Super Tuesday?

Super Tuesday, indeed.  Do people still say “Harrummph” as they did in the old cartoons?  If not, we need to do something about reviving the custom.  Those of us who have been trying to follow the course of the nomination process in the Democratic Party find ourselves in the curious  position of discerning through the dawn’s early light that the choice has effectively been narrowed down to two geezers.  You have one crabby old man who thinks that the source of most of our ills is a system rigged in favor of “millionaires and billionaires” and one vague old man who says that 150,000,000 Americans have been killed by guns in recent decades.  He is the one who won Super Tuesday and is once again the leader of the pack.  Apparently ours is indeed the age of big data.

A crabby and vague old man like myself will perhaps be especially alarmed by the prospect before us.  We have had many chances to consider the credentials of Mr.  Biden, and I would prefer someone else.  In our household there were once high hopes for Senator Warren, who came in fourth in her native state and third in the state she represents in the Senate.  That means, in practical terms, Senator Sanders, a career politician who in a forty-year career has maintained his progressive purity at the relatively small cost of never achieving much else.  One of my sons, who commands my admiration and respect, is an enthusiastic backer of Bernie; and that alone is enough to make me take him seriously.  For me the first problem is that Sanders claims to be a Socialist, subgenre democratic Socialist; and it is far from clear what he means by that.  The pundit Paul Krugman insists that Sanders isn’t a Socialist, but just likes to say he is.

In the most recent “debate” Mayor Bloomberg (a third geezer) chided Senator Sanders for his Socialism, which he regards as a failed system.  “We’re not going to throw out capitalism.  We tried that.  Other countries tried that.  It was called Communism, and it just didn’t work.”  Mr. Sanders’s riposte was “Cheap shot!”, and indeed there is a whole rhetorical industry devoted to the search for a significant distinction between “Socialism” and “Communism”.  Before going there, as we say, one might point out that the absurd format of these so-called debates does little more than provide an arena for cheap shots.  It also encourages the fantasy, rarely acknowledged by the candidates, of a nearly omnipotent president who can single-handedly, by ukase, achieve free college, emissions reductions, “comprehensive immigration reform” and more or less any other mighty feat that enters his or her head.

Mr. Sanders, though presenting himself as the polar opposite of our current President,  has a similar penchant for impolitic praise of tyrants.  So he has praised the late dictator Fidel Castro for doing some “good things” alongside the bad “authoritarian” things Sanders disapproves of.  Specifically, he organized a literacy campaign.  Since according to the political theory dominant among Cuban refugees and large swathes of the Republican Party, it is impossible that Castro ever did anything good in his life, Sanders is feeling some heat for his attitude.  Such is the Manichaean passion of partisanship.  But I doubt that anyone has performed only evil acts.  Read the story of the Jongleur de Notre Dame.  Hitler, our chosen icon of evil unalloyed, did all sorts of good things.  So did Josef Stalin.  For instance, he won World War II, and you might want to give him some credit for that.

One still has to point out that coercion does not cease to be coercion just because you can tolerate or even applaud its effects.  And coercion is a prerequisite to Socialism.  Among dozens of explications of  Socialist coercion I recommend especially the brief and lucid chapter “Why Socialism?” with which Martin Malia began his magisterial The Soviet Tragedy: a History of Socialism in Russia, 1917-1991 (1994).  The bosses of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics were unaware that it was a “cheap shot” to call themselves Socialists.

I happen to have been reading Alexis de Tocqueville this week, and he has acute remarks that are relevant here.  Socialism may rightly be called an alien idea in America.  It is a manufactured political theory or what de Tocqueville called a “general idea” in his chapter “Why the Americans have never been as passionate as the French about general ideas in politics.”  He thus amplifies: “The Americans are a democratic people who have always taken charge of public affairs themselves, and we [French ] are a democratic people who for a long time could only dream about the best way to conduct public business.”  Unlike Sanders, de Tocqueville was not terribly keen on the “revolutionary” idea.  Of course his family had actually lived through a Revolution and was probably prejudiced by the guillotining of many close friends and family members in 1794.

It is obvious that Senator Sanders has spent some considerable time dreaming “about the best way to conduct public business.”  I’ll take his word for it that democratic Socialism eschews all authoritarianism, let alone the mass murder that has characterized Socialism’s more notable twentieth-century forms.  But it does take a certain testy audacity, to say the least, to insist—with scant attention to detail and none to costing--upon a behemoth of a nationalized universal health care program the first requirement of which is the destruction of a vast and complicated private insurance system interlaced with most of the nation’s industrial and economic life.

            The purposes for which our government was established are clear enough in the founding documents.  They are “to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity.”  This is an agenda of liberation, not the blueprint for the imposition of a “general idea.”  A joke that has survived since the “Red Decade” of my birth has as its subject a Communist agitator orating to a crowd of workers on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.  “My friends,” he said, “Come the revolution, you will have strawberries and cream!”  But a skeptical kibitzer shouted out: “What if you don’t like strawberries and cream?”  “Come the revolution,” retorted the speaker without missing a beat,” you will like strawberries and cream.”

Spiritual Ableism

Chaucer's Pardoner

We just attended the annual Princeton Alumni Day, which provides the opportunity to see numerous old students and colleagues, to listen to some very impressive lectures, to try my best to down a tasteless cold salmon cutlet, and to attend the very moving annual Memorial Service.  By the mournful logic of life its long list of the “remembered” includes each year more and more old friends.  That is simply another implication of growing old.

I discovered myself succumbing to petty annoyance over one small feature of the chapel ceremony, which involved the usual amount of standing to sing hymns, sitting to listen to readings and uplifting pronouncements, and so forth.   The instructions printed in the program read as follows: “Stand as able.”  Now I am very familiar with this instruction from my own parish church, where it seems to have achieved a liturgical significance on a par with the Sursum corda.  In fact I anticipate soon hearing the instruction, “Lift up your hearts—as able.”  The invitation is of course kindly meant, even if it is also a self-uplifting demonstration of the sensitivity of the inviter.  But it is also rather inane.  If you are in fact not able to do something, you do not need to be told to do it only if you can.  And should you for some reason in fact be unable to do something, an instruction of this sort, far from assuaging your inability, seems rather to draw attention to it.  I doubt that any priest would say “Contemplate our beautiful east window—unless, of course, you are blind.”  Or how about “Please join in the reading of the psalm—if literate?”  I didn’t pay much attention to any of this until about a year ago when, in a period of infirmity, I considered it a pretty good trick getting to church at all, and I didn’t enjoy being admonished to a lot of gratuitous verticality contingent upon my ability.  So, you seminary professors of pastoral theology, just saying.

However, instead of griping about so minor an inconvenience, and one (as I say) so well intentioned, I should be seeking solace from history.  When it comes to the clerical manipulation of a congregation the place to look is the medieval Church, and particularly of course to Chaucer’s version thereof.  Chaucer’s Pardoner is distinctly not well intentioned, but he certainly knows how to capture his audience.

The office of Pardoner no longer exists in any church so far as I know, but it was an important and quite lucrative one in the penitential economy of late medieval Catholicism.  Pardoners played no small part in the initial financing of the biggest church building in Christendom, the Basilica of St. Peter in Rome.  They also played a role, of course, in provoking the Protestant Reformation, as famously illustrated by Martin Luther’s blistering criticisms of the operations of the Dominican Pardoner, Johann Tetzel.   A pardon was an actual written document attesting that its owner had been relieved of the temporal punishments that would otherwise attend forgiven sins.  A penitent could not buy absolution of sin.  Penance was a sacrament, and a commercial arrangement of that sort would be the horrible sin of simony.  But having received sacramental absolution by proper priestly authority, a penitent could indeed buy a piece of paper attesting to the fact of absolution and promising relief from attendant temporal punishment.  You may regard this as a distinction without a difference.  I would characterize it as one of the more blatantly cruel victories of the letter over the spirit that have characterized most periods of Christian institutional history—but let it pass.

In my youth there was a radio evangelist who broadcast on a very powerful transmitter located in someplace called Del Rio, Texas.  You could hear him as you drove late at night through a swath of the southern tier that went at least from Atlanta to Bristow, California.  This guy was about as “hands on” as you can be over the invisible airwaves.  As he approached the final paroxysm of his financial appeal he thus instructed his fascinated auditors: “Put your haaaands on the raaaadio!”  Only God knows how many car crashes that preacher-man was responsible for.  Chaucer’s Pardoner was a worthy predecessor.  This “noble ecclesiastic”, the poet tells us, was without a peer.  There was not another to match his cupidinous expertise in all of England.  His fellow pilgrim the Friar is expert at extorting pennies from poor widows, but even his prowess falls short of the Pardoner’s.  The Pardoner, an utter materialist, works through a collection of dubious material props, which he passes off as holy relics.  These include a piece of the sail from Peter’s boat, a pillow-case said to be the veil of the Blessed Virgin, a gaudily decorated cross, and a glass box full of pig’s bones.  In the “hands on” category he also has a magic mitten, the sacred origins of which we are not told, but the material effects of which are rather sensational. “He that his hand will put in this mitayn, He shall have multiplying of his grain.”  A bumper crop is certain, that is, so long as he be sure to make a financial offering to the Pardoner at the same time.

But the magic mitten has one limitation.  Unfortunately it can do nothing for people secretly guilty of horrible sins, and it is particularly counter-indicated for women who have been unfaithful to their husbands.  This limitation is regrettable, but it need not long delay the Pardoner’s sermon.   In the midst of his homily he pauses long enough to invite the congregants to come forward, put their hands momentarily into the mitten, and put a few coins into his own purse.  “This won’t take long,” he says in effect.  “You notorious sinners and adulterers can just sit there patiently for a minute.  I’ll soon get back to my regular sermon.”  You might paraphrase his spiel as follows: Please come forward as able.  The Pardoner calls this maneuver a gaude—a stunt, trick, or jape—and allows that he has made at least a hundred marks from it during the course of his brilliant career.  In England the mark was not a coin, but a measure of weight, roughly half a pound of precious metal.  The Pardoner could extort from poor peasants more money in a single day than a parish priest could take in in two months.

Pen and Gavel

The pen, it is alleged, is mightier than the sword.  But how does it stack up against the gavel?  This week I have been reading and thinking about two powerful literary responses to two famous (or infamous) judicial trials.  The first ended in the conviction of a French army officer on a charge of treason before a military tribunal in 1894.  In the second, in 1921, two Italian anarchists living in the Boston suburbs were convicted of capital murder before a court of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.  I refer, of course, to the “Dreyfus affair” on the one hand and to the “Sacco and Vanzetti case” on the other.

            Virulent French anti-Semitism did not create the Dreyfus Affair, but it greased the skids for a glide path to a monstrous injustice.  Dreyfus, an Alsatian Jew, was a French artillery officer charged with passing military secrets to the Germans.  There had been treason, and there was a French officer who had committed it, but it was not Dreyfus ; and in any event the actual issue almost immediately became overwhelmed by a much more profound political-cultural struggle to the death between Republicans (the heirs of the Revolution) and Nationalists (political and clerical reactionaries).   The Army was one of the few national institutions commanding wide respect, but its leadership was full of anti-Semites, Catholic reactionaries, and faded aristocrats.  Having once convicted Dreyfus in a hurried, grossly incompetent and unfair trial, the Army leaders could not allow the correctness of their verdict to be questioned, though its defense required the compounding of injustices and an increasingly criminal cover-up—abetted at every step by a gutter press seething with malevolence.

 Alfred Dreyfus ( 1859-1935)

            Into this maelstrom the liberal novelist Emile Zola made the most famous journalistic intervention in history.  At the beginning of 1898 he published in a newspaper a blistering open letter to the President of France, Félix Faure.  This was the famous “J’accuse” letter in which he charged Army leaders, and especially the chief investigator, General du Paty de Clam, of conscious criminal malfeasance.  His aim was to invite a suit for libel which might force the uncovering of the cover-up.  The plan worked to a degree; for although the civil court too acted in a grossly prejudicial way, and although Zola was convicted, his intervention helped turn the tide.  Dreyfus was eventually cleanly exonerated.  Seldom has a secret conspiracy unraveled so dramatically.  The Dreyfus Affair convulsed France for a decade, and many historians see it as the defining event of post-Revolutionary French modernity.  Actually, Zola had not known the half of its iniquity, but his fearless catalogue of accusations remains one of the most influential op-eds ever penned.

Emile Zola (1840-1902)

The case of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, an immigrant cobbler and an immigrant fishmonger, is just a hundred years old.  The crime was the murder of two men in a payroll heist on April 15, 1920 in Braintree MA.  The circumstances were and remain murkier than those in the Dreyfus Affair as finally revealed.  The two men were not rich Jews (Dreyfus was usually described as a “rich Jew”), but their families had not arrived on the Mayflower.  They were wops or guineas, in the slurs du jour.  Even worse,  they were politically active anarchists—one of the scarier words in a country in the grips of a post-War Red Scare.  Soulful Vanzetti, with his huge mustache and his eels, was very probably innocent.  Sacco, a true proletarian revolutionary with his cache of small arms and ammunition, was --despite decades of orthodox left-wing denial long since turned to sedimentary rock--probably guilty.  But the legal process, which found little room for reasonable doubt or much else that was reasonable, was grossly prejudicial.  Both were found guilty and both, after heated years of ferocious protests, political tensions, gubernatorial reviews, temporary stays, competing hysterias on the left and on the right, and the crudest forms of exploitation by accusers and champions alike, both were electrocuted in 1927.

Nicola Sacco 1891-1927) and Bartolomeo Vanzetti (1888-1827)

The was no single Emile Zola for Sacco and Vanzetti; but there were a hundred aspirants.  Throughout the world, but especially in America, the number of writers and intellectuals who took up their cause was legion.  I cannot pretend to have read all of them, but I still have no hesitation in identifying one essay as the greatest.  That would be the memoir-essay of Katherine Anne Porter—she calls it a story—entitled “The Never-Ending Wrong,” first published in The Atlantic Monthly for June, 1977, half a century after the executions.*  A work so carefully mellowed can hardly be accused of giving voice to the passions of the moment.  It is instead a meditative poem in prose by one of America’s purest writers, ever.  Not that it lacks passion, but it is an examined passion.  Wordsworth famously characterized poetry as “the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of reaction, the tranquility gradually disappears, and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself actually exist in the mind”.

 

Katherine Anne Porter (1890-1980)

The history of American labor relations is rife with economic brutality, police malfeasance, judicial criminality, frameups and railroading.  But the history of radical protest is no less rife with manipulation, bad faith, and useful idiocy.  Porter was entirely aware of the cynical Communist efforts to highjack her own protest group back in the Twenties.  I myself am old enough to have seen thousands marching to proclaim the innocence of Julius Rosenberg, and I was provoked into writing a whole book by five hundred academic intellectuals gathered to deny the mendacity of Alger Hiss and heap calumny upon Whittaker Chambers.  Even though some of our historians are as dogmatic as the theologians of old, the standard of history cannot be the standard of Anglo-American jurisprudence: certainty beyond reasonable doubt.  Ms. Porter could not bring herself to believe, as I have come to believe, that Nicola Sacco was a murderer, that indeed his political doctrine made no accommodation for the “bourgeois” legal procedures in which he became enmeshed.  But that does not change the fact that the Sacco-Vanzetti trial was indeed a “never-ending wrong.”  The eventual, and for far too many the grudging rehabilitation of Alfred Dreyfus could not recompense his sufferings on Devil’s Island.  Esterhazy, the real spy, lived out his days in undisturbed mendacity in England.  The criminal conspirators in the Army (save one who committed suicide) made no atonement.  But Dreyfus was alive and well and  died in bed a septuagenarian.  For Sacco and Vanzetti it was the hot seat and the cold grave.  There was not much that a tardy resolution in the Commonwealth’s legislature could do about that—or even a brilliant retelling of the “story” by Katherine Anne Porter.

*Library of America, vol. 186, pp. 830-866.

Disasterology 101

Johnstown PA May 31, 1889

The evidence is in, and it is clear.  Once again, Iowans have interfered in our national elections, sowing confusion among our citizens and undermining confidence in our half-assed apps.  Among so much that is not yet clear is whether the situation should be classified as major debacle or minor disaster.  I opt for debacle.  As always, perspective is called for.  Among the websites I frequent is one called “Word Histories,” run by an indefatigable  etymologist, Pascal Tréguer.  His specialty is the explanation of common (and sometimes decidedly uncommon) English expressions, saws, and figures of speech.  One recent entry was “Don’t spit.  Remember the Johnstown Flood!”  While I doubt it is a common expression, I had encountered it once before in my eighty-three years.  I saw it on a wall placard in a nondescript roadside bar around 1960. 

            I presume you follow the transition here?  The  Johnstown Flood set me to thinking about comparative disasters from an historical point of view.  One is unlikely to avoid thinking about current ones.  So many are reported in the daily press that papers really ought to have a special “Apocalypse Section” at least once a week.  This would cover the body counts achieved by plane crashes, lethal fires, mass shootings, earthquakes, violent storms, common or garden-variety homicides, and really scary medical epidemics including, perhaps, opioid abuse.  A recent headline on an article about the fires in California and Australia caught the spirit: “The Twenty-First Century: Age of Disasters.”

Getting back to the Johnstown Flood of`1889, perhaps the first thing to say about it is that it was not a flood but a tsunami.  Johnstown is a small city straddling a modest river (the Conemaugh) about seventy miles east of Pittsburgh.  A group of wealthy Pittsburg industrialists and country club types had created an extensive private pleasure grounds about fifteen miles upriver from Johnstown, a prominent feature of which was the incorporation of a large lake artificially created by an inadequately designed earthen dam, a relic of the 1840s, restraining the south fork of the Conemaugh.  Disasters waiting to happen frequently tire of waiting.  The dam failed, releasing the hydraulic force of the Delta Mississippi into a modest but rapidly descending stream bed.  The water-wall obliterated several river-bank hamlets before hitting populated Johnstown.  It killed about 2200 people, many of whom suffered agonizing death in floating mountains of burning debris.  No need to worry about the Robber Barons of Pittsburgh; they had excellent lawyers.

The Johnstown Flood was prelude.  The American twentieth century got off to a notably disastrous start with the Galveston Hurricane of 1900—at least six thousand fatalities, perhaps as many as twelve thousand.  The comparatively modest death toll of the San Francisco earthquake of 1906 comes nearly as a relief.  But I have skipped over the  Collinwood (Ohio, 1902) school fire with 172 incinerated kiddies and teachers and the Iroquois Theater fire (Chicago, 1903) with more than 600 victims, most of them female, including many children.  You may not have heard of this fire, which lacked the “social interest” historians have invested in the fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist factory (New York, 1911).  Most of the 146 Triangle victims were sweated immigrant women and girls, not bourgeois Chicago matrons idling away a theater matinee, but the human folly that lay behind the horrifying death tolls was remarkably similar in both instances.  I shall leave unmentioned the fate of the Titanic (1912, death toll 1500 plus).  We ought to be able to give that one to the Brits.  The main theme here is American carnage.

Turning to “natural” disasters, Katrina, the storm that went a fair way towards destroying the city of New Orleans in 2005, may have been responsible for upward of fourteen hundred deaths—a huge number swollen by human failure and inefficiency. But so far that’s the worst our century has been able to do.   Superstorm Sandy of 2012, while visiting the northeast with massive property damage, took only about 230 lives, by far the most of them outside the United States.   I somewhat arbitrarily place the attack on the Twin Towers in the category of acts of war—not that acts of war are not disastrous.  But even Nine Eleven and the “endless” Middle Eastern wars following in its wake do not raise the level of the slaughter of the early twenty-first century to that of the early twentieth century.  Remember that on the first day of the Battle of the Somme (July 1, 1916) twenty thousand British soldiers died.   By the time the battle was “over” the figure was 300,000.  The death toll for the whole of the Great War was about seventeen million.

Nothing seems more frightening than epidemic disease, and as I write the country seems poised on the brink of panic concerning the coronavirus infection first found in China and now showing up in many other countries, including ours.  The possibility of pandemic is real.  This is nothing to be nonchalant about.  As yet, however, the number of deaths is comparatively small even within China.  Meanwhile “ordinary” flu, though seldom mentioned in the press, has already killed about 8,000 in America.  That might be described as business as usual.  There is by now a national cultural amnesia concerning American mortality statistics for the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918.  They are uncertain, but it carried away at least a half a million of a population just over a hundred million.

The most casual survey of world history should convince us that human life is a very fraught business full of danger, difficulty, and lethal adversities of every sort.  “Man is born unto trouble as the sparks fly upward.”  That’s in the Good Book.  It’s actually something of a wonder that humans have survived at all, but we are right now on a roll.  People have trouble believing that broadly and statistically viewed the human race has never been so well placed as it is now.  For example, vast numbers—really vast numbers-- have quite recently emerged from poverty to lives of modest sustenance.  This development is perhaps hard to see through the smoky blur of Australian wildfires.  But a lot of us apparently don’t want to believe it anyway and are encouraged not to think about it by a press operating under the simple proposition that “If it bleeds, it leads.”  How I’d love to see a headline reading “For Eighth Consecutive Year Nobody Shot at Alabama-Auburn Game”.

William Hickling Prescott

I am not really one who frequently writes about historical anniversaries, particularly death anniversaries, but a coincidence invites me to do so now.  For I just discovered in my chance reading that William Hickling Prescott died precisely 161 years before the day I am writing this essay.  Prescott, born in 1796, was a great man and a great writer.  He has been described as the first serious or scholarly American historian, and his writings had great influence in the development of American historiography.  But before talking about Prescott it would be well to mention two other slightly younger contemporaries who also helped put American history writing on the map.

John Lothrop Motley (1814-1877) is most famous for his multi-volume Rise of the Dutch Republic.  Should that title in and of itself not send shivers down your spine, I suggest you set aside a week of your life to read Motley, a master of the gorgeous periodic sentence, a kind of Yankee version of Thomas Babbington Macauley, the great British Whig historian.  It is true that though very learned he never wholly mastered the Dutch language, for which he was criticized by some pettifogging Dutch Dry-as-Dusts.   But on his way to the bank he might laughingly have anticipated Hilaire Belloc in saying; “When I am dead, I hope it may be said—his sins were scarlet, but his books were read.”  Because they were: the books I mean.  I have no first-hand knowledge of the sins.

The third in the American historical triumvirate is Francis Parkman (1823-1893), author of the amazing studies of the contest between the British and the French in North America.  Parkman was perhaps the greatest of the three, and he dealt quite explicitly with American themes.  He was also a brilliant writer of English prose.  While his great achievement was undoubtedly France and England in North America, his first book, The Oregon Trail (1847) is one of the most extraordinary debuts in American literary history.  But it was Prescott who died on January 28^th, and to him I must now return.

It took a certain temperament enabled by certain circumstances to be an historian in America two hundred years ago: you had to be affluent.  All three of these men were New Englanders, all three were Harvard graduates, and all three had private means that allowed them to pursue the Muse.  All serious English language history had been written by Englishmen like Gibbon and Hume.  Carlyle had published The French Revolution in 1837, the same year as Emerson’s prophetic lecture on “The American Scholar.”  American history before Prescott consisted mainly of puff pieces like Parson Weems’s Life of George Washington with its cherry tree fable.  Washington Irving was more serious, but still really a popularizer.

The world of Prescott’s youth was one of extraordinary upheaval on both sides of the Atlantic.  He was born only twenty years after Bunker Hill, where his grandfather had commanded the American guerillas.  Robespierre had mounted the scaffold only two years before he was born.  And revolution was by no means a thing of the past.  In the real time of his early years the vast Iberian-American Empires were breaking up into independent republics.  Following the pattern of numerous Spanish colonies Brazil, which occupies half the landmass of South America, proclaimed its independence from Portugal in 1822, the year after Prescott had definitively committed to his historian’s vocation.

Herein Prescott was to find his great subject—essentially the rise and fall of the Spanish Empire.  But he faced two difficulties, beginning with a personal liability that would stop most scholars before they even began.  He was for most of his life legally blind.  He was born with iffy eyesight.  Then he had gone up to Harvard at the age of fifteen, still a boy, and as you know, boys will be boys.  In a food fight in the college dining hall a chunk of coarse bread hurled with force hit him in the eye, blinding him.  This anecdote tells you something about the Yankee upper crust in terms both of deportment and baked goods.  Even the “good” eye was affected.  He never enjoyed thereafter more than partial and blurry vision even in bright sunlight.  To work by candle-light was impossible; and nearly total blindness descended on him precisely when he began serious work.

He knew that the historian depended upon original documentary sources.  The problem of not being able to see them was secondary, however, to the problem of not having them to see in the first place.  Historians depended upon a large international army of professional copyists—since replaced by printed editions, Xerox machines, and the Internet.  Sometimes they could actually buy the originals.  Prescott did travel to Europe, his modest personal fortune becoming a permanent research grant.  Then there was the awkward fact that the documents he needed were often written not in Latin (no problem) but in antique forms of Spanish, a language he did not yet know well even in its contemporary form.  So he immersed himself in that tongue and became highly proficient.  But he needed a native Castilian reader, and none was to be found on Beacon Hill.  The best he could do was a literate but impecunious monoglot Anglophone whom he taught, after a fashion, to pronounce the words of Spanish texts totally meaningless to the reader but at least partially comprehensible to the auditor: hour after hour, indeed month after month, of old legal formularies, royal edicts, and commercial accounts—all of which he stored nearly supernaturally in an amazing memory.  He wrote using carbon paper and an elaborately constructed board with lines marked off by wires.  Thus did America’s first great historian write his masterful History of Ferdinand and Isabella, followed by the History of the Conquest of Mexico and the Conquest of Peru. 

Written history has its styles, which are themselves unsurprisingly “historically conditioned.”   A modern school history text does not read as though it were written by Xenophon.  Contemporary academic historians can be critical of the grand but limited designs of their nineteenth-century predecessors, who tended to write about kings and queens and armies and battles to the neglect of social conditions and the lives of the vast number of ordinary people.  This is a valid criticism, even if I must point out that there weren’t many kings or queens on the Oregon Trail

But around the year 1900, at a time when the homes of educated and even modestly affluent Americans were likely to have an actual “library” room, publishing elegant multi-volume sets of Prescott, Motley, and Parkman was a thriving and profitable business.  The relics are still to be seen in dusty back rooms of old bookshops, at church rummage sales, and in eBay listings; and they still make great reading.  I hope before I die to see one or two of Prescott’s books in the Library of America.  Parkman already has two fat volumes, and Barbara Tuchman—another popular historical writer who knew how to bring out the story in history—is there.

William Hickling Prescott, born two hundred and twenty-four years ago, died on January 28^th in the year 1859.

Hiram Corson Voices the Spirit

Hiram Corson, in the days when professors looked like professors 

Around here things have begun to slip in a distinctively geriatric way.  More than sixty years ago I one day noticed that my grandfather, who had always been a stickler about his modest personal toilette, was going two days, sometimes three, between shaves.  I still shave most days, but I’ve lost control of numerous other things of greater import, such as my library.  Half the time I set out to fetch one of my books, I fail to find it where it should be.  Very recently I lost a book I had agreed to review and had held in my hands only long enough to give it a superficial skim.  This means I am constantly having to go to the library to consult something I know is in this house or—even worse—ordering a second copy from the Internet.  I reckon that any price under ten dollars is saving me money otherwise paid out at gas stations and fed into parking meters, not to mention the annoyance of time-consuming and fruitless searching of my shelves.

Quite recently I thought I needed to consult an old favorite, Hiram Corson’s The Aims of Literary Study (1894, 1898), a handbook of great originality and enduring charm.  If you want to know why nineteenth-century political oratory is in a different and higher realm than that of the impeachment proceedings now in progress, this book offers a clue.  I think I already have two copies of it, but it’s of small format and easily lost behind or under a regular octavo.  I got another from Abebooks for six dollars, and it is nearly pristine.  As of May 4, 1899, as recorded on the flyleaf, it was the property of one Howard Stinson Kinney, presented as “First prize in Public Speaking.”  Mr. Kinney, apparently a talker rather than a reader, had not even cut all of the pages.

This is a wonderful little book, but by the time the new old copy had arrived, the urgency of my desire had been calmed by Google Books.  I don’t like reading books on line but will do so under duress.   So since the book arrived—and before it gets lost--I have been concentrating on the author rather than his most refreshing ideas about literary study.  Most people if asked the odd question “What is the greatest thing the French government ever did for the United States?” would probably answer: “The gift of the statue of Liberty.”  That was in 1886, and it is the wrong answer.  The right answer is “The revocation of the Edict of Nantes” two hundred years earlier (1685).  By this colossal act of self-defeating bigotry, Louis XIV rescinded the policy of the limited toleration of French Protestantism.  Among the long-term results of the French Wars of Religion was a very large exodus of French Protestants (also called Huguenots) seeking refuge in some neighboring countries.  The Huguenots were notable for their industry, their skilled labor, their artisanal training and accomplishments, their business acumen , their progressive attitudes, and their can-do spirit.  This was not a population that wise national leaders would ordinarily want to slaughter, persecute or expel.  But the Sun King’s folly was the bonanza of other lands, including England and her north American colonies.

Seventeenth-century French ecumenicism

The original American Corson showed up on Staten Island in the seventeenth century, his Carolina-bound ship having been blown slightly off course in a gale.  By the time of the Revolution the family had established a major beachhead in and around Philadelphia, where several of them adopted Quakerism.  Perhaps the most celebrated of the Corsons, also a Hiram (1804-1896), was a medical doctor resident at Plymouth Meeting.  This man, in addition to being famous for his superior medical prowess, was an early feminist and committed abolitionist.  Most readers probably don’t even know what a medical “house call” was, but I am just barely old enough to remember them.  Dr. Corson, making house calls, travelled on horseback or by carriage a distance equivalent to sixteen laps around the globe’s circumference!

But I must get to the doctor’s relative, my Hiram Corson, the English professor (1828 –1911).  He eventually taught at Cornell, an institution of unique importance in the history of American higher education for several founding innovations.  But his earlier pedagogical career was an exercise in virtuous works at such places as Girard College (indigent and underprivileged students) and the Ogontz School (highest quality education for young ladies).  He published dozens of essays and books, beginning with Old English, Chaucer, and the Elizabethans, but including Robert Browning, who in 1886 was the keenest of cutting edges.  His masterpiece, in my estimation, is his Aims of Literary Study; but what fascinates me even more were his extracurricular interests. 

Corson was a great believer in the spiritual, a concept only tangentially connected with religion.  For him every poem had an “intellectual” but also a “spiritual” content, the latter apprehensible only through expert vocalization.  It was not through literary analysis in a book or classroom discussion that one grasped the spirit of a poem, but through the expert articulation of the trained human voice.  The “vocal” aspect of literary study has practically disappeared today, but it is directly connected to the teachings of classical rhetoricians.  An American high-school graduate of the nineteenth century could be expected to have memorized a large store of English poetry and to be able to recite it in an elegant manner.

Madame Blavatsky

Corson didn’t stop there with “spirit”.  He was an actual Spiritualist and a pioneer student of “paranormal phenomena” and “psychical research”.  The second half of the nineteenth century was the heyday of poltergeists, table-rappers, and ectoplasm manifestations.  Corson was convinced that there had to be a few grains of wheat among all the chaff and heroically set out to winnow through it.  He was in cahoots—or as he thought of it, scientific collaboration—with the celebrated “controlled” medium Minnie Meserve Soule (1867-1936), a prim and proper Bostonian lady.  A “controlled” medium was one who in the trance-state became the voice or channel for specific familiar spirits from the Other World.  Minnie discovered her unwelcome powers in childhood through a series of remarkable precognitive dreams.  Her occult name was “Mrs. Chenoweth”, and she channeled an impressive spirit called Imperator as well as various young American Indian lasses, especially a sixteen-year-old Choctaw named Sunbeam.  Corson was a friend of Madame Helena Blavatsky, the founder of Theosophy, and one of the weirder women who ever walked the earth.  Nominally a Russian Orthodox Christian, Blavatsky was fascinated by Eastern religions, especially Buddhism, and played a major role in stimulating the “oriental” aspects of Western occultism.  What is one to say about all this?  Well, it’s better than most current literary critical theory.  Corson entertained Madame Blavatsky at his home in Ithaca.  Though I have no documentation for it I like to think that over tea he introduced her to his friend Andrew Dickson White, one of Cornell’s founders, who in 1896 published his great two-volume classic, A History of the Warfare of Science with Theology in Christendom.

Treason of the Intellectuals

 

A few days ago Ross Douthat, one of the regular columnists for the New York Times, published an essay entitled “The Academic Apocalypse: The crisis of English departments is also a crisis of faith."  I think that Douthat, who holds somewhat conservative political views and is a practicing Roman Catholic, is meant to offer a countervailing voice on an editorial page dominated by writers of a leftward drift.  Though I often agree with his ideas, my personal liking for him--not that we have ever met--is based in his intelligence and the courtesy and civility with which he and colleagues with very different points of view conduct themselves in the NYT podcast "The Argument."

 

Douthat’s column is a kind of review of, or response to, an anthology of essays published in the Chronicle  of Higher Education under the somber general title “Endgame”—as in the end of the line for literary study.  I have not yet read these essays.  I will, I suppose, though I probably don’t need to.  It is likely that  I could have written them myself, all of them, with all their differing perspectives; for one version or another of the central arguments, debates, laments, complaints or boasts they advance has been current during every stage of my career as a professor of literature.

            When I first joined the Princeton faculty in 1965, there was a bunch of emeriti geezers who used to sit around the coffee lounge of a morning in endless conversation about one of two cognate topics: how the Department was going to hell in a handbasket, and how much better it had been in the good old days.  I thought this was really pathetic, though I prudently held my peace, at least awaiting a tenure decision.  Then forty years passed, and something odd happened.  I noted that the Department had gone to hell in a handbasket, and that things had been different and a lot better in the good old days.

            The “endgame” analysis of literary study is not new, and my forty years of teaching were approximately the forty talked about in William Chace’s much noted essay entitled “The Decline of the English Department” published in The American Scholar, the magazine

of Phi Beta Kappa, in 2009.  Chace is a former English professor (modernism, Irish writers, that sort of thing) and the former president of three of our most prestigious colleges and universities.  Once he had no further aspirations along those lines, perhaps, he started writing a series of things in the genre of “At Last the Truth Can be Told.”  In this episode he began by noting “a well-publicized shift in what undergraduate students prefer to study”.  Heading toward the bottom line, there has been a marked decrease in the popularity of all humanities majors, but particularly I would have to say of the English major.  Forty years earlier about eight percent of all American undergraduates were majoring in English.  In 2003/2004 it was less than four percent.  Those are real statistics, but anecdote might be even better.  I was aware that in the year I retired (2006) there were just about half the number of English majors at Princeton as when I was chairman of the department back in the ‘Eighties.

            Douthat singles out for special praise an essay by Simon During, an Australian scholar of great ability who sees “the decline of the humanities as a new form of secularization, an echo of past crises of established Christian faith.”  Even without having read the essay, any Christian scholar would recognize the truth of the thesis.  While literary study cannot stand alone as the paradigm of the humanities, it does play an outsized role in the academy.  What are the “humanities?”   The word derives from the Latin phrase litterae humaniores, the more “human” or secular branches of writing as opposed to sacred texts, the stuff of “divinity” or theological study.  The introduction of humanistic study into the universities, which began as a supplement to “divinity”, soon enough went on to create a powerful alternative, even if its literary canon had a cutoff date of roughly the year 65 of the common era.  Furthermore there was in the cultural prestige of the litterae humaniores and the solemnity with which they were transmitted good reason to regard academic humanists as members of an hieratic class, and consequently to recognize that it may not be that Macbeth has suddenly become repellent but the way it is being taught or not taught by a secular clerisy that no longer “believes”.

In his decade-old essay Mr. Chace was aware of complex causality, but no less so of root causes: especially a want of professorial passion.    “At the root,” he wrote, “is the failure of departments of English across the country to champion, with passion, the books they teach and to make a strong case to undergraduates that the knowledge of those books and the tradition in which they exist is a human good in and of itself.”  Now this explanation was so right on, as we used to say back in ‘sixty-eight, that it immediately generated denial, indignation, and charges of bad faith from various eminences in the Modern Language Association.  The last thing the VP for Sales wants to hear is that his company is selling something that the “consumer base” doesn’t want to buy. 

But the term passion, which plays so prominent a role in Christian theological language, is deeply ambivalent.  It  may mean among other things an animating enthusiasm on the one hand or a blinding fanaticism on the other.   In 1927 the once celebrated French writer Julien Benda published a book entitled La trahison des clercs (The Treason of the Intellectuals) in which he indicted the intellectuals for their “treason”—not against the nation state but against European civilization—in having with their political passions encouraged the disaster of the Great War.  A wonderful scene in Erich Maria Remarque’s novel All Quiet on the Western Front (1929) suggests that the chauvinism of cultural arbiters did more along those lines than an archducal assassination.

            The word clerc, still pronounced in England like the common surname, Clark,  is related to our words cleric and clergy, originally denoting someone with the learning uniquely characteristic of a churchman, a learning grounded in “moral virtue,” as Chaucer puts it.  He said that of the Clerk of Oxenford—he who would gladly learn and gladly teach, as a matter of fact.  Chaucer’s Good Parson, too, was “a learned man, a clerk”.

                       

            In what, precisely, did the treason of the clercs consist?  In a chapter called “The Great Betrayal” Benda actually produced a three-part enumerated indictment:  1. The clercs have adopted political passions.  2.  They bring their political passions into their activities as clercs.  3.  The clercs have played the game of political passions by their doctrines.  This third head had a particularizing subdivision:  (a) the clercs praise attachment to the particular and denounce the feeling of the universal, and (b) the clercs praise attachment to the practical, and denounce love of the spiritual.  The Treason of the Intellectuals made quite a splash back in the day, and it is still worth a read.  There was some lively debate as to whether its inspiration was from the left or from the right, but most people could see that it was an indictment of, or perhaps only a lament for, a debilitating crisis of faith.