by applying them to a practical problem in history. Throughout the semester, you will work individually and with classmates on a research project about American religious history. You will learn how to do research online, but also how to put those sources in the context of other scholarly work. You will gather data, learn how to question it, analyze it, summarize it, and interpret it. You will create visualizations of datasets, especially maps. But you will also learn how to integrate data with narratives from individual lives. You will learn how to present visual and textual sources online in web exhibits, and you will learn how to write and publish effectively online. Through learning by doing, you will gain many digital skills which are broadly applicable; even more important, you will learn how to use these skills to create arguments and stories. This combination will be useful to you throughout your university career and in your professional life.
My article has some maps and charts of Paulists missions, which I’ve made dynamic here. The abstract:
The chronological and theological contours of conversion to Catholicism in the nineteenth-century United States evidence three waves. Beginning with John Thayer’s 1783 conversion from Congregationalism and continuing through the 1830s, conversions were scattered, and often from Reformed Protestantism. The 1840s through 1860s, the critical period for Catholic conversion, included converts from American Episcopalianism, riven by the Oxford movement, and from Transcendentalist and liberal Christian reformers dissatisfied with reform’s theological underpinnings. These converts became the agents of a new movement to convert Protestants. From 1870 through the early twentieth century, missionary priests, especially members of the Missionary Society of St. Paul the Apostle (Paulists), won thousands of converts, making conversion to Catholicism a viable choice for many more Americans.
Over at Books and Culture, Timothy Larsen has an entertaining review of David Gange’s Dialogues with the Dead: Egyptology in British Culture and Religion, 1822–1922.
And what the Victorians wanted to know was what those who had dwelt beside the Nile long ago had to say about the Bible. A lazy assumption of secularization has infused accounts of modern history, making people imagine that a religious focus was decreasing as the 19th century progressed. Like the plagues of Egypt, however, it actually intensified at the end. Thus the Egyptology of the 1880s and 1890s was significantly more preoccupied with scriptural connections than was that of mid-century.
Larsen captures many fascinating details from the book, including these:
Even the most gifted scholars were so immersed in the scriptures that they often saw the Bible everywhere they looked. There was a serious theory that the Great Sphinx at Giza was a monument to Noah. It was decided that the pharaoh Akhenaten wrote the original version of Psalm 104. Petrie [an archaeologist] visited an orphanage and his trained eye could not fail to notice that two of the children were Hittites.
Enthusiastic amateurs set off to see the sites in such numbers that Petrie eventually took to excavating in just his pink underpants as a polite hint that he was not currently taking social calls.
There are many kinds of book reviews, but Larsen’s review is a good model of the kind that gives the full flavor of a book.
The title Presbyterian Statistics through One Hundred Years, 1826–1926: Tabulated, Visualized, and Interpreted sounds like contemporary digital history project. Click the link, and if you’re an optimist about digital methods you might expect a revolutionary new methodology for doing history that overturns old models; if you are a pessimist you might expect to find some “Big Data” hubris. But what you’ll find is a book from 1927, compiled the Presbyterian minister and employee of the General Council of the Presbyterian Church U.S.A., Herman Carl Weber.1 Weber compiled the data at the behest of the PCUSA, laboriously compiling the statistics because the General Council wanted to know what insights could be gathered from its record.
The first part of Weber’s work included dozens of tables like the one below.2 Denominations often maintained records and published them in yearbooks and annual reports.3 What is especially useful with Weber’s figures are that he compiled the numbers longitudinally—apparently over a period of three years of work—so that it is possible to see change over time.
Having gathered the numbers, Weber turned them into a series of visualizations and accompanying interpretations aimed at improving both the national church and individual congregations. In turning records into tables, and tables into graphs, Weber had some confidence that “the circle of those who can understand visualizations readily is very large,” though he also deemed it wise to use prose to “suggest what some of the visualizations mean” (3–4). In 1927 the idea of visualizations was not particularly innovative. Beginning in the 1780s the Scottish political economist William Playfair invented some of the foundational visualizations, including line charts, bar charts, and time series. As Susan Schulten has shown, maps and other kinds of data-driven visualizations were important techniques for nineteenth-century American science, engineering, and statecraft. Nor is it any coincidence that visualization was a technique for interpretation in the same period that the historians in America were turning themselves into professionals.
Weber’s charts told a story. In the first visualization in the book, reproduced below, notice the rise in Presbyterian membership over a hundred years. (The vertical orientation of the chart exaggerates growth, but from what I can tell Weber chose that orientation because of the constraints of printing and not out of any intention to distort.) Weber called this a “bird’s-eye view of the membership” (46).
That first chart with its steep curve made the Presbyterians look good, but Weber was not so naive. He knew that in the nineteenth century United States everything was growing, and that some denominations were growing faster than the Presbyterians and had a larger share of the population. Weber included the “ratio chart” below, derived from the Yale economist and statistician Irving Fisher, that used a logarithmic scale to show “the same relative increases” with “the same slope” (203). The short explanation is that Weber found a way to show that the Presbyterians were only growing at the same rate as the population, and that the Baptists and Methodists were growing faster.
Weber’s most intriguing work was a pair of charts about people who joined the Presbyterian church. Weber was quite interested in whether or not the Presbyterians were fulfilling their mission to win converts. The chart below of “Accessions on Confession” was “the line of response from the young, adolescent life of the Church to the call of the Kingdom.” Weber annotated the chart to show the underlying causes in the fluctuations: the peaks for the revivals of Finney, Moody, and Sunday; the falling off in conversions caused by denominational splits, heresy trials, and the controversy with science.
The chart of total new members showed a positive picture of Presbyterians’ growth, but again, Weber knew enough to normalize the data to account for growth in population. In the chart below, he created an “Evangelistic Index,” the “proportion of new members in the total membership.” This was “the most significant of all the visualizations submitted in this volume” because it “portrays the actual record of the Church in the primary functional responsibility which has been committed to it” (57).
My point in showing Weber’s visualizations is two-fold. First, visualization as a method for history is much older than current debates would sometimes lead one to believe. Such methods are deeply rooted in the nineteenth and early twentieth century. The corollary is that the history of American religion, insofar as it makes use of quantitative methods, must depend on data collected, aggregated, visualized, and interpreted by the very people whom historians wish to study.
The book is Herman C. Weber, Presbyterian Statistics Through One Hundred Year, 1826–1926: Tabulated, Visualized, and Interpreted (Philadelphia: The General Council, Presbyterian Church in the U.S.A., 1927), http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/007109885.↩
For use in my dissertation, and for a future project on the demography of American religion, I’ve turned some of Weber’s data tables into a useable format. If you want to see what I’ve started to do with the data—though this is very much a work in progress—you can see this repository.↩
At the New Republic, Susan Schulten has a fascinating article about maps made by Richard Edes Harrison during World War II. Schulten writes that Harrison, an artist and not a cartographer, changed the American public’s perception of the war and world by refusing to use the Mercator projection. Instead, he drew maps from various perspectives above the earth, evoking “the perspective of a pilot, but one placed at an infinite distance.”
Most professional cartographers celebrated his provocative style for its ability to foster a more dynamic understanding of geographical relationships … . [H]is goal was to wrench Americans out of a two-dimensional sense of geography, and embrace an understanding of perspective and direction.
Much of maps that historians make on the web is also limited by the Mercator projection. Google Maps, Stamen, and Map Box all use a “Web Mercator” projection for the tiles they provide. If you’ve used a web map that pans and zooms, it was almost certainly created in the Mercator projection. Even if there are good technical reasons for Google to use that projection, historians have their own purposes that could be better served by alternative perspectives on the earth.
According to Schulten, Harrison never thought of himself as a cartographer, and “cartographers were quick to point out that no such perspective existed in nature.” But thanks to the work of Mike Bostock and Jason Davies, the kinds of perspectives that Harrison used are available to web mapmakers.1 As part of the geographic projections available in D3, Bostock has created a satellite projection, with which the mapmaker can control the view of the earth as from a camera mounted on satellite. Such a map could be combined with any of the visualization techniques—choropleth shading, bubble maps, place names—for which D3 is known.
This means that historians have the tools they need to re-imagine their historical maps outside of the constraints of any particular map projection.3 Just as Harrison changed the public view of the geopolitical situation with his perspective maps, so historians would have a powerful imaginative and rhetorical tool at their disposal if they could choose the perspective of their maps. One can imagine, for example, a map that redraws the Atlantic slave trade from the perspective of West Africa, or a map that literally faces east from Indian country. As is often the case when I read Schulten’s work, the historical maps she studies provide a useful suggestion for how historians could make their own maps to imagine the past.
There are many other artistic elements to Harrison’s work, such as the exaggerated topography, that it would be difficult to reproduce in a programmatic map.↩
In September of 1861, the U.S. Coast Survey published a large map, just under three feet square, titled a “Map showing the distribution of the slave population of the southern states of the United States.” Based on the population statistics gathered in the 1860 census, and certified by the superintendent of the Census Office, the map depicted the percentage of the population enslaved in each county.
The map showed at a glance the large-scale patterns of slavery in the American South: the concentrations of slavery in eastern Virginia, in South Carolina, and most of all along the Mississippi. It also repaid closer examination, since each county was labeled with the exact percentage enslaved. The map of slavery was one of many thematic maps produced in the nineteenth century United States. As Susan Schulten has shown, this particular map was used by the federal government during the Civil War, and it was a favorite of Abraham Lincoln’s.1
Though such thematic maps, in particular of slavery, have their origins in the nineteenth century, the technique is useful for historians. As I see it, one of the main problems for the historians’ method today is the problem of scale. How can we understand the past at different chronological and geographical scales? How can we move intelligibly between looking at individuals and looking at the Atlantic World, between studying a moment and studying several centuries?2 Maps can help, especially interactive web maps that make it possible to zoom in and out, to represent more than one subject of interest, and to set representations of the past in motion in order to show change over time.
I have created an interactive map of the spread of slavery in the United States from 1790 to 1860.3 Using Census data available from the NHGIS, the visualization shows the population of slaves, of free African Americans, of all free people, and of the entire United States. It also shows those subjects as population densities and percentages of the population.4 For any given variable, the scales are held constant from year to year so that the user can see change over time. You can use the map for yourself, and I’ve also written briefly about what the map shows below.5 Historians have of course often made use of maps of slavery, in particular maps based on the Census, in support of their arguments. What I’ve tried to do in this interactive map is make it possible for users (including me) to explore the census data in support of making historical arguments.6
The first thing to observe is that slavery spread more than it grew. The population of slaves in 1790 or 1800 was already very high compared the maximum population levels.7 In fact, in Charleston County, South Carolina (one of the counties with the highest populations of slaves) the number of enslaved people in 1860 was only 63% of what it had been in 1840. This is not to say that the total number of slaves in the eastern seaboard states did not go up over time. But the number of enslaved people in a particular place did not grow at anything like the rate of free people in the north. The free population in the north both grew in the same place and spread to the west. The slave population had a different dynamic. It grew in intensity in places around the Chesapeake bay, even as slavery was gradually abolished in the North. But primarily the slave population spread to the fertile crescent of lands in Georgia, Alabama, and Mississippi, and most of all to the Mississippi River valley. Below you can see two animations of the density of the slave population and the density of the total population (keep in mind that the scales are different). What you see in these maps is the spread of slavery through the domestic slave trade.8 You also see the origins of the sectional crisis in the continual expansion of slavery.
Another observation to make about slavery in the United States is what an extraordinarily high percentage of the population was enslaved. The majority slave populations of the Chesapeake, the South Carolina and Georgia coast were soon duplicated in the majority slave populations of the Mississippi River valley.
A striking way to see the importance of slavery is to look at a map of the total free population: a photo negative, if you will, of slavery. When looking at the density of the population that was free, large swathes of the South appear virtually depopulated. (Perhaps this is what a history book looks like that fails to take includes slaves?)
Finally, the dynamics of the free African American population looked more like the free white population than the slave population. The Free African American population seems to have primarily settled along the Eastern seaboard and especially in the cities of the northern United States. Free African Americans were almost entirely excluded from most of the deep South, except the cities.
Historians have long used maps of slavery to advance their arguments.9 I hope this map finds some use in making more arguments about the history of slavery, and especially for helping students to grasp the big picture of the “peculiar institution” which made the nation “half slave and half free.”10
See Susan Schulten, Mapping the Nation: History and Cartography in Nineteenth-Century America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2012), especially chapter 4 on slavery and statistical cartography. Also see the book’s companion website, which includes many images of maps of slavery.↩
For one discussion of the problem of scale, see David Armitage and Jo Guldi. “Le Retour de la longue durée: Une perspective anglo-saxonne,” Annales, in press. Whatever the reason for the blockbuster success of Thomas Picketty’s Capital in the Twenty-First Century, it’s worth noting that the book is primarily a longue durée history of the structure of capital.↩
You might think of the visualization as 88 maps = 8 decades ✕ 11 variables.↩
The map represents a lot of data, and I have not been able to make it snappy enough for my satisfaction, particularly for mobile devices. Hence the animated GIFs below.↩
Of course there is far more to the history of slavery than just the Census data, which alone cannot answer any of the interpretative questions that historians have asked.↩
This is remarkable given that in the Revolution many slaves escaped to or with the British army.↩
Steven Deyle writes, “I believe it is safe to conclude that between 1820 and 1860 at least 875,000 American slaves were forcibly removed from the Upper South to the Lower South, and that between 60 and 70 percent of these individuals were transported via the interregional slave trade.” Steven Deyle, Carry Me Back: The Domestic Slave Trade in American Life (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 289.↩
Perhaps I will provide a few examples in a future post.↩
From Abraham Lincoln’s “House Divided” speech: “Either the opponents of slavery, will arrest the further spread of it, and place it where the public mind shall rest in the belief that it is in the course of ultimate extinction; or its advocates will push it forward, till it shall become alike lawful in all the States, old as well as new—North as well as South.”↩
When making maps it’s not hard to find contemporary boundaries. The Census Bureau for the United States and Natural Earth for the rest of the world offer reliable shapefiles. Languages like R include packages which make accessing boundary data very easy. But when working on maps for history, using contemporary boundaries with historical data makes for glaring anachronisms. What I’ve wanted for research purposes are historical boundaries of the United States which include the changes for each year, and which I can trust because of the evidence of scholarship (e.g., citations) behind them. I also want these boundaries for teaching, so that geography can provide a backbone to the religious, cultural, social, and political changes I’m usually discussing. These are the sources that I’ve found with a few comments on their usefulness for research and teaching.
First, the single most useful resource that I’ve found is the Atlas of Historical County Boundaries from the Newberry Library. This atlas includes boundary files for states and territories from 1783 to 2000, and also for counties from 1629 to 2000. The boundaries are available as both shapefiles and KMZ files suitable for Google Earth. (I’ve found that it’s easier to get students up to speed using Google Earth than QGIS.) The boundary files are offered at various degrees of simplification, letting you pick between precision and file size without having to do the simplification yourself. For my purposes, the most important thing about the Newberry’s boundary data is that it comes in a single file. This means that you can more easily filter the boundaries by date, for example, in QGIS or D3. Making a complex map showing change over time gets a lot simpler when you can filter one file instead of having to merge many files. The maps come with impressive annotations, including citations for the boundaries for each feature, and discussions of what changed about the boundaries. The data is licensed CC-NC-SA. The Newberry Library also offers an online viewer for the files, which is clunky.1
Porath has mapped the territorial changes himself in a project he calls “Manifest Destiny.” The many maps let you page through the territorial changes in the United States. For example, try paging through the maps which show the order in which southern states seceded from the Union in 1860–61. I can see how these maps could be used to good effect in the U.S. survey.
Third, the National Historical Geographic Information System offers state- and county-level shapefiles for each decade since 1790. The NHGIS shapefiles are meant for use with the historical census data offered by the NHGIS. Though I’ve used these shapefiles for general purpose mapping before,2 I can only recommend them for use when you are also using the NHGIS’s census data.3 The maps are only offered every decade, so many of the more interesting boundary changes are grouped together. The shapefiles have a peculiar projection, so for many uses you’ll have to re-project them.4 And the shapefiles are full resolution, so you’ll have to do the simplification yourself, which is tedious and error-prone. But to take advantage of the wealth of historical census data in the NHGIS, these shapefiles are quite useful.
Go forth and make maps without anachronism.
I think the interface is provided by an ArcGIS web viewer.↩
When reviewing a book, be as charitable as possible. This is a “Golden Rule” issue. Once you’ve experienced the years of struggle behind producing a book, you should be cautious about casually dismissing the value of another author’s work. Even when I have major problems with a book, I try to praise it as much as I can, and include a few lines that a press could likely use to promote the book. …
It is certainly in-bounds to disagree with an author’s interpretation or ideological assumptions, of course. But do this in a polite way, as a means of discussion rather than denunciation.
I’d add that there are two kinds of book reviews: reviews that appear in professional, “serious” journals, and reviews that appear everywhere else. These reviews have entirely different purposes. When I get my copy of the American Historical Review or Church History, I browse the reviews for anything that is immediately interesting or relevant. But most of the time I come across reviews in journals through a search in JSTOR or some other database. In such cases I’m looking for reviews to find out the scholarly consensus about the worth of the book that has been established over time. And make no mistake, it takes time—years—for books to be reviewed in scholarly journals. I want those reviews to be the plainest possible explanation of what is good and bad about a book, perhaps even erring on the side of letting readers know where they could be mislead.
But plenty of reviews are published on blogs like Religion in American History, The Anxious Bench, and the S-USIH blog, as well as in general interest publications like magazines and newspapers. These reviews can be of the highest quality—for example, take Paul Putz’s recent review of Matthew Bowman’s The Urban Pulpit. But the purpose of these reviews is different. To borrow a phrase from Dan Cohen, their purpose is “catching the good.” When I read a review at one of these sites, I want the authors to alert me to the best books—books they’ve found useful for their research or teaching, or books that are a model of the historian’s craft. I can’t think of a reason why someone would publish a highly critical review in venues like those, especially since you get to pick what you review. If it’s a bad book, don’t bother reviewing it.
If you agree to write a review for a scholarly journal, then be as critical as you must, keeping in mind what Kidd writes about charity and generosity. But if you are writing a review for any other venue, find a book that’s good, and tell people about it.