Mother Tongue

 

I post this essay on Ash Wednesday animated by a strange feeling more like unease than penitence.  A good deal has been happening of late on what I shall call the Presidential Front.  Mr. Trump has been operating at a high speed and a high decibel level that has captured journalistic comment of despairing or of admiring tenor depending upon the predilections of the commentators.  What is at the center of public discourse just at the moment is his highly public and even more highly publicized dressing down of Volodymyr Zelensky, the beleaguered president of Ukraine.  This episode was such “good television” as Mr. Trump accurately described it, that it has captured the attention of the world press and its commentariat and is likely to keep it through several news cycles.  Like most people, I have a lot of thoughts about this episode, but my ideas lack any possible expert authority or originality, and I have no intention of forcing them upon a group I respect as highly as I respect my loyal readers.  There is an old Latin adage preserved by Erasmus: ne sutor ultra crepidam.  This is generally expressed in English as “Shoemaker, stick to your last”—a last of course being the metal frame upon which a cobbler forms a shoe under construction.  The contemporary version of this is Stay in your own lane.  My lane is by no means that of political science, international relations, or most of the other things that dominate the news.  I am a professor of English, and a long retired one at that.  Nonetheless, in the very week of the Zelenksy brouhaha, our President executed an official pronouncement right smack in the middle of my own narrow lane.  And it deserves my comment.

 

On March 1, 2025, the President of the United States made it official, it being the English language, which is now by executive fiat the national tongue.  All I can say is Whew or maybe even Thank God.  I am a retired professor of English, and for long decades the uncertainty surrounding the question has never entirely relaxed its grip on my subconscious.  Though I was unable to articulate the fear even to myself, I was always haunted by the possibility that it might turn out that for all those decades during which I had been studying Caedmon, Chaucer, Christopher Marlow, Pope, Dickens, Emerson, and Danielle Steel, the official language of our country had actually been Albanian.  I know that it sounds far-fetched, but so does a lot of stuff one reads from the front pages of reputable newspapers.

 

My sarcasms probably fail to amuse, but the question of an American “official language” is either disingenuous or simply ludicrous.  It is not an actual question but a political contrivance.  What language is the only language spoken, read, and written by the vast majority of citizens of the United States?  What language overwhelmingly dominates the hugely variegated world of print in our nation?  Without competence in which language are the social and economic prospects of anyone living in this country most likely to be constrained?  The principal language of the United States of America is the English language, as it has been since considerably before the nation’s founding, that founding conventionally taken to have occurred on July 4, 1776, with the publication in English of the Declaration of Independence from the British monarchy.  On that date it was not the only language being spoken by American natives.  There were already living here, and certainly in the contiguous land destined for political incorporation sooner or later, quite a few speakers of Amerindian languages and not a few of other European languages, including French, German, Dutch and (especially) Spanish.

 

I think that the “official language” business is mainly about Spanish.  There are millions of Spanish-speakers in this country.  There are New Mexican aristocrats whose families were living in Doña Ana County before the Battle of Bunker Hill was fought, and there are desperate Guatemalans who waded across the Rio Grande six months ago.  This “hispanic” population is about as homogenous as the “Southern whites” and other vast tribes subjected to confident journalistic over-simplification.  The various forms of Spanish spoken among this large population—with widely differing levels of competence, it must be added--may enrich the American linguistic scene; but it is in no way a threat to the cultural primacy of American English.

 

Many of us born and raised in the US are strictly monolingual. But we happen to be in the minority from a global perspective.  That is, statistics show that more than half of the people in the world speak more than one language. A majority are bilingual (speak two languages), and a significant proportion are polyglots (more than two). However, in the US, about 75% of Americans are monolingual English speakers. But where exactly does this disparity come from? Why are Americans so much more likely to be monolingual than people from other countries?  The reasons are found, naturally, in issues of historical development and in differences in economic and political power—like so much else, the luck of the draw.  You might say that our shared language is yet another advantage like our ample spacious and fertile land and our mainly temperate climate.  Like other valuable assets our linguistic advantage can be taken for granted or appreciated and nourished.

Once upon a time, in a small town in east Texas, I had a great high school English teacher. Her name was Mrs. White.  I suppose that by today’s loosey-goosy standards she would be regarded as a stickler for rules.  She firmly believed in something she called “educated English,” a feature of culture that imposed discipline and art on the human capacity for oral and written verbal communication.  She was absolute death on the comma splice and the run-on sentence, which she seemed to categorize as criminal conspiracies rather than untutored solecisms.  But she presented the mastery of spoken and written English in attractive, indeed aspirational terms, as a universal human possibility available to all.  Like such other inevitabilities of human life such as breathing, walking, eating, sleeping, singing, dancing, line-backing, dress-making, guitar-plucking, cow-milking, cotton-picking—her catalogue included practically everything ‘teen-agers habitually had to do, wanted to do, or simply did—like all these things, the English language could be “done” either well or not so well.  She made trying to “do” it well a lot of fun, as indeed it is.  But so far as I know President Eisenhower never made it “official.”

 

 

Alumni Day at Princeton

 

            I am an alumnus of Princeton University and have been for more than sixty years, though for most of those years the matter went virtually unmentioned.  That is because the degree I have is a doctorate.  When someone tells you he (or occasionally she) is a Princeton grad, he means that he graduated from the undergraduate college, F. Scott Fitzgerald and all that, except of course that Scott never graduated.  After all, the Graduate School is very much a Johnny-come-lately.  It didn’t even exist before 1869, and didn’t seriously exist until the beginning of the twentieth century.  The fact that its alumni in several scientific fields keep winning Nobel Prizes doesn’t necessarily count for all that much, locally.  But my late dear friend John Wilson, who was graduate dean from 1994 to 2002, made a special effort to raise its institutional profile.  He vigorously encouraged doctoral graduates to participate in alumni affairs, which mainly involves attending selected events while wearing a distinctive costume that is at least considerably less absurd than those worn by alumni of the individual undergraduate classes.  Of course having taught at the institution for nearly half a century I do find it pleasing to connect with former undergraduates of many student generations.

 

two eminent alumni

 

 

There are only two events for which Dean Wilson sought out our participation, and which I still try to attend in fealty to our ancient friendship.  One of these is Alumni Day, which came around last Saturday.  Alumni Day mainly features a few award ceremonies, but at its center is a large sit-down lunch which includes brief speeches by the President of the University, the President of the Alumni Association, and sometimes one or two others.   There are always more  ad hoc brief ceremonies, and the special awarding of a prize to two alumni,  special honors bestowed upon one undergraduate and one graduate alumn(a/us).  This year the undergraduate alumna was Elena Kagan.  Everybody already knew who she was: an associate justice of the Supreme Court.  Some of us had to read the program to identify the graduate alumnus: David Card, an eminent Canadian Nobelist economist teaching at Berkeley.  I actually chatted with him a little as we sat next to each other for the “class photo”.  You can tell from a mile away that he’s a really nice guy.

 

My saintly friend Frank, who is unstintingly solicitous of his aging friends, transported me to the venue of the lunch—the vast Jadwyn Gymnasium, or “Cage”, as it is sometimes called.  My mobility is not good; I am unsteady on my feet.  And I tire pretty quickly if I have to stay on my feet too long.  A lengthy stand-up gab-session followed by a luncheon for several hundred people on the basketball court floor is a bit of a challenge.  This was apparently obvious to the general observer.  Three different deanlets approached me during the crowded non-alcoholic pre-lunch nibbles to ask me if I needed a wheel chair.  After thrice rebuffing the suggestion with muted indignation, I had finally to agree that that was exactly what I needed.  After succumbing to this reality, life became considerably simpler.

                                         

                                            full court press luncheon

The lunch, a cold salmon steak, was above average for such events, and I enjoyed the conversation at my table.  There was also an engaging talk by the suave Director of our University Art Museum, which has for several years been being transformed into a much larger and more architecturally imposing space—of which he gave us a detailed slide-show preview.  What one sees under construction from the outside may look like a mud wall to the uncharitable, but the new interior is obviously going to be very classy.  The next stop was the Memorial Service in the University chapel.  In recent years this solemn event has been for me the main attraction of Alumni Day.  A shuttle bus dropped us off near its venue, where we repaired after lounging briefly in overstuffed chairs in the nearby library.  The University is a big operation—not merely students and faculty but a very large number of support staff in many fields.  So the number of people who die each year and are individually remembered in this impressive service—I would describe it as semi- or crypto-religious—is quite large.  The Princeton chapel is manifestly a Christian house of worship.  In fact it is a mini-Cathedral.  But the ecumenical ceremony, acknowledging the considerable religious diversity of the campus, makes room for prayers and chants from all the principal world religions.  The printed necrology always includes several members of the faculty and staff, as well as increasing numbers of the alumni personally known to me.  Dean John Wilson’s own name appeared in the list in the last two years.  The individual memorialization of the recently dead is achieved by means of a very moving march of living members from all the classes which still have living members.  The participants, in pairs forming a solemn flow,  march down the cathedral’s long central aisle from the narthex to the top chancel steps.  There each marcher places a single flower blossom against a specially prepared board.  These bright blossoms—this year of a pure white color--gradually increase to the number of classes with still living member to become as it were a single huge flower.  And this year I realized, as I should have done years ago, that this ceremony has all the allegorical energy of the various parades and processions of Dante’s Paradiso and was was very probably inspired by that divine poem.   Furthermore the procession echoes the words of the service music. The hymnody always includes the classic Watts hymn “O God, our help in ages past…” with its poignant lines “Time, like an ever-rolling stream, bears all its sons away…”   The word sons is naturally updated to recognize more explicitly than does the English of the early eighteenth century the equal-opportunity mortality that reckons neither of sex or social status.

                                         

Birds and Words

 

Last Saturday night we attended a choice concert presented by a small group called the Princeton Singers.  I suppose that this ensemble is typical of the probably hundreds of very impressive amateur and semi-professional musical groups to be found scattered throughout the country.  Such manifestations of serious musical talent are to be found not merely in most small urban centers but also, and perhaps especially, in even smaller college and university towns.  In Princeton, NJ, there are several, some with more or less formal ties to academic institutions and others simply the logical corollaries their sociology: the kinds of people who tend to live in academic communities.  The current director of the Princeton Singers, under the title of Artistic Director, is Steven Sametz an impressive and versatile composer in his own right.

 

 

The venue was Trinity Church, our old parish, full of family memories, including baptisms and the wedding of our daughter.  And though the greatly increased traffic in the center of town has led us to a more easily accessible parish church, I always enjoy being in the old building and frequently revisit it.  It is a beautiful neo-Gothic construction from the classic period of the nineteenth century.  It has a long, slender nave with two stubby transepts at the crossing, a layout hospitable to hearing music.  One special attraction of the evening was that an old friend, Jennifer Borghi, was singing with the group.  We came to know Jen more than twenty years ago when she was an undergraduate and have remained friends ever since.  Great wits to madness sure are close allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide—Dryden, I believe.  Same goes for the sublime and the ridiculous.  I never know when philology will mislead me into an indelicacy possibly offensive to my esteemed readers, but I feel one coming on now.  

 

Jennifer Borghi 

The Princeton Singers of course sing songs, and the songs chosen and in part created for this occasion were short lyric poems, several of them by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), one of the true geniuses of our American poetic tradition.  Lyric poetry takes its name from the stringed musical instrument from which it was once inseparable.  Dickinson’s short poems are songs that practically cry out to be sung.  And if she had never written anything else than “Safe in their Alabaster Chambers” with its haunting line Rafter of Satin and Roof of Stone, she would claim her place in our American Parnassus.  (That poem did not feature in the evening’s program, but you can’t have everything.)  And though Dickinson dominated the program, the evening’s structural highpoint, and perhaps also emotional climax, came with its powerful treatment of one of the best-known poems of one of her eminent English contemporaries, Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889): “The Windhover.”  The central conceit of this poem, dedicated “to Christ our Lord” surprisingly compares Christ to a bird, a small raptor of the kestrel family.  The comparison is typically arresting, and as with most of Hopkins’s poems the linguistic gymnastics are quite dazzling.

 

 “The Windhover” was a fitting climax to the program, and it was greeted with audience enthusiasm.  I enjoyed the whole evening, but I have to express a heretic’s view about this one piece.  Hopkins occupies a unique place in the poetry of the English language, and the uniqueness is largely to be found in his deeply original rhythms.  What he called “sprung rhythm” was a prosodic invention based in part on his understanding of the prosody of Old English—that is, the English of before the year 1000, the English of Beowulf’s readers.  But I wonder whether the name of the bird—windhover—was chosen for reasons of euphemism.  The old word for this bird was windfucker.  There is no doubt that the bird is one of a variety of small kestrels.  Here the Oxford English Dictionary can help us out.  Thomas Nashe, the Elizabethan poet and dramatist of the end of the sixteenth century, writes of the kestrel as follows: “one of these kistrell [kestrel] birds, called a wind-fucker…”  I am not an expert in the history of English obscenity and have no wish to become one, but as the word windhover makes a somewhat later but still early appearance, the usage may or may not imply a discomfort with the older popular term.  The Elizabethans on the whole were a linguistically franker group than were the Victorians, that’s for certain.  The older term reflects the rapid rhythmic flapping that can make the bird appear to the distant eye to be floating nearly motionless in the air—that is, to hover there--as it surveys the fields of its prey below.

 

The ”f-word” as it is now ludicrously called has in the meantime become the all-purpose gap-filler for those who cannot think of anything better to say.  It is sort of like, well, like like.  It has nominative and adjectival forms.  I have even heard an adverbial form!  It has infected all educational and social classes.  Of course what is ubiquitous and commonplace soon loses its power to shock.  What was among the very most vile and unspeakable obscenities of my youth now goes unnoticed, having after four or five centuries lost most if not all of its obloquy.  In fact neither sexual nor scatological terms excite much attention for their obscenity.  The only sure route to obscenity these days will be found in the political vocabulary.

 

 

I caught this morning morning's minion, king- 

  dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding 

  Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding 

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing 

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

  As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding 

  Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding 

Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing! 

 

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here 

  Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier! 

 

  No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion 

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear, 

  Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.

 

 

 

Shadowy Goundhog

 

 

This is the year that I have had to admit quite openly that I no longer enjoy winter—if I ever did in the first place.  In fact, you might say that I have come to hate winter.  The weather for the past week has not been extreme—most days had stretches that were barely freezing, with at least an hour or two that got to forty degrees Fahrenheit.  The precipitation, which was never very copious, was also mainly nocturnal, leaving a thin patina of morning ice or snow that melted slowly and messily by midafternoon.  On one day, Saturday, I was even able to take a passable walk in a longish dry spell.  But the sun made only the briefest of cameo appearances during several days, and when it did appear seemed tentative and reluctant.

 

The audience of this blog is mostly domestic, but I do enjoy a small international readership, mainly though not exclusively in England.  On a couple of occasions I have received private communications from this sector complaining that this or that thing I have said is of such exclusively parochial American interest or expression as to be opaque to them.  Since I myself have had to learn to cope with Brits talking about “Boxing Day” and other such mysteries—it turns out to have nothing whatsoever to do with pugilism—I shall try to be sensitive concerning the very American parochialism of Groundhog Day, the second of February.  But of course explaining Groundhog Day supposes that one knows what a groundhog is.  That is an unsafe assumption.  A groundhog is an unappealing rodent animal closely akin to if not identical with the animal more widely known in England as a woodchuck.  Both of these names—ground hog and woodchuck, especially the latter—are a little strange.  The strange element is the chuck part.  The Oxford Dictionary of English Etymology has four disparate listings for this word, and two more for the possibly related chuckle.  None of them seems connected to the idea of tossing or throwing, incidentally.  The sense of the word in the classic tongue-twister beginning “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?” is actually uncertain.    No other use of the word chuck to denote an animal is known to me.  However, a myth or social witticism developed among the so-called Pennsylvania Dutch—who of course were not of Netherlandish but of German (Deutsch) ancestry—to the effect that the weather on one particular day, February 2, was a sure harbinger of the comparative brevity or protraction of the winter weather still ahead.  It all depended upon whether the groundhog (woodchuck), peeking his head out of his subterranean fastness on that day, could see his own shadow.  Well, Groundhog Day passed unnoticed by me a week or ten days ago, and I don’t know whether or not the groundhog saw his shadow.  In fact, I have trouble remembering  whether it is good or bad news if he does see it.  It is all rather “counter-indicative” as my students say.  That is, a sunny day casting shadows presages more rather than less cold weather ahead.   But I don’t need strange signs or portents.  I can feel in my bones that winter is not receding any time soon.

 

 

There are some thousands of small towns scattered throughout the American heartland, many of which strive mightily to claim some element of distinctiveness if not uniqueness.  I don’t know by what circumstance Punxsutawney, an otherwise obscure village in central Pennsylvania, became the national arbiter of the important matter of predicting the annual advent of spring, but it did.   Punxsutawney is a small town just about three hundred miles due west from here.  I have never been there, but I am very familiar with its type.  There are literally thousands of such places in America, each with its own unique distinction—well advertised, usually by a large faded painted sign at either end of the Main Street: America’s Frog Capital, Home of the world’s largest living cave, Birthplace of pinochle champions, Life-Sized tableau of the Battle of Mud Flat, etc., etc.  Some of these places have managed to claim a place in the national annals of world-class kitsch.  One thinks of the giant peach water tower of Gaffney, S.C., or any one of Paul Bunyan’s several blue oxen bringing fame to hamlets on the Minnesota tundra.  But with its meteorological groundhog, Punxsutawney really hit the jackpot.  There was even a fairly amusing film featuring it a few years ago. Unfortunately, as diverting as all this can be, it does little to make more tolerable the unpleasantness of winter, which becomes more oppressive to me with advancing age.  I must console myself with the true fact that in all of the years in the nearly nine decades of my lengthening experience spring has never failed to arrive (eventually), so that I have solid reasons for hoping for this year as well.  But the wait threatens to be tedious.   

 

 

Rear Window

 

I’ve been coming through a rather bad patch.  For more than two weeks I was dogged by some bronchial infection that grew worse rather than better and eventually turned alarming.  Wheezing and gasping for breath, I had to be hauled off to the hospital in the night.  It was a pretty scary episode for others as well as for me.  But at the hospital they quickly stuck little oxygen tubes into each nostril, effecting instant relief.  The not entirely satisfactory diagnosis was “pneumonial something,” which responded rapidly to large intervenous infusions of antibiotics.  That was the good news, and very good news it was.  But of course once you are actually in the hospital with the little yellow plastic band around your wrist, you are in a world in which you have surrendered all agency, and in which about the only possible demonstration of volition available to you is to wait with dignity.  I was anxious to get home.  The hospital authorities were eager to have me leave as soon as possible, but that would be prudent only after certain numbers went up or down, when then wheezing became tolerable, when the sputum changed color, and when other disconcerting physical signs and portents had realigned in a more medically approvable fashion.

 

The Princeton-Penn Hospital to which I was admitted is a wonderful facility probably less than two miles from my house.  It was built featuring only spacious single rooms.  That was about fifteen years ago, but very soon its capacity was being stretched to the limit.  Now there are two beds in most of the rooms—perhaps all of them.  The rooms are so laid out that only one bed enjoys a widow view.  The tradeoff for the advantage of the window view, which I enjoyed, is marginalization between a curtain in a narrow section of the back of the room.  You hear all the comings and goings of the hallway, but you feel squeezed into what seems like the breadth of a corridor.  So you spend a lot time exploiting your privilege: looking out the window.  As I had a lot of time on my hands, I made a good deal out of this task.  The visual materials, though abundant, were dull and commonplace with virtually no possibility for scoping out a homicide, which was the model that came uninvited into my mind.

 

I don’t have a great memory for movies, but one I do remember, in parts vividly, is  Rear Window.  It dates from my senior year in high school, 1954.  This thriller is one of Hitchcock’s masterpieces.  It stars Jimmy Stewart and Grace Kelly.  The Stewart character is a photojournalist (Jeff Jefferies) temporarily confined to a wheelchair in his Greenwich Village apartment by a serious injury—maybe a car accident.  From his window he has a constricted view of the world, though one that turns out to be amazingly crowded and dramatic.  He actually thinks he sees, and indeed had seen, clues to a murder.  A man in a neighboring apartment building has murdered his wife!  It takes Jeff a while to develop his theory of what has happened, suppositions he shares with a girlfriend who drops by from time to time.  Needless to say, perhaps, the homicidal hubby eventually comes to realize that Jeff is on his case and sets out to remove this inconvenience in the same way he has already removed his missus.  No plot summary can do justice to a Hitchcock film.  If you haven’t seen Rear Window you’ll simply have to take my word for it that it’s witty, scary, and very suspenseful.  For starters, we don’t have too many Stewarts or Kellys on our silver screens these days.  And the villain-guy is wonderfully villainous.

 

From my window all I could see in the foreground were the flat roofs of various hospital buildings, small portions of the huge hospital parking lot, and beyond that some scruffy winter-barren trees.  Although I knew where each individual item belonged in the landscape, I still was uncertain as to where I was positioned in terms of my view. But I knew I had to be facing northeast.  The moving traffic glimpsed through the trees was on Scudder’s Mill Road, the large artery linking the village of Plainsboro to Route One.  Directly across that road, facing me frontally square on was a large building prominently marked at its top in large majuscule letters: LIFE TIME.  That was, indeed, the only written sign I could see in that large and expansive view.

 

LIFE TIME.  I am too much of a medievalist not to respond to the little pinches and gentle pushes that Providence serves up for me from time—and has been doing on an infrequent but reliable schedule for more than eighty years.  I knew of course that Life Time is a large public gymnasium on the Plainsboro Road.  And while “Life Time” is a possibly ambiguous phrase—one would not want to hear it in a court sentence, for sure—it seemed to me in this instance a wholly benign portent, the exact meaning of which, though unclear, was still comforting.  And there it was beckoning me from my hospital bed.

 

It is amazing what even a hum-drum landscape may reveal upon close observation.  I saw a pair of foxes slithering through the brush, a few hundred yards at most from heavy car traffic.  The sky was full of bird life, flocks of darting, choreographed starlings, and a plodding convoy of heavy Canada geese overflying the busy traffic of US 1.  Such are the strange accommodations the hidden world of the struggling wild must make to our human-cluttered landscape.

 

 

Henry Frowde, OUP

 

 

I am emerging from a bad week during which some nasty virus drove me to my bedroom.  The actual bedroom is surrounded by books, one of which I grabbed more or less at random.  It turned out to be the “Oxford Dante”—the third edition of this work (1904) first published in 1898.  It was edited by one great Dante scholar, E[dward] Moore, and with an appended index by an even greater one, Paget Toynbee.  This is a no-nonsense book, 490 pages in small type, every word that Dante was known to have written either in Italian or in Latin, but not a word of English anywhere.  The popularity of the great Italian poeta in Edwardian England can perhaps be judged by the publication history; this daunting volume was a best seller.  I still need a crib in reading Dante; but Victorian matrons dived right in.  I didn’t even try to read in it, but flipped through its pages, marked only in a few places in the Latin treatise “On Monarchy,” but there very crudely in ink and a sloppy hand.

 

The other personal name in the front matter of the Oxford Dante (in addition to those of the two learned editors) is that of Henry Frowde, “whose name will long be remembered as the one who by sterling character, untiring energy, and conspicuous ability, made ‘Oxford University Press’ world famed.” His name may ring a faint bell for anyone who has consulted an old OUP volume, for it is in so many of them.  It offered me the necessary tangent to avoid any serious reading.  Frowde joined the Press in the 1870s, and he was for many years its production manager.  In this volume this name is actually given as Enrico Frowde, but a less “Enrico” sort of a fellow would be hard to imagine—presuming that name leads you to think of a famous opera tenor or an infamous Florida murderer.  Mr. Frowde was a reserved, very old-fashioned and erudite English Pietist who followed the practices of the Plymouth Brethren.  Only incidentally was he a genius at the book trade. 

 

His particular expertise was the Bible business; and Bibles and prayer books were an important part of the early university press’s bread-and-butter production.  It was this expertise that got him hired by the Oxford University Press. In his first year he supervised the production of a half a million copies, an output he more than doubled over the years.  The OUP retains to this day an important segment of this market, though far better known for both its large “trade book” business and the aura of the highest possible academic prestige.  American academic presses can but wish.  Maybe they ought to consider selling quality Bibles.  As a very young man Frowde was hired at Oxford.  Even at the turn of the twentieth century, the best-seller of best sellers was still the Bible, and Frowde was taxed with this side of the university press’s business.  The tenor of British publishing in those years can be judged by a couple of extraordinary events.

 

The book world of 1877 was enlivened by the quatercentenary celebrations of Caxton’s introduction of printing to England.  For this bibliophilic festivity Frowde supervised the exhibitionist production of the “Caxton Bible”.  That is, he oversaw the creation of a whole substantial book—printing, collating, sewing, binding , the whole works--in a single day.  Printing began on the Oxford presses at 2 a.m.   (The type of course had been set in advance).  The printed sheets were rushed by train to London, where expert workers stood ready to do the folding, rolling, collating, gilding and binding in Morocco leather.  By 2p.m. gleaming copies were at the headquarters of the Caxton festivities in Kensington!  Mr. Gladstone declared this the most stupendous event in the history of printing!  I have never been able to find an affordable copy.

 

But this was merely a warm-up for the high-jinx attendant upon the printing of the Revised New Testament in 1881.  Its printing was conducted with military secrecy and security.  The frenzy to get an advance copy was intense, not to say insane, with offers reaching the equivalent in today’s money rumored to approach $300,000 for a copy!  Americans were particularly importunate.  But the sacred security of the publication of the sacred text triumphed.  Long lines awaited the opening of bookshops on the appointed day—a sort of bibliophilic Filene’s Basement on Black Friday.  The exact number of copies sold on the first day is unknown, but it was obviously huge.

 

The type blocks were sent on locked galleys to America by the fastest ship available.  During the trip typesetters continued working.  But of course that got the text only as far as New York Harbor.  The whole of the Gospels, the Acts of the Apostles, and the Epistle to the Romans (totaling 118,000 words) were telegraphed from New York to Chicago at a vast cost, and appeared in the Chicago Times of 22nd May, 1881.  Similar frenzies attended the later publication of other parts of the Revised Bible.  Mr. Frowde presumably looked on with approval and pleasure, appropriately restrained of course. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mandator in Chief

 

I am beginning this essay on Inauguration Day, which by co-incidence happens this year to fall on the day when the nation honors the great civil rights leader Martin Luther King.  King’s  parents named their son after one of the world’s most famous protesters, who is often credited indeed with being the wellspring of the tremendous and consequential movement we call the Protestant Revolt or Reformation.  This history is perhaps particularly relevant for us Americans, whose national origins are intimately connected with the activities of principled Christian protesters.  In any event, one senses contradictory hopes and fears gripping the nation.

 

In many parts of our nation, including this one, a serious winter chill has descended.  The current outdoor temperature is 18 F (about minus 8 Centigrade, or as the translations of Russian novels I read used to say, “fourteen degrees of frost”.  The temperature will probably fall lower over the next two nights.  The New York Times has given up on even trying to deliver our copy; they kindly sent me an email with the news.  I had an odd experience, possibly relevant to the moment,  in the middle of the night, around 3:00 a.m.  When I went to bed snow was falling.  When I arose briefly about 1 a.m. out of necessity, the snow had ceased, but I could see from my window that there were two or three inches.  About an hour later, having returned to the arms of Morpheus,  I became aware of faint scraping sounds from the patio region behind the house.  My first reaction was that it must be an animal.  If so, it was a very persistent one.  In fact, it was a young Hispanic man, M. S., who does regular yard-work for us.  He was removing snow from parts of the blue-stone patio.  I later discovered that he had already also cleared the driveway, the street fronting, and the path from the street to the front door.  The snow was not deep, and it was easily enough removed I suppose; but even that much shoveling would have tested me to the limit—if I could have done it at all.  I deduce that his absurdly early appearance could be explained because he had several others on his list.  He’s an entrepreneur, a go-getter.

 

From time to time I have friendly but superficial conversations with this young man, whose work ethic I admire.  I think he may be an American citizen, though I don’t actually know.  If a non-citizen, he is probably a “documented” one, but again I do not know.  I do know that the idea that anyone would not want such a person in this country seems to me mad.  I have been sufficiently unfortunate over the past several years to have several hospital visits, some with short hospitalizations.  On the other hand, I have been fortunate enough to be near an excellent hospital offering excellent care.  My experiences suggest to me that our much-vaunted medical services would probably come to a grinding halt without the often inglorious work done by dozens of people who look more or less like M. S. working in our heath facilities.

 

I was writing these desultory paragraphs while sort of watching the preliminaries to the presidential inauguration ceremony.  It is now another day, and I move on to the Inauguration ceremony itself.  I was rather moved by the semi-operatic rendition of the “Battle Hymn.”  As a child I heard it frequently, sung by my three aunts and their mother, my paternal grandmother, the daughter of a Union veteran and an old-fashioned kind of American patriotic woman.  It is not called a hymn for no reason. But it certainly is a sombre hymn.  The coincidence that this year brought together the inauguration of a new president and the memorialization of Martin Luther King was striking and worthy of a second thought.  The “beauty of the lilies” hardly describes what we for so many months have seen on our screens.  Furthermore the poetic ideal of the efficacy of sacrificial death is of course paradoxical, puzzling.  But as a call to something higher, nobler, better—it seems to me magnificent.  I had allowed myself to at least entertain hopes for a more irenic presidential speech, but the hope was too tentative to be dashed when it failed realization. That made me a little sad, but what I thought was sadder was Mr. Biden’s plausible belief that he had to shower his kinfolk with preemptive pardons to protect them from a distempered revenge.

 

In the recent election, in which Donald Trump prevailed over Kamala Harris—an election in which we were repeatedly admonished that “democracy is on the ballot”—only about two thirds of eligible voters actually cast ballots.   This was a higher proportion than in some earlier years, but hardly a demonstration that more voters than usual thought that democracy was on the ballot.  Another way of saying this is that a third of eligible voters did not vote.  The total popular vote, though unambiguously in Mr. Trump’s favor, was not a landslide.  It was pretty close.  In the terms of election criteria established by the Constitution—electors distributed among the individual states—Trump’s victory was more resounding. But the President is the president of all the states, and all the people in them—a fact that he has from time to time acknowledged.  He may need frequent reminders.  He apparently spent the afternoon issuing directives, at least one of which (concerning birthright citizenship) appears to my unlawyerly eye illegal.

 

Much of the world, including parts of our own land, is under duress.  But amidst all the troubles there are reasonable hopes and real opportunities.  The American president—and I mean whoever holds the office of the presidency—faces truly awesome challenges and responsibilities.  Our democracy operates through professional politicians not philosopher-kings.  Once in a while, almost accidentally, we get something close.  Abraham Lincoln could say and mean “with malice toward none, with charity for all.”  That “all” conspicuously included those who had shattered the republic and made war against it.  You might say they had weaponized the weapons system.

 

 We cannot hope for another Lincoln just now, but we can hope that what needs to be checked will be checked and what needs to be balanced, balanced.  Presidents have not infrequently been told they cannot do things they want to do.  American presidents have over the years tried to claim and exercise more and more power.  Schlesinger’s The Imperial Presidency dates from 1973, from the time of Nixon.  Well before that, Franklin Roosevelt spent a good deal of time in his first term being told by the Supreme Court that this, that, or the other of his desires was unconstitutional.  That is why he proposed, unsuccessfully as it turned out, expanding (or as others called it packing) the court’s membership in order to achieve an accommodating majority.  The idea was much more recently floated by various Democrats, and is likely to reappear again.  In the meantime, the law on how we make laws is this:  Congress proposes legislation, requiring the agreement of both houses; the proposed legislation is then either agreed to by the president, who must sign it, or rejected (vetoed) by him/her.  A presidential veto can be overcome by a super majority of two thirds in both houses of Congress.  My real fear is that Mr. Trump’s cavalier executive order doing away with birthright citizenship is based less in tyrannical appetite than in ignorance.  I fear he may not have known such citizenship is established by the Constitution, but perhaps he does by now.