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When the Liberty Bell Went on a National Tour

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Philadelphia Mayor Rudolph Blankenburg had specific instructions for both the employees of Independence Hall and the citizens of the city on Independence Day 1915. He wanted the Hall to remain open past its regular closing time. This, he told the city, was so it could accommodate everyone who might want to say goodbye to the Liberty Bell.

The next morning, it would be gone. And Blankenburg wasn’t sure it was ever coming back—at least, not in one piece.

TradingCardsNPS, Flickr // CC BY 2.0

The Liberty Bell, once known as the State House Bell, is one of the most iconic objects in American history. Originally forged in London for delivery to Philadelphia in 1752, it broke upon the first strike and was twice re-casted by metalworkers John Pass and John Stow. Newly strengthened, it was a signal for lawmakers and residents to assemble. But after 90-odd years of persistent ringing, a crack started to manifest. Workers widened the crack and inserted rivets in the hopes it wouldn’t get worse.

According to some accounts, it did—perhaps after a ceremony to commemorate George Washington’s birthday in 1846—and so the Bell was taken out of service, becoming less of a utility and more of a symbol for an assortment of civil rights causes, from abolitionists to the suffragette movement.

While Philadelphians could visit Independence Hall for inspiration, the rest of the country often clamored for a look. Between 1885 and 1904, the Bell went on six road trips, first to the World’s Industrial and Cotton Centennial Exposition in New Orleans and finally to the Louisiana Purchase Exposition in 1904. Workers hoisted it on dollies and on train cars, passing through states so Americans could see the 2000-pound symbol for themselves.

Some observers were more recognizable than others. As it passed through Mississippi on its trip to New Orleans, former President of the Confederacy Jefferson Davis approached the Bell and spoke to it directly: "You, sacred organ, gave voice to the proudest declaration that a handful of men ever made ... Glorious old Bell, the son of a Revolutionary soldier bows in reverence before you.” Thomas Edison, who had visited it several times, was also spotted during a later tour, apparently fascinated with the sight of the Bell in the wild.

The 1904 trip appeared to be the last time it would leave Philadelphia city limits. With each successive journey, citizens fretted about the fragility of the Bell and whether it could survive transport. But in 1911, a band of politicians began making noise about another trip—this one clear across the country to San Francisco, where Mayor Jim Rolph petitioned for the Bell to appear in his city’s Panama-Pacific International Exposition. Newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst endorsed the idea; San Francisco classrooms wrote letters urging Philadelphia to consider it; and in 1912, a petition bearing the signatures of thousands of San Francisco kids desperate to see the bell was sent to the Philadelphia City Council.

Philadelphia Mayor Blankenburg didn’t need any convincing. He agreed to the proposal, but was met with pushback by Boies Penrose, a senator and political rival who insisted the Bell remain undisturbed in the Hall. Talks dragged on for years between the cities, with the chief concerns being the Bell’s welfare in transit and the potential for its status as an American icon to be diminished.

The Bell, according to former Pennsylvania governor Samuel Pennypacker, was to be viewed with reverence and not stuck at “fairs associated with fat pigs and fancy furniture.” Other critics charged that for all the talk of fueling patriotism, the real motive was for the fair organizers in San Francisco to have an attraction that could draw huge crowds. Worst of all, prior trips had resulted in the Bell returning to Philadelphia a few pounds lighter: Gawkers would try and covertly chisel pieces of it off as a souvenir.

The two sides were at a standstill when the San Francisco fair opened in February 1915. As a kind of consolation prize, Blankenburg arranged for a ringing of the bell over the transcontinental Bell Telephone lines that had just been hung across the country.

But Rolph wouldn’t stop campaigning. His insistence, coupled with the sinking of the British ship Lusitania in May 1915, led to Philadelphia’s anti-touring contingent to soften. If the U.S. was about to be pulled into a world war, then perhaps some portable patriotism was in order.

Still, warnings by metallurgical engineers that the Bell faced the potential of being returned in pieces continued. Speaking to the Oakland Tribune, the reported “doctor” of the relic, Alexander Outerbridge Jr., spoke of the Bell as a patient afflicted with a cryptic “diseases of metals.”

“I myself have no hesitation in saying that the bell has a distemper which should insure its most careful preservation from all shocks such as it would be subjected to on a long journey,” he said.

The cross-country trip would be undertaken by rail, with the Pennsylvania Railroad given the responsibility of creating a ride smooth enough to minimize the risk of any further damage. Massive springs were used to cushion the train car housing the Bell. Dubbed the Liberty Bell Special, the train could also accommodate city councilmen and their families making the trip along with their special cargo.

The Bell hung from a yoke on the car and was surrounded by a brass railing to deter visitors from getting too close; a hook system was tethered to the lip of the Bell to prevent the crack from expanding, a precaution which remains in place today. Officials were firmly set on only allowing the blind to place a hand on it, but the Bell’s handlers were unable or unwilling to corral children, who were frequently hoisted up and allowed to kiss the metal.

Adults took a different tact. They would use whatever trinkets, jewelry, or pocket items they had at their disposal, handing them to guards and asking them to hold them up to the Bell’s surface. As the car traveled on through to San Francisco, the crowds could sometimes grow so deep that their edges couldn’t be seen from the train. An ocean of people had come at every stop to take in an inanimate object that had come to represent either the freedom they had or the freedom they longed to acquire.

IMLS Digital Collections and Content, Flickr  // CC BY 2.0

Incredibly, it’s believed that one-quarter of the country’s 1915 population was able to view the Bell as it made the 10,000-mile journey to San Francisco. When it arrived in California, the pull was so strong that it even lured a notorious safe robber named John Collins out of hiding. A police officer spotted him in the crowd and had him hauled away.

The train came to a stop on July 17, with the Bell getting a reprieve from travel. It remained on exhibit for four months, attracting far more attention than fair organizers could have predicted. In November, the Liberty Bell Special turned course and returned for home. The retreat was more eventful—and tragic—than the departure, with a woman in Memphis being crushed to death by the force of the swelling crowd. And while the Bell usually loomed over crowds in major cities, some stopovers were more truncated. In Beaumont, Texas, residents were disappointed to find the attraction would only be idling there for 10 minutes at 1 a.m. (although it didn't actually arrive until 6:30 a.m.).

Once it was returned to Independence Hall, the Bell’s handlers—politicians and caretakers alike—rebuffed any further attempts to put it back on wheels. The 1976 Bicentennial was one potential motivation, but further concerns over its condition meant the only trip it took was from Independence Hall to a specially constructed pavilion. It was moved to its current location in 2003. More than 18,000 people visit the bell daily today, where it remains intact—or as intact as it ever was.

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Food
A Hamilton-Themed Cookbook is Coming
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Hamilton Broadway

Fans of Broadway hit Hamilton will soon be able to dine like the Founding Fathers: As Eater reports, a new Alexander Hamilton-inspired cookbook is slated for release in fall 2017.

Cover art for Laura Kumin's forthcoming cookbook
Amazon

Called The Hamilton Cookbook: Cooking, Eating, and Entertaining in Hamilton’s World, the recipe collection by author Laura Kumin “takes you into Hamilton’s home and to his table, with historical information, recipes, and tips on how you can prepare food and serve the food that our founding fathers enjoyed in their day,” according to the Amazon description. It also recounts Hamilton’s favorite dishes, how he enjoyed them, and which ingredients were used.

Recipes included are cauliflower florets two ways, fried sausages and apples, gingerbread cake, and apple pie. (Cue the "young, scrappy, and hungry" references.) The cookbook’s official release is on November 21—but until then, you can stave off your appetite for all things Hamilton-related by downloading the musical’s new app.

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History
The Man Who First Made Childbirth Pain-Free

The Wood Library Museum of Anesthesiology in Schaumburg, Illinois—a sprawling exurb of Chicago—is home to an obstetric treasure: a plaster cast of a newborn infant’s head. The bust shows the trauma of birth, the infant's head squeezed to a blunted point. The cast was made on January 19, 1847 by Sir James Y. Simpson in Edinburgh, Scotland, for a very special reason: It commemorates the first time that modern anesthesia was used to ease the pain of childbirth.

Simpson was not only a titled 1st Baronet but a gifted obstetrician. At age 28, he became Professor of Medicine and Midwifery at the University of Edinburgh. Many his senior in the medical community thought Simpson was an upstart—in fact, it's said that his middle name, "Young," was originally a derogatory taunt by his elders. In response to their jeers, Simpson adopted it for good.

Simpson initially used ether as an anesthetic in deliveries, but he soon began looking for an alternative anesthetic because of the gas's "disagreeable and very persistent smell" and the fact that it was irritating to the patients' lungs. His experimentation with chloroform—invented in the United States in 1831 by physician Samuel Guthrie—began in November 1847, with a brandy bottle and some post-dinner party research. The story goes that he presented the filled bottle to his guests to inhale. The next morning, the party were all found on the floor unconscious.

Scholars say this dramatic version of events is likely overblown, but the story illustrates the dangers of discovery. As Simpson's experiments continued, one neighbor and fellow doctor reportedly [PDF] came around to his home at 52 Queen Street every morning "just to inquire if every-one was still alive."

A drawing said to depict the effects of liquid chloroform on James Y. Simpson and his friends.
A drawing said to depict the effects of liquid chloroform on James Y. Simpson and his friends.

Eventually, Simpson got the formulation right with some help from his assistants, who were also local chemists. Over time, the delivery method also improved: Instead of a whiff of fumes from a brandy bottle, doctors developed an apparatus that resembled a glass hookah with long tubes attached to a mask. Later in the century, a soft flannel-covered, metal-handled cup or pouch placed over the nose and mouth of the patient was the preferred delivery method. The doctor—hopefully competent—doled out the anesthetic drop by drop. This method sought to reduce the risk of overdose deaths, which were a significant concern early on.

Simpson was the first to discover the anesthetic properties of chloroform, and soon began to use the drug to help women in labor. The medical community applauded his achievements, as did many women of childbearing age, but some Scottish Calvinists (and members of other religions) were not so happy. Genesis 3:16 was very clear on the matter of women suffering in childbirth as punishment for eating fruit from the Tree of Knowledge: "To the woman he said, I will surely multiply your pain in childbearing; in pain you shall bring forth children." For those who took the Bible literally, easing a woman’s pain was anathema.

Some reports from the time describe the divide between medicine and religion on this issue as an all-out revolt, while other accounts claim the religious response to anesthetizing "the curse of Eve" has been overblown by history. In general, it's fair to say the church wasn't thrilled about the use of anesthesia in labor. When Simpson introduced his discovery in 1847, the Scottish Calvinist Church proclaimed it a "Satanic invention." Pregnant women were reportedly warned by preachers: Use this “devilish treatment” and your baby will be denied a baptism.

Simpson disagreed—he didn't think women should have to suffer the pain of childbirth. He made both a scientific and biblical argument for anesthesia during labor. In a pamphlet, Answers to the Religious Objections Advanced Against the Employment of Anaesthetic Agents in Midwifery and Surgery and Obstetrics, Simpson pointed to Genesis and the deep sleep of Adam while his rib was being removed as being evidence "of our Creator himself using means to save poor human nature from the unnecessary endurance of physical pain." He went further, declaring that labor pains were caused by anatomical and biological forces (a small pelvis and a big baby caused uterine contractions)—not a result of the curse of Eve.

Public opinion changed after Queen Victoria took chloroform (applied by Dr. John Snow, famous for his work related to cholera) for the birth of her eighth child, Leopold, in 1853. The queen wrote in her diary: "Dr Snow administered that blessed chloroform and the effect was soothing, quieting and delightful beyond measure." Her final child, Princess Beatrice, was also born with the aid of anesthesia. Clearly, she approved.

Edinburgh is still proud of Simpson and of its special place in the history of anesthesia. From August 16 to 18, 2017, the Edinburgh Anesthesia Research and Education Fund will host the 31st Annual Anesthesia Festival, featuring lectures on anesthesia and pain medicine as well as drinks receptions, a private viewing of a Caravaggio, recitation of the works of Robert Burns (Scotland's most revered poet), and bagpiping.

According to the event website, the past success of the festival has led to moving the whole thing to a larger space to accommodate demand. Apparently there are a great number of people with a passion for medical history—or at least, a great deal of gratitude for the development of anesthesia.

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