“Foreword” in “Georgia’s Planting Prelate”
Foreword to the Reissue
Ministers employ various strategies in their sermons. Some turn to the jeremiad, perhaps in a cynical belief that people change only when chastised or made to fear the consequences of their behavior. Others prefer to expound beatitudes. In his 1851 address to the Central Agricultural Society of Macon, Georgia, Episcopal Bishop Stephen Elliott interwove the two forms in a secular message on the state’s rural prospects. First, he indicted Georgians for their general lack of attention to the finer points of agriculture and gardening: they had done little when given much. He then applied balm to the sore, spending the bulk of his speech on the state’s great horticultural prospects owing to its varied terrain, rich soils, and temperate climate. If Georgians had yet to make a Garden of Eden from their surroundings, it was not from a lack of heavenly materials. They could still have peaches and flowers in place of milk and honey. But what did it mean that the Deep South lacked horticultural ornamentation, and how might the dearth be corrected?
University of Georgia landscape architect Hubert B. Owens, editor of the 1945 University of Georgia Press edition of the address, provides a concise and essential biographical sketch of Elliott in the pages of Georgia’s Planting Prelate that follow, describing his intertwining careers as minister, educator, and horticulturalist. Elliott, Owens observes, was interested in growing all sorts of things: spirits, minds, and plants. This passion for cultivation in its multiple forms led him to a variety of work, as, for example, president of the Georgia Historical Society, senior bishop of the Episcopal Church of the Confederacy, and cofounder of the University of the South. For all his passion for growth and learning, Elliott firmly remained a patrician of his time and place, rooted in a South of plantations, commodity crops, and hierarchies of both class and race. He was at his core both a planting and a paternalist prelate.
Owens also notes the influence of Andrew Jackson Downing on Elliott, as indeed Downing was influential for every antebellum American horticulturalist and landscape designer. Downing’s vision of beautiful greenswards, gardens, and rural architecture—a sort of English pastoralism for the New World—shaped movements as diverse as garden cemeteries like Boston’s Mount Auburn and recreational grounds like New York’s Central Park. Elliott would almost certainly have read and been influenced by such Downing publications as Treatise on the Theory and Practice of Landscape Gardening and Fruit and Fruit Trees of America (the latter cowritten with Downing’s brother, Charles). Most influential was a magazine that Downing edited, The Horticulturalist and Journal of Rural Art and Rural Taste, which became something of an arbiter of landscape and garden taste in the South as well as the North in the late 1840s. Downing would be killed in a steamship explosion just months after Elliott’s Macon speech, but when the reverend stood in front of Georgia planters, the New York horticulturalist was at the height of his fame and influence.1
If it contains echoes of Downing and northeastern taste making, Elliott’s address should also be read as an agricultural reform tract, classic in its admixture of admonishment regarding careless cultivation and boosterism for Georgia’s prospects. Although it may seem peculiar that Elliott—a minister and nurseryman—spoke to an agricultural society, the fusion of these interests was natural for the place and time. Agricultural reform, or “improvement,” had originated in Europe, swept across the northern states, and by the 1830s began to make inroads in the South. The most vocal southern reformer was Virginia’s Edmund Ruffin, who as editor of the Farmers’ Register (1833–43) touted a range of improvement campaigns such as amending soils to improve fertility, regular crop rotation, more intensive livestock management, and a reduced dependence on tobacco and cotton in favor of agricultural diversification. Ruffin was hardly alone; a number of other prominent planters spoke for reform in their respective states, including Alabama’s Noah Cloud and South Carolina’s Henry William Ravenel.2
Elliott’s Macon address plainly speaks to some core southern reform issues. For example, he chides Georgians for creating, or at least permitting, soil erosion, lamenting Middle Georgia’s gullies that fissured the face of the red clay „into the rugged wrinkles of an early decrepitude” (44). Another minister and agriculturalist, John R. Cotting, had similarly indicted Georgia’s farmers less than a decade earlier in the state’s first thorough geological and soils survey.3 Reformers also spoke often and publicly of the need for agricultural diversification, and here Elliott’s speech most thoroughly dovetails with the aims of improvement. Thus Elliott’s extended discussion of the potential of southern fruit production anticipated and encouraged interest in such crops as peaches and experiments with citrus. (Perhaps the fullest demonstration of Elliott’s vision came in the work of Louis and Prosper Berckmans, a father and son originally from Belgium who, beginning in the late 1850s, developed Augusta’s Fruitland Nursery into a center of southern pomology.)4
Almost as important as agricultural diversification and sustained productivity were beauty and ornamentation, and Elliott epitomizes these aspects of improvement. Ornamental horticulture and landscape design may seem luxuries more than necessities for an agrarian people, but reformers imagined the cultivation and ornamentation of the countryside as two sides of the same coin. Planting flowers and fruit trees, constructing greenhouses, and laying out orchards were symbols of permanence. And antebellum southerner elites were at once a people on the move—always southwestward in pursuit of the main chance on a new cotton frontier—and deeply concerned about their transience. There was a fine line between a shifting culture and a shiftless one. To literally root oneself in a landscape through sustained efforts to beautify it was to project stability and order, for Elliott believed, “horticulture … is the science of a settled and permanent population, not the pursuit of a people struggling for bread and existence” (22). Elliott and his sympathizers were literally planting their history and future in Georgia soil alongside their peaches and camellias.
Elliott’s speech might also be read as a defense of slavery, strange as this might seem at first blush. After all, the address itself contains not a single mention of “slave” or “slavery” (though Owens does rather uncritically repeat claims that Elliott was widely admired as a friend of the enslaved people). The reverend comes closest to the subject in his last point, when outlining the challenges horticulture faced in Georgia and the nature of planting, although in that passage it is the autonomous and authoritarian nature of planters that he sees as an obstacle, with no attention given to the human subjects of that authority. Elliott seems to have comfortably reconciled the plantation system and his faith. In a later address at the outbreak of the Civil War he simultaneously exalted the Episcopal Church’s missionary work to enslaved people, praised their masters’ paternalism, and instructed the state’s clergy to cease their prayers for the president of the United States and in their place to pray for Jefferson Davis and the Confederacy.5 Elliott’s Macon speech swept the enslaved from the picture as neatly as he wished artful landscape architecture might hide the “appendages of necessity”—the „dirty negroes grinning at you from every door”—from the vistas of southern rural seats (43).
Yet Elliott’s speech was also a defense of white Georgians’ way of life, and to defend the South’s planting scene was to defend its central economic institution. The commercial fruit orchards and beautified plantations of Elliott’s vision were spaces he assumed would be built and tended by enslaved people. And the commodity crops that occupied the bulk of their toil, most notably cotton, produced the wealth that made horticultural experimentation, pleasure gardens, and greenswards possible. Although Elliott makes nods to the importance of horticulture for the state’s smallholders, his message is directed almost exclusively to the planting class. Indeed, Owens notes that Elliott’s own plans for his Montpelier Institute and its associated farm relied on enslaved laborers to reshape and beautify the property near Macon.6 To build a permanent, beautiful plantation world would be the best evidence of all that slavery was not a morally or economically bankrupt system. Indeed, his kindred spirit Edmund Ruffin explicitly linked the success of the two, noting that enslaved labor could assist in improvement efforts such as amending fields. (In his Essay on Calcareous Manures [1832], Ruffin included an appendix that calculated the annual “cost of the labor” of enslaved men, women, and horses put to work spreading marl, a source of lime.) Agricultural improvement would in turn produce more food and support larger populations of slaves, reducing the practice of “the breeding and selling of slaves,” which kept old plantations along the Atlantic seaboard afloat. Improvement would not end the system of slavery, as Ruffin framed it; it would instead provide a firm and (in his mind) more humane foundation in permanent agriculture.7
This, Elliot believed, would be the correct outcome. A beautiful and stable landscape in which white Georgians could enjoy the fruits of their labors (and of their enslaved laborers) without having to look to fresh land in the West was the most moral of all future worlds. Artful landscapes would reflect a righteous and rooted people. In this view nothing at all could be more practical than horticultural ornamentation, as the very future of the state rested on its practice. It was at once an expansive and a restricted vision, one soon to be unmade by the Civil War.
DREW SWANSON
Notes
1. David Schuyler, Apostle of Taste: Andrew Jackson Downing, 1815–1852 (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1996). On Downing and garden cemeteries, see Aaron Sachs, “American Arcadia: Mount Auburn Cemetery and the Nineteenth-Century Landscape Tradition,” Environmental History 15, no. 2 (April 2010): 206–35. For Downing’s role in inspiring the idea and design of Central Park, see Roy Rosenweig and Elizabeth Blackmar, The Park and the People: A History of Central Park (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1998), 29–30, 123–25.
2. Edmund Ruffin, Nature’s Management: Writings on Landscape and Reform, 1822–1859, ed. Jack Temple Kirby (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2000); Steven Stoll, Larding the Lean Earth: Soil and Society in Nineteenth-Century America (New York: Hill & Wang, 2002); Weymouth T. Jordan, “Noah B. Cloud’s Activities on Behalf of Southern Agriculture,” Agricultural History 25, no. 2 (April 1951): 53–58; Hayden R. Smith, Carolina’s Golden Fields: Inland Rice Cultivation in the South Carolina Lowcountry, 1670–1860 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2020), chap. 6.
3. John Ruggles Cotting, An Essay on the Soils and Available Manures of the State of Georgia, with the Mode of Application and Management Founded on a Geological and Agricultural Survey (Milledgeville, Ga.: Park & Rogers, 1843). On this survey’s context, see Paul S. Sutter, Let Us Now Praise Famous Gullies: Providence Canyon and the Soils of the South (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 2015), 24–25.
4. The best recent study of the intersection of Georgia fruit culture and agricultural improvement is William Thomas Okie, The Georgia Peach: Culture, Agriculture, and Environment in the American South (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016).
5. Stephen Elliott, Address of the Rt. Rev. Stephen Elliott, D. D., to the Thirty-Ninth Annual Convention of the Protestant Episcopal Church, in the Diocese of Georgia (Savannah, Ga.: John M. Cooper and Company, 1861), 12, 16–17.
6. William M. Mathew, Edmund Ruffin and the Crisis of Slavery in the Old South: The Failure of Agricultural Reform (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1988).
7. Edmund Ruffin, An Essay on Calcareous Manures (Petersburg, Va.: J. W. Campbell, 1832), 198, 228–233.
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