The return of the American bison from near extinction is a conservation triumph. The iconic species, with its symbolic associations with frontier America, the Old West, and Native Americans, was down to a few hundred animals by the end of the 19th century. Today, there are about 30,000 (outside of the meat industry), many of them living large in national parks.
In late autumn of 1793, Secretary of State Thomas Jefferson was in Germantown, Pennsylvania, then the nation’s temporary capital. A devastating outbreak of yellow fever had driven the government, including President George Washington, out of the capital, Philadelphia, to escape the horrific epidemic, whose origin was a mystery to all. Jefferson had not, in fact, been a part of the exodus. He had decided to leave Philadelphia in the winter of 1792, well before the outbreak. Perhaps he had grown weary of city living or, more likely, wished to find respite from the scene of his metaphorical death match with Secretary of the Treasury Alexander Hamilton, his chief rival in Washington’s cabinet. The two men had very different visions about the way the new country should progress, and Washington sided with Hamilton.
The creation of the United States of America was a strange event in the sweep of world history — strange enough that it should probably be called something other than a “nation.” “Country” doesn’t quite work — too pastoral, too evocative of lazy summer landscapes for a people as industrious and adventurous as we are. So, “nation” is a half step better. But it’s still not great. “Nation” comes from the Latin natio, meaning “birth,” which rightly indicates that traditional nations are based on a shared birth — that is, shared bloodlines. Not so with us.
Hitler, ever obsessed with bloodlines, complained that the United States was “not a nation, but a hodgepodge.” He was right on the fact — but wrong about it being a problem.
Editor's Note: Bruce Watson is a writer, historian, and contributing editor of American Heritage. You can read more of his work on his blog, The Attic.
Hackensack, NJ — 1908 — Duke was a rough horse, but Alice could handle him. “I’ve got strong arms,” she told her husband. And, one summer afternoon, she set out on horseback. The 19th century itself seemed to ride with her, slow and plodding. Then the 20th century came up from behind.