“Man did not enter into society to become worse than he was before, nor to have fewer rights than he had before, but to have those rights better secured.”
(From “The Rights of Man“)
Technorati Tags: thomas paine
Snapshots
One blogger I read faithfully posted a picture and invited guesses as to what it is. I and others surmise it’s a picture of three Japanese soldiers during World War II, but anything more precise about the circumstances is just a guess.
That first picture intrigued me, and I went looking for other pictures of Japanese soldiers during the war. I eventually lit on this–a collection of Flickr photos. The photographs–and that’s one of them above (click for larger version)–were posted by a guy who is in possession of a photo album his grandfather picked up on Guadalcanal during the war. Most of the pictures depict a sailor (or perhaps marine), some alone, most with compatriots, in a variety of settings: on shipboard, some apparently in China. There are a few family shots, and a couple pages depicting the Japanese royal family. Nearly all the pictures have handwritten captions.
The guy who posted the pictures also started a blog–WWII Japanese Photo Album–which says he intends to “get this long lost treasure back to its family.” It’s a long shot–but a great project.
Meantime, you look at the pictures of the young men in sailor’s and soldier’s gear and you think, “These were just kids.” Odds are, most of the ones you see here didn’t survive the war.
End of a Desperate Ruffian
Doing some research on a possible future project, I came across this: a judge passing sentence in a Revolutionary War case that today might be called today attempted murder with special circumstances. The prisoner, named Abijah Wright, had with several confederates broken into the home of a Pennsylvania militia colonel; his intent was to murder the colonel or deliver him to the British; but the colonel, aided by one of his sons, “discomfited” the attackers. Wright was captured, tried and convicted of “felony and burglary,” and sentenced to death. (He was also charged with treason, but there’s no record of how the jury disposed of that charge, apparently; I found a recent paper on Wright’s trial, one of nearly two dozen similar proceedings held in late 1778 and early 1779 in Philadelphia).
Here’s what the judge had to say to Mr. Wright:
“YOU have been indicted of a burglary and thereto pleaded that you were not guilty, and for trial put yourself upon God and your Country: They have found you guilty. What have you to say, why sentence of death should not be pronounced against you?
“(A long pause ensued and no answer)
“A copy of your indictment, and of the panel of the jury who were to try you, was delivered to you many days before your trial, that you might be prepared in the best manner for your defence and challenges. Upon your trial you have had two able Counsels assigned you by the Court to render you every possible assistance. A sensible and unbiased jury have found a verdict against you upon as clear and full evidence as ever was given in a Court of Justice. It only remains for the Court to pronounce the awful sentence prescribed by law.
“Before this is done it may be useful to you to remind you of the heinousness of your crime, and in what manner you ought to employ the few days which may be allotted to you in this life. The law has so particular and tender a regard to the immunity of a [man’s] house, that it stiles it his Castle, and will never suffer it to be violated with impunity. You have in the dead of night, with a number of desperate ruffians, broke and entered the mansion house of Colonel Andrew Knox, in this county, then peaceably in his bed, it being after midnight, and when all the creation, except beasts of prey, were to be supposed at rest. You broke and entered this house in a hostile manner, with arms in your hands and with an intent to murder the owner, having discharged many loaded muskets at him. It has been alledged, that you might have intended not to murder him, but to carry him away a prisoner to the enemy, then in possession of this city. This is so far from being an extenuation of your guilt, that it is an aggravation of it; for you, in such a case, would have been guilty of treason. … [Y]ou, his countryman … attempted to put him into the power and under the dominion of his inveterate foes, foes to God and man, by whom you were sure he would at least have been confined in a loathesome dungeon, if not assassinated, or starved to death. But he, with the assistance of his son, discomfitted seven of you, whatever your wicked purposes might have been, and has proved that he was not deficient in that prowess and courage necessary for the station he was in. …
“Let me intreat you for God’s sake, who wisheth not the death of a sinner; for Christ’s sake, who died for all mankind; for your own sake, whose eternal happiness or misery depend upon a sincere repentance; to reflect seriously upon your past life, to redeem your time, and to be earnest and importunate at the throne of grace for mercy and forgiveness. If your desire the conversation, advice or prayers of any pious divines, or other good men, the Court will use their best endeavors to obtain them for you. Do not go out of the world in the manner too, too many thoughtless wretches in your condition are apt to do. Be convinced of the justice of your punishment, ask pardon of your offended country; but strive, above all things, to make your peace with God.
“Having now discharged my duty to you as a Christian, I must resume the office of the Judge.
” ‘YOU shall be taken back to the place from whence you came, and from thence to the place of execution, and there be hanged by the neck until dead.’ God be merciful to your soul.”
Guest Observation: Tom Kettle
Two or three weeks ago in my Irish history class, we were going over the World War I years. One of the things the professor does is weave in poetry and song; he has even sung a song or two despite the palpable discomfort of many of his auditors. For the poetry, his habit is to declaim a stanza or two unless the piece is quite short. During the World War I lecture, he brought in a sonnet by a man well-known in Ireland but little known elsewhere: Tom Kettle.
Kettle was an Irish nationalist of the Home Rule stripe. Meaning: He hoped for an independent Ireland, but supported a campaign to create an Irish government that would still be part of the British Empire. Just as that goal was about to be realized, the European war broke out. When the fighting began, in August 1914, Kettle was in Belgium trying to buy guns for Irish nationalist militias. Instead, he spent several months helping the Belgians in their futile bid to hold off the German onslaught. Prompted largely by what he had seen, he volunteered for service in the British army when he returned home and recruited fellow Irishmen into the ranks. Among radical nationalists, who held to the age-old position that England’s difficulty was Ireland’s opportunity, Kettle’s position was akin to a sellout. When the nationalists launched the Easter Rising in Dublin in 1916, Kettle was devastated; though in poor health, he asked for a front-line combat position. He was sent to France to join an Irish unit in the Battle of the Somme.
It was there that he wrote “To My Daughter Betty, The Gift of God”:
In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
To beauty proud as was your mother’s prime,
In that desired, delayed incredible time,
You’ll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
And the dear heart that was your baby’s throne
To dice with death. And, oh! they’ll give you rhyme
And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
And some decry it in a knowing tone.
So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
And tired men sigh, with mud for couch and floor,
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,
But for a dream, born in a herdsman’s shed,
And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
The poem’s postscript reads: “In the field before Guillemont, Somme. September 4, 1916.” Kettle died leading his troops into action five days later.
Technorati Tags: ireland
Peace ‘n’ Love ‘n’ the Olympic Torch
The New York Times published an excellent piece this morning about the origins of the Olympic torch relay and how it relates both to the ancient Greeks and our enlightened 2008 world. The story recounts the invention of the torch-lighting ritual and relay especially for the 1936 Berlin Olympics and Leni Riefenstahl‘s intended paean to Aryan culture, the film “Olympia.” I remember the movie’s opening sequence, but had no idea at all that I was watching the birth of the whole torch routine. In the movie, the Times’s piece recounts, “the torch is conveyed from one bearer to the next and ends in Berlin at a 110,000-seat stadium where it ignites an altar of flame. Through shimmering heat the sun itself can be seen, vibrating in sympathy. And Hitler salutes the cheering crowds. This passing of the torch thus demonstrates a lineage of inheritance — a historical relay — making Nazi Germany the living heir to Ancient Greece. A claim was being staked. ”
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Insane
Once upon a time–not that long ago, really- it wasn’t necessary to hunt too far to understand the reasons for strange behavior. If someone acted in a bizarre way, they were nuts. End of story. That isn’t a very nuanced view of the world of yesteryear, but I think it’s generally true (interesting to note, however, that when a genuinely crazy person happened upon the scene and committed some outrage, they were more often than not held to account as if they were responsible. Case in point: Charles J. Guiteau, the off-his-rocker assassin of President James A. Garfield; but that’s another story for another time). Anyway, here’s what occasions this brief rumination: a story from a 1906 edition of The New York Times that details the strange behavior of one of the city’s finest:
Technorati Tags: new york times
Blog Billiards
A few days ago, before this last blog mini-hiatus, I posted a 108-year-old item from The New York Times (“Forced to Drink Beer“). The story describes a couple of bar denizens as “laughing immoderately.” That phrase prompted Marie, a regular reader from Springfield, Illinois, to search for it in the Times archives and link to the search in a comment. I’m not sure what period she searched, but “laughed immoderately” appears 59 times. Looking through the list of those who expressed mirth or amusement in this rather unrestrained manner, I saw that one of those whose guffaws are memorialized forever in the Times archives is Governor John P. Altgeld (see the clip below).
In responding on Marie’s comment, I mentioned the governor’s 1893 cameo in the search results. I referred to him as John P. “Eagle Forgotten” Altgeld, the second-greatest man who ever lived in Springfield (OK — your mileage may vary). “Eagle Forgotten” is the title of a biography of Altgeld first published (I think) in 1938. The book takes its title from a Vachel Lindsay poem about Altgeld, “The Eagle That Is Forgotten.” After reading my comment, Marie posted the poem.
OK, now: Rob, a blogger near New Orleans who reads both Marie’s posts and mine, read the poem. He’s in the habit of citing a blog of the day, and after reading “The Eagle That Is Forgotten,” linked to a Vachel Lindsay site.
I just like the serendipitous nature of this exchange. To keep it going, here’s another item to check out: the sculpture “Eagle Columns,” by Richard Hunt, at the southwestern corner of Sheffield, Lincoln, and Wrightwood, about a mile south of Wrigley Field. I happened across it one day on a long walk up to my parent’s place. Weirdly, I can’t find a single decent image of this installation online. Anyway, here’s what The New York Times had to say about it recently:
“The inspiration for … ‘Eagle Columns’ (1989) …was Mr. Hunt’s interest in two Chicagoans of the 1890’s, the liberal Illinois Governor John Peter Altgeld and the poet Vachel Lindsay. An ensemble of three soaring bronze towers, each surmounted by a fantastical eagle, commemorates the two: Altgeld, who pardoned three anarchists convicted of inciting violence during the Haymarket Square riot of 1886 on the ground that their trial was unfair, and Lindsay, who eulogized Altgeld in a paean titled ‘The Eagle That Is Forgotten.’ The monument is in a park across the street from Mr. Hunt’s Chicago studio.”
The park is Jonquil Park, and it’s in Altgeld’s old neighborhood. Also in the vicinity: his grave in Chicago’s Graceland Cemetery. (And if you’re really in a mood to get out and see Altgeld-related sites in Chicago, try here and here.)
Hail to the Chiefs
There was a time — starting the moment George Washington left office — that being a military heavyweight wasn’t seen as one of the big qualifications for being president. The Civil War (six) and World War II (six) produced the highest number of president veterans–most who served as generals. If there’s a pattern here — military service or expertise turning into excellence as commander-in-chief in wartime or in peacetime — it escapes me.
George Washington: Trenton was one of his greatest hits.
John Adams: Learned to be commander in chief on the job.
Thomas Jefferson: Learned on the job.
James Madison: Learned on the job–fought actual war.
James Monroe: Learned on the job.
John Quincy Adams: Learned on the job.
Andrew Jackson: Knew his way around a battlefield. (References.)
Martin Van Buren: Learned on the job.
William Henry Harrison: Did someone say ‘Tippecanoe’?
John Tyler: Learned on the job.
James K. Polk: Learned on the job. Enthusiastically.
Zachary Taylor: Soldier.
Millard Fillmore: Learned nothing on the job.
Franklin Pierce: Mexican War combat veteran.
James Buchanan: Learned on the job.
Abraham Lincoln: Learned on the job (served in Illinois militia during Blackhawk’s War).
Andrew Johnson: Learned on the job.
U.S. Grant: The Civil War brought out the best in him and the blood out of everyone else.
Rutherford B. Hayes: Civil War combat veteran.
James A. Garfield: Civil War combat veteran
Chester A. Arthur: Civil War quartermaster.
Grover Cleveland: Avoided Civil War draft by paying a substitute. Learned on the job. Twice.
Benjamin Harrison: Civil War combat veteran.
William McKinley: Civil War combat veteran.
Theodore Roosevelt: Noted equestrian with enthusiasm for Cuba.
William Howard Taft: Learned on the job.
Woodrow Wilson: Learned on the job.
Warren Harding: Learned on the job.
Calvin Coolidge: Learned on the job.
Franklin D. Roosevelt: Former assistant secretary of the Navy.
Harry S Truman: World War I combat veteran.
Dwight D. Eisenhower: Ike. Mentioned something about a “military-industrial complex.”
John F. Kennedy: PT-109.
Lyndon B. Johnson: World War II combat veteran (Army).
Richard M. Nixon: World War II, Navy; played mean game of poker.
Gerald Ford: World War II combat veteran (Navy).
Jimmy Carter: Navy nucular engineer.
Ronald Reagan: Learned on the job (warmed up dispatching National Guard to Berkeley).
G.H.W. Bush: World War II combat veteran (Navy).
Bill Clinton: Otherwise engaged during Vietnam draft. Learned on the job.
G.W. Bush: Air National Guard (1970s); carrier landing (2003).
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Air Lines and A. Lincoln
The Library of Congress site–a dangerous place to explore. I actually started out with a purpose when I began searching the its collection of broadsides last night. Among knowledge nuggets gleamed: American railroads of yesteryear often called themselves “air lines.” Why? Were they towing zeppelins ‘cross the prairie? No. “Air line” (or “air-line”) described the shortest route between two points
I also happened across the item below: apparently a clever piece of Democratic campaign ephemera from 1864 that purports to be an Abraham Lincoln business card. March 4 refers to the date in 1865 that Lincoln would have left office had he lost the election. (Click the image for a larger, legible version of it. The library’s page on the item is here.
And the text says:
“To Whom It May Concern:
“My old customers, and others, are no doubt aware of the terrible time I have had in crossing the stream, and will be glad to know that I will be back, on the same side from which I started, on or before the Fourth of March next, when I will be ready to swap horses, dispense law, make jokes, split rails, and perform other matters in a small way.”)
Technorati Tags: library of congress, lincoln
Paper
Some weeks back, I think I mentioned that I’m back in school, trying to earn my history degree at UC-Berkeley. I’ll talk more about it soon, I promise. About the dull class that has turned out to be much more engaging than I imagined it could be during that first week. About the very challenging class on linguistics that has me thinking about the merits of going for a pass/not pass grade. About the oddly off-putting experience of a sociology-type class looking at the phenomenon of AIDS in sub-Saharan Africa, and how I’ve dropped that one.
But for now, this: The week before last, I had to turn in my first paper since the Carter administration. The class is Irish history–I half feel like the native Parisian taking Elementary French, but that’s another story. The paper was to be a reflection on the record that Alexis de Tocqueville, the 19th century political sociologist, left of a trip he took through Ireland in 1835. (Do I hear pulses speeding up out there in blogland?)
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