On how to turn a black man white, a white man black, and other curious scientific hypotheses of the Age of Enlightenment...

A plate from Buffon's Histoire naturelle: sometimes science smells bad.

I've just had an old Facebook meme brought to mind this week.  It was called, more or less, 25 Things About Me, and perhaps you remember it, too.  Users were invited to author a note that listed twenty-five lesser-known facts about themselves; and these ranged from the very light and trivial to the astonishingly intimate, each based of course on the disposition of its confessor.  Once posted, one tagged to the note twenty-five other friends deemed worthy of sharing, and in so doing obliged them to generate in turn lists of their own.  And so it went as the meme spread throughout the site's usership.  Actually, it was pretty good as far as Facebook things go - definitely more interesting than playing Farmville - and it came at a time when I think users were less leery than today and definitely more interested in exploring the potential of online social networking platforms.  It was even referenced by Jimmy Fallon in the "Weekend Update" segment on Saturday Night Live.

I mention the 25 Things today in part because I participated, too; and really, since I am considered wordy, I was pretty happy to do so.  An observation (or maybe a warning), though: it garnered a far more varied range of responses than originally speculated - but that's another story altogether.  It's mentioned today mostly to resurrect a particular entry on the list:

19. I find that if one looks at the history of human culture, of human thought and belief and social attitudes and mores, the vast and contradictory and now often disproved mass of it all tends most often in my eyes to point to an enduring arbitrariness as a quality of the human condition. I believe that at least half of what we believe today is false or a construct of convenience or at best a charming naiveté, but I could not tell you which half. 

Well, so I felt in January of 2009, and I still do today.  I'm pretty sure that half of what's rolling around in your head and mine is pointless, that only time will sort it out, and that frankly by that time we'll probably be dead.

I'm guessing one could call this a kind of epistemological skepticism.  It's the product of education and my experience of the everyday, too.  When I started college, I knew I wanted a liberal arts sort of underpinning to my education and ended up with a B.A. in Religious Studies, with a minor in English.  This was after a lot of major-dabbling, and here I think my family would gleefully interject that one might read major as either a noun or an adjective, if not both.  Originally the program culminated in a degree in Philosophy, with a concentration in Religious Studies; and when a separate and distinct Religious Studies major emerged, I jumped ship.  But whatever the title, what the substance of either really breaks down to is a bunch of different people entertaining a bunch of different and often wildly contradictory ideas - of both truth and Truth - over the great expanse of human history.  And so at some point one is compelled to ask: Well, so much certainty in the thinkers and believers, but how can it all be true? 

The answer of course is that it can't; that a lot of it is actually bullshit. Or blindness. Or wishful thinking.  Yet people lived and died making of these sorts of things the compasses of their lives, pretty much none the wiser we can see today.  And speaking of today, I don't know that a look at our world exactly encourages optimism that humanity has improved its interior lot: any cursory glance through the average Facebook news feed will illustrate that.  To be clear, though, I definitely do not mean to say that we should abandon the endeavor of human thought as futile.  Nor am I really positioning myself here a conscious proponent of agnosticism.  Rather, I do favor a healthy sort of self-skepticism: the self-consciousness to know that what you hold to be true, you may do so not for its content and correspondence to reality, but often for what the holding does for you.  And finally I am saying this: enjoy the history of human thought, because it is fucking hilarious.

So what actually prompted this remembrance of Facebook past is a bit of hilarity found in my latest read, another of the terrific books I picked up along my tour through Virginia last fall.  The book is titled Mr. Jefferson and the Giant Moose: Natural History in Early America, and it's written by Lee Alan Dugatkin, a professor of biology at the University of Louisville.  I won't
 attempt to abstract the entirety of its contents, but the better part of the book examines
 the origins and effects of one of the less-enlightened ideas coming out of the so-called Enlightenment: the Theory of American Degeneracy.  And (news to me in 2012 and maybe you, too) basically this was a very widely embraced belief of the 18th and 19th century that every living thing - man included - either born of or once integrated into the landscape of the Americas basically went to shit. 

Say whaaat?

The idea was birthed from the pen of Georges-Louis Leclerc, Comte de Buffon, (1707-1788) - a preeminent natural scientist, mathematician, and later director of the Royal Gardens in France.  So sweeping was Buffon's influence that he's often credited as "the father of all thought in natural history in the second half of the 18th century."  His popularity is due in large part to his persuasive and eloquent writing style, which prompted the widespread readership of his 36 tome Histoire naturelle, générale et particulière, as it appeared in successive volumes from
 1749 to 1788.  And not only among his scientific peers but also the literate lay-public,
 especially participants in the idea-fueled salon culture of 18th century France. 

Thomas Jefferson to the rescue...

Dugatkin spells out Buffon's stance pretty well in the preface of his book:

In his massive encyclopedia of natural history, Histoire Naturelle, Buffon laid out what came to be called the theory of degeneracy.  He argues that, as a result of living in a cold and wet climate, all species found in America were weak and feeble.  What's more, any species imported into America for economic reasons would soon succumb to its new environment and produce lines of puny, feeble offspring.  America, Buffon told his readers, is a land of swamps, where life putrefies and rots.  And all of this from the pen of the preeminent natural historian of his century.

There was no escaping the pernicious effects of the American environment - not even for Native Americans.  They too were degenerate.  For Buffon, Indians were stupid, lazy savages.  In a particularly emasculating swipe, he suggested that the genitalia of Indian males were small and withered - degenerate - for the very same reason that the people were stupid and lazy. 

The environment and natural history had never before been used to make such sweeping claims, essentially damning and entire continent in the name of science.  Buffon's American degeneracy hypothesis was quickly adopted and expanded by men such as the Abbé Raynal and the Abbé de Pauw, who believed that Buffon's theory did not go far enough.  They went on to claim that the theory of degeneracy applied equally well to transplanted Europeans and their descendants in America.  These ideas became mainstream enough that Raynal felt comfortable sponsoring a contest in France on whether the discovery of America had been beneficial of harmful to the human race.

Books on American degeneracy were popular, reproduced in multiple editions, and translated from French into a score of languages including German, Dutch, and English; they were the talk of the salons of Europe and the manor houses of America. And it wasn't just the intelligentsia of the age who were paying attention - this topic was discussed in newspapers, journals, poems, and schoolbooks.

Wow. Can you imagine such crap being proposed - as scientific truth no less - about these big, beautiful Americas of ours?  This level of ridiculousness, it's a challenge to fully wrap one's head around it.  Yet that this was a commonly held and enduring prejudice is equally dumbfounding: these ideas were readily picked up by intellectual leaders like Voltaire, Kant, and Hegel.  Even Charles Darwin came to the Americas with degeneracy on his mind - in 1831, forty-three years after Buffon's death.

Well, I doubt anyone would question the eternal spring of Eurocentrism.  But it's not often one has cause to envision the American "Founding Fathers" on the short end of the social stick, themselves obliged to buck against a strange sort of pseudo-scientific, multi-tentacled racism.  Against taxation and the lack of representation, yes; but a real second-class human gradation on grounds other than the economics and geographic far-flungedness, no. 

Thomas Jefferson and fellow 18th & early 19th century leaders knew from experience the idea of degeneration to be complete garbage, and they were also acutely aware of the damaging effect such a belief would have on the future progress of the fledgling America.  Jefferson, whose passion and pleasure was natural science, made it is his mission to combat the sentiment and particularly to have the influential Count Buffon recant.  His strategy was to present the Count with proof contradictory to his claims of degeneracy and diminution, in part with a taxidermied specimen of the towering American moose - as Dugatkin recounts in his aptly-named Jefferson and the Giant Moose.  It was his work in collecting data to rebuff the Count that Notes on the State of Virginia - Jefferson's only published true book - was compiled and penned, an almost accidental bi-product of the endeavor.

Apparently the Comte de Buffon was of a school of natural scientists who generally did not often venture out into nature.  Instead they formulated theory based on both observations made from specimens in the great cabinets being amassed at the time, as well as taking data from the flow of often fanciful published reports of travelers and explorers.  And it should be noted that the authors of these accounts were, in the interest of boosting readership, seldom above the occasional outrageous claim.  Buffon actually did have access to some live animals in the royal collection, and apparently he also experimented in making observations of animals in captivity - as the following passage amusingly illustrates:

Buffon was also able to gather data directly on some species, albeit in very unnatural settings.  One such setting was his family estate, where he cordoned off one area and attempted to create a "semi-wild" environment that he stocked with foxes, hedgehogs, cats, chickens, dogs, badgers, and a monkey named Joko.  Though Buffon was able to gather some data at Montbard, most of the time his collection of animals went about chasing each other, burning themselves near fires, and begging their keepers for food.  Buffon gathered  a bit more reliable data at the Royal Menagerie, where he verified what he had heard about zebras and elephants by observing them person. 

Now that's what I call science. I mean, really, need one be so heavy-handed with the natural bit?

From Buffon's volumn on Ornithology. I don't know what the hell is going on here, but it's starting to look like a Walton Ford painting...

The human detail of Buffon's American degeneracy theory reflects a larger overarching racial interest.  I suppose one might give him credit for subscribing to monogenism (according to Wikipedia, "the concept that all races have a single origin"), which really might have seemed like a progressive idea at the time. The fact that it has its own definitive name is, I think, evidence that it has not always been regarded as a given.  But, and here Eurocentrism springs again eternal, Buffon and colleagues believed Adam & Eve - that is to say, the mint, in-the-box collector's edition of man - were Caucasian, and "that other races came about by degeneration from environmental factors, such as the sun and poor dieting."  Buffon's ideas of environment-based influence in an organism's outward physical expression of course predate Darwin's theories on evolution and natural selection - and they also offer a sort of naiveté that is actually rather amusing to read.  Writes Dugatkin:

The second pattern Buffon discerned centered on climate and skin color. Because humans were all part of a single race, Buffon believed that skin color was, in part, a direct result of climate.  Africans, for example, were dark-skinned, but they would become light skinned if they were moved to northern climates for a few hundred years.  Buffon went so far as proposing a direct test of this hypothesis: "To put the change of colour in the human species to the test of experiment, some Negroes should be transported from Senegal to Denmark, where the inhabitants have generally white skins, golden locks, and blue eyes, and where the difference of blood and opposition of colour are greatest."  Then, in order to remove the effects of racial mixing on skin color, Buffon suggested that "these Negroes must be confined to their own females, and all crossing of the breed scrupulously prevented.  This is the only method of discovering the time necessary to change a Negro into a White, or a White into a Black, by the mere opposition of climate."  From there it would become the anthropologist of the future's job to see what sorts of changes would take place in these African Danes...

Well, I have to say I would also be interested in the progress of those Danish Africans unwittingly transplanted to an isolated existence in Senegal:  "Hello, are you black yet?... No, not yet? OK, will check back in another hundred years..."


So why then did a nonsensical idea like the theory of degeneracy gain such traction in Europe?  Apparently, part of it was anxiety over emigration and the economic potential of the New World.  Monarchs, aristocrats, and the established order were concerned over the fact that people were increasingly less bound to the status quo.   They could now buy a tract of land and simply leave - both Europe and eventually Monarchical governance, too.  Abbé de Pauw, author of Philosophical Researches on the Americans and by far the most cunty of the pro-degenerists, is credited with writing to incur the favor of his patron, Frederick the Great, who had in fact instituted an agency in Hamburg "whose sole function was to prevent emigration to the New World, and instead to attract potential newcomers to Prussia."

Well, it's interesting to me that Buffon's theory - which was in large part constructed from observations of natural curiosities of the cabinet  - is today itself the curiosity.  And as anti-American as it was, in an interesting twist the very theory of American degeneracy and subsequent battle to disprove it is, according to Dugatkin, what gave rise to our national self-image of  "America as a beautiful, vast, resource-rich region, and its inhabitants as healthy, hardworking people in tune with nature."  And so that's an idea that - even if it might fall into that 50%-chanced realm of the bullshit we cling to - is certainly worth hanging on to all the same.
 

- a.t.s

Omnivore's Delight; Or, A short history of dog eating in North America...

It occurs to me that we Americans, when presented with the idea of eating a dog, tend reflexively to call to our minds certain Asian cultures where the practice is decidedly not as taboo as it is here in the States.  Usually it's the Koreans that take the spotlight, but the Vietnamese and Chinese are certainly known to sup on the pup as well.  Maybe it was the television series M.A.S.H. - which was set in Korea - that helped cement the idea in the minds of a generation: to this day I still remember the folksy Colonel Potter and his pithy reference to the rover ragoût of the locals.  So, for whatever cause, Asia today has the preeminent reputation for its consumption, but it might surprise you to know that North America used to be quite the epicenter of dog eating as well, and especially who was eating it...

I first came into knowledge of an American form of the practice upon reading of Hernán Cortés' dramatic conquest of Aztec Mexico in 1521.  Apparently the Aztecs (and their many surrounding, subjugated vassals) had two primary, domesticated sources of meat: turkeys and dogs - especially a small, plump breed of dog comparable to a Chihuahua and called itzcuintlis.  It's important to note that prior to the arrival of the European, the Americas were completely void of  all those types of meat so well furnished at the grocers of today.  There were no cows, no pigs, no sheep, no chickens - all of that was introduced by the Europeans, and, inadvertently, with them the devastating poxes that these animals naturally carried and against which the unexposed native populations had little to no immunity.  Otherwise, there was also game to be hunted, such as deer and duck and whatnot, but as far as animals whose temperaments actually lent themselves to feasible domestication, it was just the turkey and the dog.  Today in Mexico the turkey is still known as guajalote. or to anglicize the pronunciation wa-ha-lo-tay, which is not Spanish but actually is derived from the old Nahautl tongue.

From a Diego Rivera mural of the Tlatelolco animal market in the Palacio Nacional, Mexico City.
Note the deer, fish, iguana, frogs, and succulent little dog.

It's also interesting to note that horses were not a part of the pre-Columbian American landscape, either.  They, too, arrived with the Spanish, and their absence and is often cited as a determining factor in why the wheel was never fully exploited by the indigenous civilizations of the Americas - since really, even if they did have a wheel, there weren't any animals to pull it anywhere.   The Incas, however, did successfully utilize the llama as a pack animals, which is small-hoofed and agile on the uneven, stepped roads that wind throughout the Andes where horses would have been practically worthless.   Otherwise if you wanted something hauled somewhere in the Americas, you pretty much had to haul it there yourself.


Speaking of hauling things yourself - and returning now to the ongoing subject of the Journals of Lewis and Clark - one really has to wonder how the two explorers and their extended party arranged to keep themselves fed over the course of a two year journey.  Their plan, as it turned out, was two-fold: to hunt and to trade, and the expedition packed quite heavily with guns and ammunition for the former and Indian-popular trade goods for the latter.  And as such the group set out into the great unknown, laden with these initial supplies and - what particularly thrills and/or gives me anxiety at the thought of - basically in loose reliance on whatever the landscape, the natives, and fate would furnish for them.  And let me tell you this: they ate it ALL...

When Lewis' and Clark's Corps of Discovery first started off the living was good.  The plains fairly teemed with rich and tasty beasts like buffalo - not too far a cry from beef, really - and the caravan was well-stocked with flour, salt, and spices for its artful preparation for table. They also brought a supply of booze to wash it all down with.  But as the landscape changed, so did the travelers' diet, and I soon learned that the expedition basically ate whatever they could get their hands on - which most often was whatever was convenient to kill.  Sacagawea was adept at foraging for native plants and roots to supplement their diet, but their mainstay staple consisted of the fresh kill, and with minimal discrimination at that.  Once the group had passed the great herds of buffalo, there was still venison to be found.  When they started to cross through territory particularly infested with very aggressive Grizzly bears, guess what they started eating.  I have no idea how that must have taste, but for once I'm guessing it wasn't like chicken.

The landscape east of the Rockies was bountiful and meaty, but when the expedition started across the difficult mountainscapes, its offerings changed.  There was still the occasional deer to be had, but in scarcer measure.  At times there was absolutely nothing for days, and the expedition, who had procured pack horses from the Shoshone after leaving behind the rivers, began to rely on horse meat as their main food source.  And once they got west of the Rockies, things really changed for them remarkably...

Salmon was a great mainstay for both the economy and the table of the Pacific Northwest Indians, among whom Lewis and Clark traveled.  Indigenous "flathead" tribes occupied the river banks where the fish swam in great plenitude, though seasonally, and the natives had a means of beating and preserving the salmon into a form that could be used for trade with other tribes for other commodities.  Besides salmon, their diet also included the smaller, smelt-like euchalon, or candlefish (that I wrote of in the earlier post Another horrible idea in home decorating), as well as foragable plants and roots, such as the quamash, from which they made a sort of bread.  This fare is what the expedition now began to eat, and the abrupt change from an almost entirely meat-based diet to one of fish and starches was acutely upsetting to their digestive systems; there was lots of illness reported as a (not necessarily immediately recognized) consequence. 

Flathead Chinook with the mighty salmon, from George Catlin, 1861.  Note the baby on her back, with its little head tucked into the flattening device...

The preserved fish was often an iffy proposition to the travelers, and some horse meat dining continued.  But another type of animal would soon enter their culinary repertoire: the dog.  Writes William Clark during his stay among the Choppunish - or Nez Perces - dated October 10th, 1805:

a miss understanding took place between Sharbono one of our interpreters and Jo & R Fields which appears to have originated in just [jest].  our diet extremely bad haveing nothing but roots and dried fish to eate,    all the Party have greatly the advantage of me, in as much as they all relish the flesh of dogs, Several of which we purchased of the nativs for to add to our store of fish and roots &c. &c.

And though Clark personally is no fan of dog meat, it becomes quite popular among the rest of the expedition.   And anyway, as we see from his entry on October 18, 1805, sometimes it really was the best one could do, especially when one's trading partners didn't have the most consistent integrity: 

The fish being very bad those which was offerd to us we had every reason to believe was taken up on the shore dead we thought proper not to purchase any,   we purchased forty dogs for which we gave articles of little value, such as beeds, bells & thimbles, of which they appeared very fond,    at 4 oClock we set out down the Great Columbia accompanied by our two old Chiefs,  one young man wished to accompany us, but we had no room for more & he could be of no service to us.

Well, William Clark may not care for the dog meat, but Meriwether Lewis and the rest of the gang can't seem to get enough of the stuff, as one can readily read in his journal entry from April 13, 1806:

I also purchased four paddles and three dogs from them with deerskins. the dog now constitutes a considerable part of our subsistence and with most of the party has become a favorite food; certain I am that it is a healthy strong diet, and from habit it has become by no means disagreeable to me, I prefer it to lean venison or Elk, and it is very superior to the horse in any state.

Buffet?  George Stubbs' Bay Horse and White Dog, circa early 1800s.  (Really, though there is a plethora of images of dog meat online - usually served Asian-style - I really must allow us to use our imaginations for at least the purpose of this post...)

As the expedition made its way westward and into winter, their diet eventually expanded to include regionally available game such as Elk, though the salmon on which so much of the region harvested disappeared from the rivers until springtime.  The group made their winter camp close to the Pacific coast - at Fort Clatsop, so named for the Indians living nearby.   And although they had succeeded in achieving their lofty goal of making it to the ocean, the road home was now too treacherous and a return journey would not be feasible until the mountain snows melted.

As the party built their fort close to the Pacific, they hoped that their stay would coincide with a visit from a trading ship so they might replenish their stock of supplies.  Thomas Jefferson had furnished them with letters of credit expressly for this opportunity, though some historians have questioned why he didn't send a U.S. ship himself to meet the party.  Unfortunately a ship never stopped during their stay and they were obliged to make do.  They were long out of liquor, and the otherwise sparseness of the larder, coupled with the excessive rains of the Pacific Northwest, made for a holiday season far less merry than hoped.  Writes Clark on their Christmas dinner of 1805:

we would have Spent this day the nativity of Christ in feasting, had we any thing either to raise our Sperits or even gratify our appetites, our Dinner concisted of pore Elk, so much Spoiled that we eate it thro' mear necessity, Some Spoiled pounded fish and a fiew roots. 

And no horse meat was available to supplement their dinner, either.  Having traversed the Rockies and again been able to return to river travel, all the horses had been left in the care of a local tribe pending the expedition's return on their journey home to the east.  I get pissy when we don't have the right kind of Christmas ham - I can only imagine how spoiled elk must have gone over...

But bleak as Christmas dinner was, Lewis' and Clark's culinary fortunes were about to change again with the introduction of a new delicacy: whale blubber.  Clark records the introduction of the blubber in his journal entry of January 3, 1806 ( and also takes a moment to note that his comrades' fondness for eating dog continues into the new year unabated):

At 11 A. M. we were visited by our near neighbour Chief or tid Co mo wool ... and six Clatsops.   they brought for Sale Some roots berries and 3 Dogs also a Small quantity of fresh blubber.   this blubber they informed us they had obtained from their neighbours the Cal la mox who inhabit the coast to the S.E.  near one of their Villages a Whale had recently perished.  this blubber the Indians eat and esteem it excellent food.  our party from necessity have been obliged to Subsist some length of time on dogs have now become extremely fond of their flesh; it is worthey of remark that while we lived principally on the flesh of this animal we were much more healthy strong and more fleshey then we have been Sence we left the Buffalow Country.  as for my own part I have not become reconsiled to the taste of this animal as yet.

Although their winter at Fort Clatsop afforded neither bounty nor luxury in terms of diet - and indeed, as we have seen from my previous essay, a greater part of the expedition did succeed in contracting venereal disease from the indigenous population, the most salient features of whom were their artificially flattened heads and odd tattoos  -  Lewis' and Clark's time by the sea did afford them a welcome opportunity to restore their salt supply.  And really, if you thought eating dog stew sucked, try the low-salt version of it.

Meriwether Lewis - always the more prolific and lyrical writer on the duo - takes a moment in the sedentary winter to reflect upon their diet in this extended passage dated January 5, 1806, including the nature of whale blubber and how it stacks up against in a taste comparison against dog meat.  He also addressed the party's want of salt, want of bread, and ultimately on his own increasingly omnivorous disregard for the species of his dinner:

At 5 P.M. Willard and Wiser returned,   they had not been lost as we apprehended.  they informed us that it was not until the fifth day after leaving the Fort that they could find a convenient place for making salt;  that they had at length established themselves on the coast about 15 Miles S.W. from this, near the lodge of some Killamuck families; that the Indians were very friendly and had given them a considerable quantity of the blubber of a whale which perished on the coast some distance S.E. of them; part of this blubber they brought with them, it was white & not unlike the fat of Poork, tho' the texture was more spongey and somewhat coarser.  I had a part of it cooked and found it very pallitable and tender,  it resembled the beaver or the dog in flavor.  it may appear somewhat extraordinary tho' it is a fact that the flesh of the beaver and dog possess a very great affinity in point of flavour.

These lads also informed us that J. Fields, Bratten and Gibson (the Salt Makers) had with their assistance erected a comfortable camp killed an Elk and several deer and secured a good stock of meat;  they commenced the making of salt and found that they could obtain from 3 quarts to a gallon a day; they brought with them a specemine of the salt of about a gallon, we found it excellent, fine, strong, & white;  this was a great treat to myself and most of the party, having not had any since the 20th Ultmo.; I say most of the party, for my friend Capt. Clark declares it to be a mear matter of indifference with him whether he uses it or not;  for myself I must confess I felt a considerable inconvenience from the want of it; the want of bread I consider as trivial provided, I get fat meat, for as the species of meat I am not very particular, the flesh of the dog the horse the wolf, having from habit become equally fomiliar with any other, and I have learned to think that if the chord be sufficiently strong, which binds the soul and boddy together, it does not so much matter about the materials which compose it.  Capt. Clark determined this evening to set out early tomorrow with two canoes and 12 men in quest of the whale, or at all events to purchase from the Indians a parcel of the blubber,   for this purpose he prepared a small assortment of merchandize to take with him.

Interesting or what?  So apparently dog does not taste like chicken.  It tastes like beaver.  I wonder how that stacks up against bear?

Well, here I will take a moment to clarify that it would be quite faulty to assume that every American Indian tribe was eating dog regularly.  The reality is that many found the practice just as taboo as you and I.  Another reality is that plenty of other, unexpected cultures (and here I am talking Switzerland, for starters) have also had their episodes with the canine cuisine, as a visit to Wikipedia will reveal. A lot of what the human diet comes down to is availability and convenience - and that, as I learned in an Intro to Sociology or Anthropology or Something-ology class many years ago - it has been shown that universally human communities exploit the foodstuffs that offer the highest nutrient and calorie yield to the lowest amount of effort required in its harvest.  It brings to mind very literally the expression, the juice ain't worth the squeeze.  This is to say that we are surrounded with the edible-yet-inconvenient and of such do not bother to partake.  Maybe it's also to say that sometimes dogs taste better than berries, unless there's a fat, juicy buffalo out back...

Apparently as the expedition made its way homeward with its newly adopted appetite for the dog, some of the tribes they encountered - while often accommodating in the commercial sense -were not entirely impressed in the cultural sense.  Write Clark on May 5th, 1806:

while at dinner an indian fellow very impertinently threw a half starved puppy into the plate of Capt. Lewis by way of derision for our eating dogs and laughed very hartily at his own impertinence;  Capt. L. -- was so provoked at the insolence that he cought the puppy and threw it with great violence at him and struck him in the breast and face, seazed his tomahawk, and shewed him by sign that if he repeated his insolence that he would tomahawk him,  the fellow withdrew apparently mortified and we continued our Dinner without further molestation.

Well, apparently the expedition itself wasn't entirely impressed with their new custom, either.  Given the calibre of Lewis' reaction and overall humorlessness in the matter, clearly the Indian man's ribbing touched an unexpectedly and acutely raw nerve.  I am guessing all members of the party quit the habit upon their return to "civilization" back east.

Meanwhile in 1805: Portrait of an Extraordinary Musical Dog by Philip Reinagle - from the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts collection

On an amusing closing note I'll say that as I sat one afternoon in my usual coffeehouse (engrossed with this draft on my laptop), I hardly noticed a man shuffling from table to table with a little Pit-Lab mix in his hands.  Not, anyway, until he thrust the dog in my face and bluntly offered: "Puppy?"  I confess I really had to do a double-take before I realized he was trying to find the dog a new home.  Otherwise I found myself on the verge of polite excuse: "Oh no, thanks. I had a heavy lunch..."

- a.t.s

Another horrible idea in home decorating...

Last time I wrote about the general ghastliness of the Colonial era beef-tallow candle.  But long before the European arrived on the scene, indigenous peoples living in the Pacific Northwest and Western Canada came to utilize a small, silvery fish - and I don't mean the oil extracted from the fish, I mean the fish itself - as a means of illumination.  I mean, they came to burn the Candlefish.

This is a little something I stumbled on while researching colonial candle making. Apparently the small Candlefish, or Eulachon (Thaleichthys pacificus), is a type of smelt whose body mass is so fatty with fish oil that it could be (and indeed was) "dried, strung on a wick, and ... burned as a candle."  Think of that: dried fish one can light and use as candles!  How's that for smelly? 

The Candlefish is native to the Northern Pacific coastal waters stretching from Northern California to Alaska.  It's name, Eulachon, which is also sometimes spelled Oolichan or Oulachon, comes from the Chinook language, and it was both an important part of the diet and the economy of the Native Americans of the Pacific Northwest and Canada's West coast.  It was also the first of the fishes to migrate from the sea and up the rivers after winter, thus ending late winter hunger anxiety with the river-dwelling tribes, who came to call them "salvation fish" or "savior fish".  Lewis and Clark even dined on them, too, when their expedition was camped out on the Pacific coast in 1806 - and boy am I ever going to write about Lewis & Clark and their diet - but no word as to whether or not the duo penned their famous journals in the flickering, fishy light of the Eulachon...

The Candlefish fish candle is certainly a phenomenon past its apogee, though I would say it's open for a comeback. All that sort of thing really takes is the right tastemaker at the right time.  But maybe it really is better to curse the darkness than light a candlefish, since as of 2010 the Eulachon is officially listed as a threatened species.  Hydroelectric dams, chemical pollutants, El Niño-related climate change - it's all taking a toll on the little guys.  The last thing they need is to end up on some avant gardist's tablescape.