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THE MOST RANCOROUS LINE  
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Nicholas Guyatt
January 15, 2026
The New York Review of Books
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_ How did the Mason–Dixon Line—meant to resolve a long-standing
colonial border dispute—come to represent the US’s foundational
divide between slavery and freedom? _

Studio Museum in Harlem/Estate of Radcliffe Bailey/Jack Shainman
Gallery, Radcliffe Bailey: Mason Dixon, 2009

 

Reviewed:Mason-Dixon: Crucible of the Nationby Edward G. GrayHarvard
University Press, 440 pp., $35.00; $26.95 (paper)

By the fall of 1854, most Americans realized that their nation’s
protracted effort to avoid open conflict over slavery was failing. The
passage of the Fugitive Slave Act in 1850 and the publication of
_Uncle Tom’s Cabin_ two years later had riled northerners and
southerners in turn, and the armed struggle between proslavery and
antislavery settlers in the Kansas Territory was just beginning. While
many of the nation’s political and cultural elites were still keen
to avoid the topic of disunion, the directors of the Historical
Society of Pennsylvania steered into the storm. That November they
invited John Latrobe, a prominent lawyer from Baltimore, to deliver
their annual public lecture. His subject was “The History of Mason
and Dixon’s Line.”

Stretching west for nearly 250 miles from the Chesapeake through the
Appalachians, the line had been drawn between 1763 and 1767 with
unprecedented precision by two English surveyors, Charles Mason and
Jeremiah Dixon. Originally intended to settle a boundary dispute
between Pennsylvania and Maryland, by 1854 it had assumed an ominous
new meaning as the border between the slave South and the free North.
“There is, perhaps, no line, real or imaginary, on the surface of
the earth…whose name has been oftener in men’s mouths during the
last fifty years,” Latrobe declared. (He included the equator.) He
urged historians to look beyond the line’s present-day
“notoriety” and restore its true purpose: not to divide the South
from the North but to plot the course of American settlement into the
continent’s vast interior. If Americans could only remind themselves
of its original meaning, they would unite again in the enjoyment of
the exceptional opportunities offered to them by geography and
providence.

Latrobe’s attempt to use the history of the Mason–Dixon Line as a
political emollient was wildly unsuccessful. If anything, in
subsequent decades the line’s power to signify elemental
distinctions—between North and South, freedom and slavery, equality
and racial prejudice—only grew. Edward G. Gray’s excellent recent
history of the line, which invokes this speech in its introduction,
acknowledges the line’s entanglement with slavery to a degree that
would have appalled Latrobe. But Gray also wants to convince us that
the clash between North and South “represented only part of the
Line’s story.” The irony of this border—as with so many
others—is that political distinctions had only limited power to
shape reality.

The colonies of Maryland and Pennsylvania both emerged from the
fast-moving religious currents of seventeenth-century England. George
Calvert, the first Lord Baltimore, rose from modest origins to become
a courtier and close adviser of James I. He was also a Catholic, and
in the early 1620s he decided to found an American colony that might
combine profit with a promise of refuge to his coreligionists. His
first attempt, in Newfoundland, failed miserably. After a sojourn in
Virginia, he returned to England and petitioned the new king, Charles
I, for a settlement on the Chesapeake instead. Calvert died in 1632,
two months before the king granted his request. Cecil Calvert, the
second Lord Baltimore, brought his father’s charter to America. By
1640 the new colony of Maryland—named for Charles I’s (Catholic)
wife, Henrietta Maria—had attracted five hundred settlers.

The founding of Maryland created border trouble more or less
immediately. The colony’s charter implemented a feudal device from
England called the palatinate, by which the sovereign gave a
proprietor virtually unlimited power to govern a peripheral region.
This was a more sweeping grant than the one given to the Virginia
Company in 1606, and Virginian officials were alarmed at what their
new Catholic neighbor might do. Could Lord Baltimore even forge an
alliance with Spain? Back in London, the Privy Council offered some
reassurance by carefully marking the bounds of Baltimore’s
domain—the first time the Crown felt the need for clear borders
between its American colonies. The Potomac River would divide Maryland
from Virginia. What later became known as the Delmarva Peninsula (much
of which would eventually become the state of Delaware) was reserved
for Maryland—except for the peninsula’s southernmost tip, already
settled by Virginians.

According to the charter, Maryland’s northern boundary would be the
fortieth parallel, “where New England is terminated.” New England
grew tremendously to the west during the seventeenth century, but to
the south it never got anywhere near the fortieth parallel, which
passes through Philadelphia. Instead it was the Swedish and the Dutch
who established the first colonies in the mid-Atlantic region
(including the Delmarva Peninsula). In 1655 the colony of New
Netherlands overran and absorbed the Swedish settlements in what is
now New Jersey. Within a decade, New Netherlands was itself captured
by a British naval force in the name of the Duke of York, Charles
II’s brother (and the future James II). In the process Delmarva
became a disputed territory—not only between European settlers
(Dutch and British) and indigenous people but between competing
British claimants. The second Lord Baltimore was unwilling to
surrender his domain even to the king’s brother, but the Duke of
York’s local representative, the governor of New York, insisted that
the duke’s conquest of Dutch territory preempted the claims of the
Maryland charter. Invoking the same logic of land use with which white
settlers denied Native sovereignty, the duke’s supporters argued
that the disputed region could not belong to Maryland if Baltimore’s
colonists had never settled there. The quarrel took more than half a
century and a typically byzantine Chancery suit to resolve.

The skirmishes over Delmarva demonstrate that seventeenth-century
European nations were often so preoccupied with religious and
political controversies at home that they lacked the focus or capacity
to micromanage North American expansion. Colonization therefore became
the work of powerful individuals and their representatives and
descendants. As Gray points out, this was hardly the “salutary
neglect” spoken of by Edmund Burke, the Irish-born member of
Parliament who in 1775 warned British ministers against repressing the
restive American colonists. It was an uncoordinated, even sclerotic
form of governance that frequently left powerful proprietors and
land-hungry colonists to settle their own arguments.

Lord Baltimore’s unpleasant dispute with the Duke of York was merely
a prelude to the wrangling over Maryland’s northern boundary that
followed the creation of Pennsylvania in 1681. Like George Calvert,
William Penn was drawn to North America by a combination of wealth and
religious unorthodoxy. Penn’s Protestant nonconformism was, if
anything, even less desirable in Restoration England than Calvert’s
Catholicism had been forty years earlier: Penn’s religious beliefs
had gotten him kicked out of Oxford (a place of “hellish darknes &
debauchery,” he later wrote) and thrown into the Tower of London.
But he could fall back on his famous name. His grandfather had been an
influential merchant, and his father was an admiral in the Royal Navy.
During the English Civil War Penn’s father had taken up the cause of
Parliament, but after the Restoration he atoned for his disloyalty by
serving the Crown in a number of positions. His son, meanwhile, shed a
little of his youthful zeal, took up the law, and managed his
family’s considerable estates. Toward the end of the 1660s William
Penn converted to Quakerism, a sect that was popular among English
merchants but subject to scrutiny and suspicion from the state.

Mike King

Penn lobbied for religious toleration in England while scouting
opportunities for a Quaker colony overseas. In 1680 he petitioned
Charles II for a large grant on the western side of the Delaware
River. While Penn later claimed that the king had honored his request
in order to discharge an old debt owed to his father, Charles was
happy to put an ocean between himself and a group of particularly
influential nonconformists. By 1681 Penn had his charter and a
blueprint for a colony of unprecedented scale and ambition.

That colony’s most famous settlement—Philadelphia—became the
seat of Penn’s American domain only thanks to the era’s
rudimentary command of geography. Maryland’s charter had specified
that its northern boundary lay at the fortieth parallel, but maps of
the region were vague on where exactly this was. Believing the Dutch
settlement of New Castle (now under the control of the Duke of York)
to be close to the fortieth parallel, and eager to ensure that its
residents would have some breathing room from the new Quaker colony,
the imperial officials who drew up Penn’s charter plotted a
twelve-mile radius from New Castle to the Delaware River and created
the Delaware Curve, still the only circular border in the continental
United States. But New Castle was actually thirty miles south of the
fortieth parallel, and so Pennsylvania’s charter had inadvertently
seized a major chunk of northern Maryland. Had the fortieth parallel
been marked accurately, Philadelphia would have belonged to Lord
Baltimore. Instead Penn commissioned a map in London in 1681 that
placed the parallel even farther to the south—around fifty miles
from its actual latitude. Mason and Dixon would eventually follow the
charter’s direction to plot the line from the Delaware Curve, though
in the process they confirmed a sizable part of Penn’s sly land
grab.

In 1682 Penn disembarked in America and began the work of establishing
Pennsylvania. As Gray reminds us, the scale of violence against
indigenous people during Pennsylvania’s first decades was limited in
comparison with the genocidal colonization of New England and
Virginia. In his negotiations with the Lenape Indians who occupied the
Delaware River’s western reaches, Penn styled himself as a different
kind of European: he wanted the “Love and Consent” of Native
Americans as he built out his “great Province.” The colony’s
expansion compelled Penn’s successors to test indigenous patience
with ever greater demands for land. At first, though, the principal
instrument of Pennsylvania’s expansion was the treaty. Penn’s
understanding of sovereignty was vastly more exclusive than the one
that prevailed among his Native neighbors, and he knew that he was not
always negotiating with the Indians who had a rightful claim to the
regions he hoped to buy. In these respects, he anticipated the
fraudulent treaty making that would define relations with indigenous
people for two centuries or more.

Penn’s most urgent territorial challenge after 1682 was to secure
his colony’s access to the Atlantic. Philadelphia was more than
fifty miles from the ocean, and hostile settlers along the Delaware
River might easily threaten Pennsylvania’s commercial viability.
Maryland still claimed New Castle and the Dutch settlements on the
Delmarva Peninsula; taken together, these became known as the Lower
Counties. The Duke of York insisted on his own claim, and Penn had the
clever idea of drawing up a lease agreement with the distant duke
rather than negotiating with his Maryland counterpart.

Cecil Calvert, the second Lord Baltimore, had died in 1675. His son
Charles, the third Lord Baltimore, met twice with Penn in 1682 and
1683 to resolve the dispute, without success. Both men then rushed to
London to continue their quarrel before the Lords of Trade, who
delivered a broad victory to Penn. The Duke of York was confirmed as
the ruler of what would be known as Delaware, and Penn was allowed his
leasing arrangement for the Lower Counties, which became political
satellites of Pennsylvania. The precise boundary between the new
Quaker colony and Maryland remained unclear. For the better part of a
century, the fuzziness of that border led to confusion, rancor, and
violence on both sides.

Pennsylvania and Maryland each had a commodity with which to anchor
colonial trade—furs and tobacco, respectively. The two colonies’
borderlands also offered opportunities to small farmers growing wheat,
barley, and flax. In the first part of the eighteenth century, the
agricultural boom in southeastern Pennsylvania made these borderlands
the fastest-growing part of Penn’s domain: thousands of immigrants
from Europe—led by Scots-Irish Protestants—had settled there by
1730. Both colonies attempted to fix these new arrivals within their
domains by incorporating counties and collecting taxes, but the
uncertainty of the border confounded a precise accounting of who owed
what to whom.

Pennsylvania’s governors engaged the region’s Conestoga and
Shawnee Indians in trade, legal chicanery, and diplomacy, while
broadly respecting the sovereignty of indigenous people who lived in
the western reaches of the borderlands. But wildcat settlers from
Maryland streamed across the border to take advantage of the rich
soils, displacing and killing Indians who had received Penn’s
assurances of sovereignty and safety. Without a clear line to
demarcate Maryland from Pennsylvania, the economic opportunities of
the borderlands threatened to destabilize both colonies and destroy
whatever “Love and Consent” remained on the part of Native
Americans.

Meanwhile realignments of power among indigenous people left Lenape
and Shawnee Indians in an especially vulnerable position. The powerful
northeastern Haudenosaunee alliance had forced these nations westward,
and Penn and his officials had negotiated treaties guaranteeing their
resettlement beside the Susquehanna River in the borderlands. This,
however, was precisely where white settlers from Pennsylvania and
Maryland staked their claims to the region’s agricultural bounties.
Native Americans also grew frustrated with the rogue practices of
Pennsylvania’s officials, who became ever more cunning in the
practice of treaty making. When Lenape Indians agreed in 1737 to cede
an area of eastern Pennsylvania equivalent to the distance a man could
walk in a day and a half, John Penn and Thomas Penn—William Penn’s
sons and successors—arranged for three seasoned runners to do the
“walking,” roughly doubling the cession the Lenape had thought
they were making. The same officials were conspicuously slow to
address the growing violence against Indians in the borderlands.

This violence reached a crescendo during the French and Indian War,
which began in 1754 and bled into the Seven Years’ War
(1756–1763). The conflict was driven by competition between Britain
and France for control of the Ohio Valley. It began when the royal
governor of Virginia sent a military expedition headed by George
Washington to the important French outpost of Fort Duquesne, in what
is now western Pennsylvania. The French defenders easily held off
Washington’s forces—a defeat that tarnished the young
Virginian’s reputation and failed to ignite a wave of sympathy
across the colonies. (Pennsylvanians were especially reluctant to risk
their lives in a war that might aggrandize Virginia.) When British
officials finally maneuvered the colonists into a full-blown conflict
with France, American settlers and soldiers never lost sight of their
local interests. Serving alongside British redcoats, American
militiamen waged brutal warfare against the indigenous allies of the
French, and colonists took the opportunity to settle scores with even
those Native Americans who were living peacefully within the bounds of
Pennsylvania.

The outcome was the ethnic cleansing of most of the borderlands
Indians. In Philadelphia Benjamin Franklin was appalled by the
“murder” of “Numbers of innocent People in cold Blood” at the
hands of white vigilantes. Franklin had long opposed the Penn
family’s proprietorial rule over the colony, and he invoked the
regime’s shameful abandonment of indigenous people to propose that a
royal governor now be placed at the head of Pennsylvania’s politics.
Given that Philadelphia became the headquarters of a separatist
government for a new American nation barely a dozen years later,
it’s ironic that in 1764 prominent colonists looked to Britain to
solve two of their major problems: Franklin went to England to agitate
for a royal governor, a fact that explains Pennsylvania’s
surprisingly muted participation in the widespread protests against
the Stamp Act the following year; and Pennsylvania’s governor,
Thomas Penn, approved the appointment of two British surveyors to
finally fix the boundary line with Maryland.

The exploits of those surveyors hold less interest for Gray than a
reader might have hoped. In fairness, the notes left by Charles Mason
and Jeremiah Dixon from their surveying expedition of 1763–1767 are
notoriously flat. “Their journal is the most naked of records,”
complained John Latrobe, who resorted to graphology to capture the
essence of his heroes. (Mason’s hand confirmed him as “a cool,
deliberate, painstaking man…a man of quiet courage,” while
Dixon’s signaled “a man of an impatient spirit and a nervous
temperament.”) For contemporary readers, Thomas Pynchon’s 1997
novel _Mason & Dixon_ may have raised expectations to unrealistic
levels. Did Mason and Dixon really smoke weed with George Washington?
(No.) Did Dixon assault an enslaver in Baltimore to facilitate the
escape of his slaves? (No.) Pynchon drew license both from fiction and
from his highly unreliable narrator, the Reverend Cherrycoke. Gray is
the opposite of that “untrustworthy Remembrancer,” though in
reading his dutiful account of Mason and Dixon’s journey it’s hard
not to miss Cherrycoke’s flair for the dramatic.

This is a minor complaint. Gray’s final chapters offer a thrilling
account of the struggles over the newly drawn border and of the
line’s metamorphosis during the nineteenth century. The number of
enslaved people in Pennsylvania and Maryland had surged in the 1750s
and 1760s, and Maryland’s tobacco producers ensured that slavery
continued to dominate the labor systems of the Tidewater and the
Eastern Shore. There were around seven thousand enslaved people in
Pennsylvania by the American Revolution, and more than ten times that
number in Maryland.

In the borderlands, however, population growth was driven by white
immigrants and, increasingly, by industrialization. Gray recounts the
surprise of travelers entering Lancaster, Pennsylvania, in the 1780s
and finding watchmakers, coopers, gunsmiths, rope makers, and
printers. Enslaved people lived on both sides of the line, but it was
principally wage laborers who worked the fields, mills, forges, and
factories that made this perhaps the most economically vibrant region
in the new United States. In the aftermath of the American Revolution,
Pennsylvania passed a gradual emancipation law, and Maryland made it
easier for enslavers to manumit their slaves. Slavery’s hold seemed
to be slipping on both sides of the line, and the chief contention
between Pennsylvania and Maryland was over which could best harness
the commercial potential of the borderlands region.

Before the Revolution this was hardly a contest: Philadelphia was the
preeminent commercial city on the North American mainland. But the war
led to huge disruptions in Pennsylvania, including the British
occupation of Philadelphia in 1777–1778. Baltimore, by contrast, was
neither seized nor blockaded, and the river systems of the borderlands
made it easier for farmers to buy goods and sell their produce through
Maryland’s commercial capital. When the comity clause of the new US
Constitution confirmed the right of Americans to trade freely across
state lines, the wealth of Pennsylvania’s interior drained
inexorably southward—to such an extent that Gray describes the
border region as “Greater Baltimore.” Philadelphia would
eventually require canals and railroads to claw back its share of the
interior’s wealth.

By the early nineteenth century Maryland had become, in Gray’s
words, “a slave state…in which slavery occupied an increasingly
marginal part of the labor economy.” Antislavery sentiment could be
found from the borderlands to Baltimore, but it was harder to sustain
through the state’s tobacco-growing southern counties and the
Eastern Shore. In effect, a boundary between slavery and free
labor—and more loosely between proslavery interest and antislavery
commitment—ran _through_ Maryland, rather than between Maryland and
Pennsylvania. But as Pennsylvania’s 1780 abolition law slowly took
effect, the Mason–Dixon Line became a beacon to enslaved people
across the upper South and began to assume an antislavery charge.

In Maryland enslaved people’s resistance was closely conditioned by
circumstance. Some persuaded their enslavers to manumit them or to
limit the length of their service in return for a promise not to
escape through the borderlands to the North. Others struggled to
negotiate with obdurate owners and lived in constant fear of being
sold into the cotton complex of the Deep South. Two of the most
celebrated fugitives from slavery—Harriet Tubman and Frederick
Douglass—took their chances by fleeing Maryland’s Eastern Shore
and crossing the Mason–Dixon Line. But manumissions also produced a
huge increase in Maryland’s free Black population, alongside a
white-led drive to expatriate the state’s African Americans (whether
freeborn or manumitted) to a new West African colony alongside
Liberia. (Latrobe became Maryland’s most prominent colonizationist.)
As legislators struggled with the logistics of this scheme—by 1840
more than 150,000 free Black and enslaved people resided in the
state—the dynamics of slavery on the ground became increasingly
volatile. More and more enslaved people made daring flights to
freedom, while enslavers intensified their efforts to surveil,
threaten, and punish anyone who challenged their authority.

By the 1830s the stream of fugitives heading from Maryland to
Pennsylvania meant that, as Douglass later recalled, “hired
kidnappers infested the borders.” Gray retells the story of a
Maryland enslaver named Edward Gorsuch. In 1849, after Gorsuch became
convinced that five bushels of wheat had been stolen from his
plantation, four of his enslaved people—a third of his
workforce—fled to Pennsylvania. We can’t be sure if they were
involved in the theft, but these four men were so scared of
Gorsuch’s wrath—and the likelihood that he would sell them into
the cotton fields of the Deep South—that they risked everything to
escape his reach. With the help of local abolitionists (white and free
Black) they settled across the border near the Lancaster County town
of Christiana. It took Gorsuch nearly two years to track them down,
but in September 1851 he descended upon Christiana and besieged the
cabin in which the men had taken refuge. In the ensuing firefight,
Gorsuch was killed. At the behest of enraged white southerners,
federal officials swept the region and made dozens of arrests. But
they failed to find the runaways (who escaped to Canada), or to
convict anyone for Gorsuch’s murder.

The Christiana “riot,” as it was termed by disapproving newspapers
in the North and South alike, vividly illustrated the line’s new
significance. Gorsuch had marched into Pennsylvania invoking the 1850
Fugitive Slave Act, which put federal officials and resources at his
disposal even in a free state. Only a fraction of white Pennsylvanians
counted themselves abolitionists in the early 1850s, but the Fugitive
Slave Act and other federal concessions to the South had diminished
the middle ground on which an apathetic white bystander might have
formerly stood. When Latrobe addressed the Historical Society of
Pennsylvania in 1854, the Marylander’s views were broadly similar to
those of his Philadelphia audience: slavery was a terrible problem,
and the gradual emancipation (and removal) of Black people was the
best solution. But the line reduced complex equations and
equivocations into an elemental division between slavery and freedom,
confounding Latrobe’s hope that Mason and Dixon’s true
achievement—the plotting of American settlement into the
west—might still hold the nation together.

Gray’s final chapters remind us just how important the line became
to the collapse of the Union and the war that followed. From
Christiana to Harpers Ferry to Gettysburg, the Pennsylvania–Maryland
border became one of the conflict’s central battlegrounds. On his
way to assume the presidency in February 1861, Abraham Lincoln had to
be smuggled through Maryland. His suspension of habeas corpus in his
first months in office was partly directed at the state’s
influential secessionist minority, and the precarity both of his
presidency and of his continuing presence in Washington—bordered on
all sides by slave states—nourished his caution.

By the time Lincoln made serious moves toward emancipation in the fall
of 1862, most Marylanders recognized that joining the Confederacy
would be a disaster for their state. The brutality of the war and the
creeping success of the Union armies marginalized Maryland’s
proslavery radicals, and by October 1864 Lincoln had the satisfaction
of seeing the state approve a new constitution that enshrined
immediate emancipation. Delaware truculently declined to ratify the
Thirteenth Amendment until 1901, but when the Civil War came slavery
retained only a tiny footprint in that state. After West Virginia
achieved statehood in 1863 slavery had no presence whatever across the
rest of the line, which for its entire length ran through states that
remained in the Union. The hopes of Confederates that the
Mason–Dixon Line might become an international border were
resoundingly defeated.

Latrobe wrapped up his 1854 speech by ventriloquizing Mason and Dixon.
“Our line of survey,” he had his subjects tell the audience,
should inspire “a people blessed beyond all others” to occupy
“the proudest place among the nations.” But even beyond the bloody
decade that followed, the Mason–Dixon Line continued to cast shadows
on this bright vision. Maryland, like other states of the upper South,
enthusiastically embraced Jim Crow: it established a separate school
system for Black children after 1872, even as Pennsylvania passed its
landmark law abolishing school segregation in 1881. The descent of the
South into racial revanchism for the better part of a century after
the Civil War gave the line a renewed power to divide the nation,
which in turn made it easier for northerners to overlook the
persistence of racial discrimination in their own states. Edward G.
Gray, who died in December 2023, leaves this more recent story for
other historians. But his book—with its abiding recognition of
continuities as well as differences across the border—offers
profound insights into how it might be told.

_NICHOLAS GUYATT teaches American history at Cambridge. His book
Jefferson’s Wolf: A Founding Father’s Troubling Answer to the
Problem of Slavery, coauthored with Christa Dierksheide, will be
published in the spring. (January 2026)_

_THE NEW YORK REVIEW was launched during the New York City newspaper
strike of 1963, when the magazine’s founding editors, Robert Silvers
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and it remains so today._

_Silvers and Epstein continued as co-editors until her death in 2006,
and Silvers served as sole editor until his death in 2017. Since 2019
Emily Greenhouse has edited The New York Review, and it remains the
magazine where, across twenty issues each year, the major voices in
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* Mason-Dixon Line
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* U.S. history
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* slavery
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* Pennsylvania
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* Politics
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* colonialism
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* class
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* indigenous people
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* ethnic cleansing
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* Racism
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* US Civil War
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