William Hickling Prescott (1796-1859) was one of those rare historians who effectively melded history and literature in an elegant, compelling writing style that appealed to the casual reader, while still meeting the strict criteria of the scholar. Prescott was the first American historian to achieve international recognition with his critically acclaimed History of the Reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. Plagued by poor vision and chronic health issues, he was determined to make his mark as a historian. His follow-up work, The History of the Conquest of Mexico, is considered his masterpiece. Prescott went on to write A History of the Conquest of Peru, History of the Reign of Philip II and a 200-page addendum to William Robertson's History of the Reign of the Emperor Charles V. Drawing on correspondence and journal entries, this book traces the life of one of America's most celebrated historians.

This biography of a distinguished historian and man of letters is the first study of William Hickling Prescott (1796–1859) to be written by a historian who has worked with the very themes explored by Prescott. And it is the first to treat him not only as creative historian but also as family man, as traveler and clubman, as investor and humanitarian, and as private citizen with strong political preferences. Prescott the socialite and Prescott the introvert writer emerge in the round as the magnificent amateur who helped establish canons that have enriched American historical scholarship ever since. Blending history and literature, his multivolume works won Prescott the first significant international reputation to be accorded to an American historian. Working despite persistent obstacles of health and against a penchant for society and leisure that was always part of his personality, Prescott came to be considered the finest interpreter of the Hispanic world produced by the Anglo-Saxon world. His Conquest of Mexico and Conquest of Peru were pronounced classics. C. Harvey Gardiner takes the reader back to the nineteenth century in style and in subject to present William Hickling Prescott, gentleman and scholar, firmly fixed in relationship to his community and his times. But Gardiner's Victorian stance and respect for nineteenth-century historiography do not prevent his presenting Prescott as a whole man, viewed in retrospect, stripped of myth, and evaluated for moderns.

Correspondence of William Hickling Prescott, including letters to George P. Putnam and Susan Prescott. Also included are six letters from George S. Hillard to George P. Putnam; and an engraving by J. Kirk of Prescott's house in Pepperell, Massachusetts, n.d.

In the thirty-five years before the Civil War, it became increasingly difficult for Americans outside the world of politics to have frank and open discussions about the institution of slavery, as divisive sectionalism and heated ideological rhetoric circumscribed public debate. To talk about slavery was to explore—or deny—its obvious shortcomings, its inhumanity, its contradictions. To celebrate it required explaining away the nation's proclaimed belief in equality and its public promise of rights for all, while to condemn it was to insult people who might be related by ties of blood, friendship, or business, and perhaps even to threaten the very economy and political stability of the nation. For this reason, Paul D. Naish argues, Americans displaced their most provocative criticisms and darkest fears about the institution onto Latin America. Naish bolsters this seemingly counterintuitive argument with a compelling focus on realms of public expression that have drawn sparse attention in previous scholarship on this era. In novels, diaries, correspondence, and scientific writings, he contends, the heat and bluster of the political arena was muted, and discussions of slavery staged in these venues often turned their attention south of the Rio Grande. At once familiar and foreign, Cuba, Brazil, Haiti, and the independent republics of Spanish America provided rhetorical landscapes about which everyday citizens could speak, through both outright comparisons or implicit metaphors, what might otherwise be unsayable when talking about slavery at home. At a time of ominous sectional fracture, Americans of many persuasions—Northerners and Southerners, Whigs and Democrats, scholars secure in their libraries and settlers vulnerable on the Mexican frontier—found unity in their disparagement of Latin America. This displacement of anxiety helped create a superficial feeling of nationalism as the country careened toward disunity of the most violent, politically charged, and consequential sort.