Since the Olympic Games took place once every four years, and were attended by all the Greeks, they provided everyone with a convenient way to measure time. This was gradually adopted throughout Greece. Just as we say вс meaning 'Before the birth of Christ' or ad for after the birth of Christ (Anno Domini which means the year of our Lord in Latin), the Greeks would say: 'At the time of this or that Olympiad'. The first Olympiad was in 776 вс. Can you work out when the tenth would have been? But don't forget! They only happened every four years.
But it wasn't only the Olympic Games that brought all the Greeks together. There was another sanctuary which they all held sacred. This one was at Delphi, and belonged to the sun god Apollo, and there was something most peculiar about it. As sometimes happens in volcanic regions, there was a fissure in the ground from which vapour issued. If anyone inhaled it, it literally clouded their mind. It was as if they were drunk or delirious, and nothing they said made any sense.
The very meaninglessness of these utterances seemed deeply mysterious to the Greeks, who said that 'the god himself speaks through a mortal mouth'. So they had a priestess - whom they called Pythia - sit over the fissure on a three-legged stool, while other priests interpreted her babble as predictions of the future.
The shrine was known as the Delphic Oracle, and at difficult moments of their lives Greeks from everywhere made pilgrimages to Delphi, to consult the god Apollo. The answer they received was often far from clear, and could be understood in a variety of ways. And in fact we still say that a vague or enigmatic answer is 'oracular'.
Let us now take a closer look at two of Greece's most important cities: Sparta and Athens. We already know something about the Spartans: they were Dorians, who, when they arrived in Greece, in around 1100 вс, enslaved the former inhabitants and put them to work on the land. But the slaves outnumbered their masters, and the danger of rebellion meant that the Spartans had to be constantly on the alert lest they find themselves homeless again. They only had one aim in life: to be fighting fit, ready to crush any uprising by their slaves, and to protect themselves from the surrounding peoples still at liberty.
And they really did think of nothing else. Their lawgiver, Lycurgus, had already seen to that. A Spartan baby that appeared weak, and unlikely to grow up to be a warrior, was killed at birth. A strong infant had to be made stronger. From a very young age he must train from dawn till dusk, learn to endure pain, hunger and cold, must eat poorly and be denied all pleasure. Boys were beaten just to harden them to pain. A harsh upbringing is still called 'spartan' today, and as you know, it worked: at Thermopylae, in 480 вс, in obedience to their law, the Spartans allowed themselves to be massacred by the Persians. Knowing how to die like that isn't easy. But knowing how to live is, perhaps, even harder. And this is what the Athenians aimed to do. They weren't looking for an easy, comfortable life, but one which had meaning. A life of which something remained after one's death. Something of benefit to those who came after. You shall see how they succeeded.
Had they not lived in fear - fear of their own slaves - the Spartans might never have become so warlike and brave. Athenians had fewer reasons to be afraid and they didn't live under the same pressures. Things were different for them even though, as in Sparta, the nobles who once ruled Athens imposed harsh laws drawn up by an Athenian named Draco. (These laws were so strict that people still speak of 'Draconian' severity.) But the people of Athens, who had roamed the seas in their ships, and had heard and seen so many different things, did not consent to this for long.
It was, in fact, a nobleman who had the wisdom to try to give the little state a new system of government. His name was Solon, and the laws he introduced in 594 вс - at the time of Nebuchadnezzar - were named after him. They stated that the people, that is, the city's inhabitants, should decide the city's affairs themselves. They should assemble in the marketplace of Athens and vote. The majority should decide and should elect a council of experts to put those decisions into effect. This sort of government is called democracy, or 'the rule of the people', in Greek. This didn't mean that everyone who lived in Athens was entitled to vote in the Assembly. Citizenship depended on wealth and influence, and many people, including women and slaves, played no part in government. But many Athenians could at least have their say, and so they took an interest in how their city was run. 'Polis' is Greek for city, 'polities', the affairs of a city.
For a while individual noblemen curried favour with the people to win their votes, and then seized power. Rulers like these were called tyrants. But the people soon expelled them and took better care next time to ensure that it was they themselves who really governed. I have already told you about the wayward nature of the Athenians. And it was this, together with a real fear of losing their freedom once again, which led them to banish any politician who showed signs of becoming too popular, lest he seize power for himself and rule as a tyrant. The same free people of Athens who defeated the Persians later treated Miltiades and Themistocles with just such ingratitude.
But there was one politician who avoided this fate. His name was Pericles. When he spoke in the Assembly, the Athenians always believed that it was they who had made the decisions, whereas in fact it was Pericles, who had made up his mind long before. This wasn't because he held any special office or had any particular power - he was simply the wisest and the most intelligent. And so
he gradually worked his way up until, by 444 вс - a number as beautiful as the time it represents - he was, in effect, the city's sole ruler. His chief concern was that Athens should maintain its power at sea, and this he achieved through alliances with other Ionian cities who paid Athens for its protection. In this way the Athenians grew rich and could at last afford to make use of their great gifts.
And now I can hear you asking: 'But what exactly did they do that was so great?' And I can only say 'everything'. But two things interested them most and these were truth and beauty.
Their assemblies had taught the Athenians how to discuss all matters openly, with arguments for and against. This was good training in learning how to think. Soon they were using arguments and counter-arguments, not just when they were debating everyday matters like whether or not to increase taxation, but in discussions about the whole of nature. The Ionians in the colonial outposts may have been ahead of them here, for they had already reflected on what the world was actually made of, and what might be the cause of all events and experiences.
This sort of reflection is what we call philosophy. In Athens, however, their reflecting - or philosophising - went much further. They also wanted to know how people should act, what was good and what was evil, and what was just and what was unjust. They wanted to find an explanation for human existence and discover the essence of all things. Of course, not everyone agreed on matters as complex as these - there were various theories and opinions that were argued back and forth, just as in the people's Assembly. And since that time, the sort of reflection and reasoned argument we call philosophy has never stopped.
But the Athenians didn't only pace up and down their porticos and sports fields talking about things like the essence of life and how to recognise it, and where it came from. They didn't just picture the world in a new way in their minds, they saw it with new eyes. When you look at the works of Greek artists, and see how fresh and simple and beautiful they are, it is as if their creators were seeing the world for the first time. We spoke of the statues of Olympic champions earlier. They show fine human beings, not posed, but looking as if the position they are shown in is the most natural one in the world. And it is because they seem so natural that they are so beautiful.
and
However, another invention of the time was to have an even greater impact on the world. This was gunpowder. Once again, the Chinese had probably known about it for a long time, but they mostly used it to make fireworks. It was in Europe, from 1300 onwards, that people began to use it in cannons for shooting at fortresses and men. And before long, soldiers were carrying massive and cumbersome guns in their hands. Bows and arrows were still much faster and more effective. A good English bowman could release 180 arrows in fifteen minutes, which was roughly the time it took for a soldier to load his thunderbox, set a slow-match to the charge and fire it once. Despite this, guns and cannons were already in evidence during the Hundred Years War, and after 1400 their use became widespread.
But such weapons were not for knights. There was nothing chivalrous about firing a bullet into a man's body from a distance. As you know, what knights did was to gallop towards one another and try to knock each other out of the saddle. Now, to protect themselves against the bullets, they had to abandon their chain mail in favour of increasingly heavy and solid armour. Dressed in this from top to toe they looked like iron men and must have been a fearsome sight. But the armour was unbearably hot and impractical and the knights could hardly move. For this reason, no matter how bravely they (ought, they were no longer so intimidating. In 1476 a famous, warlike knight and prince of the Duchy of Burgundv - known as Charles the Bold on account of his fearlessness - led an armv of knights in armour to conquer Switzerland. But when thev got there the free peasants and burghers of Murten surprised them and, righting on foot, simply knocked all the knights off their horses and clubbed them to death. They then made off with all the magnificent and valuable tents and rugs that the knights had brought with them on their campaign of conquest. You can see these today in Bern, the capital of Switzerland. Switzerland remained free, and the knights had had their day.
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This movement to re-awaken the piety of old, not through a separation from the Catholic Church, but through the renewal of that Church, and thus to actively challenge the Reformation, is known as the Counter-Reformation. People became very austere and strict during this period of religious warfare. Almost as austere and strict as Ignatius of Loyola himself. The delight Florentines took in their leaders' magnificence and splendour was over. And once again, what was looked for in a man was piety and readiness to serve the Church. Noblemen stopped wearing bright and ample robes and now looked more like monks in severe, black, close-cut gowns and white ruffs, over which their sombre, unsmiling faces tapered away into little pointed beards. Every nobleman wore a sword on his belt and challenged anyone who insulted his honour to a duel.
These men, with their careful, measured gestures and their rigid formality, were mostly seasoned warriors, and never more implacable than when fighting for their beliefs. Germany was not the only land riven by strife between Protestant and Catholic princes. The most ferocious wars were fought in France, where Protestants were known as Huguenots. In 1572 the French queen invited all the Huguenot nobility to a wedding at court, and on the eve of St Bartholomew, she had them assassinated. That's what wars were like in those days.
No one was more stern, more inflexible or more ruthless than the leader of all the Catholics. King Philip II of Spain was the son of the emperor Charles V. His court was formal and austere. Every act was regulated: who had to kneel at the sight of the king and who might wear a hat in his presence. In what order those who dined were to be served at the high table, and in what order the nobles were to enter the church for Mass.
King Philip himself was an unusually conscientious sovereign, who insisted on handling every decision and every letter himself. He worked from dawn to dusk with his advisers, many of whom were monks. His purpose in life as he saw it was to root out all forms of unbelief. In his own country he had thousands of people burned at the stake for heresy - not just Protestants, but Jews and Muslims who had lived there since the time when Spain was under Arab rule. And because he saw himself as Protector and Defender of the Faith, just as the German emperor had before him, he joined forces with a Venetian fleet and attacked the Turks, whose sea power hadn't stopped growing since their conquest of Constantinople. The allied Christians were victorious, and the Turkish fleet was completely destroyed at Lepanto, in 1571.
His war against the Protestants went less well. He may have succeeded in exterminating them at home in Spain, but this was not the case elsewhere. As in his father's time, the Low Countries (meaning Belgium and Holland) were also part of his empire. And many of the burghers who lived there were Protestants, especially in the rich northern towns. He did all he could to make them renounce their faith, but they wouldn't give in. So he sent a Spanish nobleman to be their governor, and he was even more fanatical and inflexible than Philip himself. The Duke of Alba, with his thin, pale face, his narrow pointed beard and icy gaze, was just the sort of warrior that Philip favoured. In cold blood the Duke of Alba sentenced a great number of burghers and noblemen to be hanged. Finally, people could stand it no longer. There was a fierce and bloody battle which ended in 1579 with the liberation of the Protestant towns of the Low Countries and the expulsion of the Spanish troops. Now, as free, rich, independent and enterprising trading cities, they too could try their luck across the seas, in India and America.
But King Philip II of Spain's most cruel defeat was yet to come. In England, Queen Elizabeth I, the daughter of King Henry VIII, was on the throne. Elizabeth was very clever, strong-willed and determined, but she was also vain and cruel. She was determined to defend England against the many Catholics still present in the country whom she persecuted relentlessly. Her cousin, Mary Stuart, the Catholic queen of Scotland, was a woman of great beauty and charm, and she, too, believed she had a right to the English throne. Elizabeth had her imprisoned and executed. Elizabeth also helped the Protestant burghers of the Low Countries in their war against Philip of Spain. Philip was furious. He resolved to conquer England for Catholicism or destroy it.
At immense cost he raised a huge fleet of 130 great sailing ships with around two thousand cannon, and more than twenty thousand men. It takes no time to read, but just try to imagine 130
sailing ships at sea. This was the Invincible Armada. When it set sail from Spain in 1588, loaded with heavy cannon and weaponry and food and supplies for six months, it seemed inconceivable that England's small island might ever succeed in resisting such a mighty force. However, the heavily laden warships were cumbersome and hard to manoeuvre. The English avoided confrontation and darted in and out in their nimbler vessels, attacking the Spanish ships. One night they launched fireships into the midst of the Spanish fleet, creating panic and confusion and sending them in all directions. Many ships drifted along the English coast and went down in severe gales. Barely half the Armada reached home and not one ship succeeded in landing on an English shore. Philip betrayed no sign of his disappointment. It is said that he greeted the commander of the fleet warmly and thanked him, saying: 'After all, I sent you to fight men, not the wind and waves.'
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If I wished, I could write many more chapters on the wars between Catholics and Protestants. But I won't. It was a dreadful era. Events soon became so confused that people no longer knew why or against whom they were fighting. The Habsburg emperors of Germany - ruling now from Prague, now from Vienna - had no real power outside Austria and part of Hungary. They were pious men who wished to re-establish the sovereignty of the Catholic Church throughout their empire. Nevertheless, they did for a while allow Protestants to hold religious services. Until one day a revolt broke out in Bohemia.
In 1618, discontented Protestants threw three of the emperor's Catholic councillors out of a window at Prague castle. They landed in a pile of manure, and so came to little harm. Nevertheless, this event - known as the Defenestration of Prague - gave the signal for a dreadful war to begin which lasted for thirty years. Thirty years. Just imagine! If someone heard about the Defenestration at the age of ten, they would have had to wait until they were forty to experience peace. If they experienced it! For in no time the war had turned into a dreadful massacre as hordes of ill-paid soldiers from countries far and wide rampaged through the land, looting and killing. The expectation of plunder was what drew the vilest and most brutal men of all nations into the ranks of these armies. Religious faith was long forgotten. Protestants fought in Catholic armies, Catholics in Protestant ones. Friend and foe suffered alike from their rapacity. Wherever they pitched their tents they demanded food and, above all, drink from the local peasants. And if a peasant refused to give them what they wanted, they took it by force, or they killed him. In their improbable patchwork of rags and their great plumed hats, swords dangling from their belts and pistols at the ready, they rode around burning, killing and tormenting the defenceless peasantry out of sheer wickedness and depravity. Nothing could stop them. The only person they would obey was their commander. And if he won their affection, they followed him with blind devotion.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
From A Little History of the World
by E.H. Gombrich:
In the course of the hundred years that passed between the deaths of Frederick Barbarossa in 1190 and Rudolf I of Habsburg in 1291, Europe changed in more ways than it is possible to imagine. As I have already said, at the time of Barbarossa there were powerful cities, mainly in Italy, whose citizens were bold enough to oppose and even take up arms against the emperor, while at that time Germany was largely a land of knights, monks and peasants. But over the following hundred years the situation in Germany changed beyond recognition. Many eastward crusades had already taken Germans far from home and they had established trading relationships in distant countries. They no longer exchanged oxen for sheep, or drinking horns for cloth, because they, too, were using money. And where there was money there were markets where all sorts of goods could be bought. These markets could not be held just anywhere. They had to be in fixed places protected by walls and towers, usually near a castle. Anyone who set up a stall in one and traded, as a burgher was no longer bound in serfdom to a landowner. People liked to say 'city air brings freedom', because burghers in the bigger towns answered to no one but the king.
But you mustn't imagine that life in a town in the Middle Ages was anything like it is today. Most towns were small, crooked mazes of tiny alleys and narrow houses with high, pointed gables. Merchants and craftsmen lived there with their families, crowded together in little space. When a merchant went on his travels he was usually accompanied by armed guards. This was because many knights in those days had forgotten all about chivalry and were little more than brigands. High up in their castles they sat, waiting for merchants to rob. However, the burghers didn't put up with this for long: they had money and they were able to hire soldiers. As a result there were frequent fights between burghers and robber knights, and quite often it was the burghers who won.
Craftsmen such as tailors, shoemakers, drapers, bakers, locksmiths, painters, joiners, stonemasons and master builders all belonged to groups or associations known as guilds. A guild such as that of the tailors was almost as hard to enter and had rules that were almost as strict as those of the knights. Not just anyone could become a master-tailor. First you had to serve your time as an apprentice. Then you became a journeyman and went on your travels in order to get to know other towns and other ways of working. Young men like these went on foot, and often spent years wandering through many countries before they returned home, or found a city which had a place for a master-tailor. Small towns didn't need many tailors, and the guilds made sure there were no more masters of any trade than there was work for them to do. A journeyman had to demonstrate his skill by completing a masterpiece (perhaps a fine coat) and only then would he be ceremoniously declared a Master and admitted to the guild.
Each guild had its own rules and entertainments, its banners and fine mottos, just like the knights. And of course their mottos, too, were not always respected. But at least they had them. A member of a guild was bound to support his fellow members and not steal their trade, nor must he cheat his own customers with poor goods. He was expected to treat his apprentices and journeymen well and do his best to uphold the good name of his trade and his town. He was, so to speak, one of God's craftsmen, just as a knight was a warrior fighting for God.
Indeed, while knights gave their lives in crusades to liberate Christ's tomb, burghers and craftsmen would often sacrifice their wealth, their strength and their well-being when it came to building a church in their town. The new church or cathedral had to be bigger, more beautiful and more magnificent than any building the neighbouring towns could boast of. The whole town shared this ambition and all the inhabitants devoted themselves to the project. The best-known master-builder was summoned to draw up the plans, stonemasons were engaged to cut stone and carve statues, painters to paint pictures for the altar and make windows that would shine like jewels within the church. But more important than whose idea it had been, or who had designed or built it, was the fact that the church was the work of the whole town, a communal offering to God. You only need look at one to see it. For these churches are no longer the massive fortresses that were still being built in Germany in Barbarossa's time, but glorious, high-vaulted halls with slim pillars and slender bell towers, and room inside for the whole town to gather when they came to hear the preachers. For by now new monastic orders had sprung up whose monks were less concerned with tilling the soil around their monasteries and copying manuscripts, but chose instead to roam the land as beggars, preaching repentance to the people and explaining the Holy Scriptures. Everyone flocked to the churches to hear them and wept over their sins, promising to mend their ways and live according to Christ's teachings of loving kindness.
But like the crusaders, who in the name of piety had carried out that dreadful massacre in Jerusalem, there were many citizens who failed to hear in those penitential sermons a call to mend their ways, and instead learnt to hate all those who didn't share their faith. Jews, above all, were their targets, and the more pious they felt themselves to be, the more they abused them. You must bear in mind that the Jews were the only tribe from antiquity left in Europe. The Babylonians, the Egyptians, the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Gauls and the Goths had all either perished or merged with other peoples. Only the Jews, whose state had been repeatedly destroyed and who had endured all those terrible times when they had been persecuted and hounded from one country to the next, had survived. After two thousand years, they were still patiently awaiting the coming of their Saviour, the Messiah. Forbidden to own fields, they couldn't be peasants, let alone become knights. Nor were they allowed to practise any craft. The only occupation open to them was trade. So that is what they did. Even then they were only permitted to live in specified parts of the town and only allowed to wear certain clothes. Yet, in time, some of them were able to earn a lot of money which knights and burghers borrowed and were often unable to repay. This only made the Jews more hated and they were repeatedly attacked and robbed. Having neither the power nor the right to defend themselves, they were helpless, unless the king or a priest chose to take their side - but this was rarely the case.
Bad enough then to be a Jew, but worse still if you were someone who, having pored long over the Bible, began to doubt some aspect of its teaching. Such people were called heretics and the persecutions they suffered were terrible. Anyone perceived to be a heretic was publicly burned alive, just like the Christians in Nero's time. Whole cities were razed to combat heresy and entire regions laid waste. Crusades were waged against them, just as they were against Muslims. And all this was done by the very people who, for the God of mercy and his Good News, were building those magnificent cathedrals. Buildings which, with their soaring towers and great decorated porches, with their stained glass windows gleaming like jewels in the darkness and their thousands of statues, seemed to offer a glorious vision of the Kingdom of Heaven.
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How nice it would be if, suddenly, heralds were to ride through the streets crying: 'Attention please! A new age is beginning!' But things aren't like that: people change their opinions without even noticing. And then all of a sudden they become aware of it, as you do when you look at your old school books. Then they announce with pride: 'We are the new age.' And they often add: 'People used to be so stupid!'
Something of the sort happened after 1400 in the cities of Italy. Especially in the large and prosperous cities of central Italy, and in Florence in particular. They had guilds there too, and had built a great cathedral. But Florence had none of the noble knights that were to be found in France and Germany. For a long time Florentine burghers had ignored the commands ol their German emperors, and by now they were as free and independent as the citizens of ancient Athens. And as the years went by these free and prosperous burghers, shopkeepers and craftsmen had come to care about entirely different things from those that had mattered to the knights and craftsmen of the Middle Ages.
To be a warrior or a craftsman and dedicate one's life to the service and glory of God was no longer every man's aim. What mattered was to be someone in your own right, to have a head on your shoulders and know how to use it. To think and judge for yourself. To act on your own authority, without the need to consult others. And, rather than resorting to old books to find out how things were done in the past, to use your own eyes and act accordingly. That's what it really came down to: using your eyes and acting accordingly. Independence, ability, intellect, knowledge and skill were what counted. People no longer asked first about your rank, your profession, your religion or what country you came from. They said: tell us what you can do.
And suddenly, in about 1420, the Florentines noticed that they were no longer the people they had been in the Middle Ages. They had different concerns. They found different things beautiful. To them the old cathedrals and paintings seemed gloomy and rigid, the old traditions irksome. And, in their search for something more to their liking, something free, independent and unconstrained, they discovered antiquity. And I mean literally discovered. It mattered little to them that the people of those times had been heathens. What astonished them was what those people could do. How they had freely and openly debated and discussed, with arguments and counter-arguments, everything in nature and the world. How everything interested them. These people were to serve as their models.
A great search for books written in Latin began, and people strove to write Latin that was as clear and as precise as that of the ancient Romans. They also learnt Greek and so discovered the wonderful works of the Athenians of the time of Pericles. Soon people were more interested in Themistocles and Alexander, in Gaesar and in Augustus than in Charlemagne or Barbarossa. It was as if the entire period since antiquity had been nothing but a dream, as if the free city of Florence were about to become an Athens or a Rome. People suddenly felt they were witnessing a rebirth of the ancient, long-gone era of Greek and Roman culture. They themselves felt born again through the discovery of these ancient works. And this is why this period in history came to be known in Italy as the Rinascimento, or as we know it from the French, the Renaissance - the re-birth. Everything that had happened in between they blamed on the barbarian Germanic tribes who had destroyed the empire. The Florentines were determined to do all they could to revive the spirit of antiquity.
They were enthusiasts for everything Roman, for the superb statues and the magnificent and imposing buildings whose ruins lay all over Italy. Previously dismissed as 'heathen ruins', these had been shunned and feared. Now people suddenly rediscovered their beauty. And the Florentines once more began to build with columns.
But people didn't just seek out old things. They looked at nature again, this time with the fresh and unprejudiced eyes of the Athenians, two thousand years before them. And when they did so they discovered a new beauty in the world, in the sky and trees, in human beings, flowers and animals. They painted these things as they saw them. The solemn grandeur and spirituality of the illustrations to sacred texts in monks' books and cathedral windows now gave way to a style that was natural and spontaneous, full of colour and vitality, yet accurate and true to life as they intended. Using your eyes and acting accordingly also made for the best art. Which might explain why the greatest painters and sculptors were to be found in Florence at this time.
Nor did these painters merely sit down before their paintings like good craftsmen and represent what they saw. They wanted to understand what it was that they were painting. In Florence there was one artist in particular for whom painting good paintings was not enough, no matter how beautiful they might be. And his were far and away the finest. He wanted to have a perfect understanding
of all the things he painted and how they related to each other. This painter's name was Leonardo da Vinci. He lived from 1452 to 1519 and was the son of a farm servant-girl. He wanted to know how a person looked when they cried and when they laughed, and also what the inside of a human body was like - the muscles, bones and sinews. So he asked hospitals to give him the bodies of people who had died, which he then dissected and explored. This was something quite unheard of at the time. And he did not stop there. He also looked at plants and animals in a new way and puzzled over what makes birds able to fly. This led him to think about whether people, too, might not be able to fly. He was the first person to carry out an accurate and precise investigation into the possibility of constructing an artificial bird or flying machine. And he was convinced that one day it would be done. He was interested in everything in nature. Nor did he limit himself to the writings of Aristotle and the Arab thinkers. He always wanted to know if what he read was really true. So, above all, he used his eyes, and with those eyes he saw more than anyone had ever seen before, because he was always asking himself questions about what he observed. Whenever he wanted to know about something - for example, why whirlpools happen or why hot air rises - he did an experiment. He had little time for the learned writings of his contemporaries and was the first person to investigate the secrets of nature by means of experiments. He made sketches and noted down his observations on scraps of paper and in a vast accumulation ofnotebooks. Leafing through his jottings today, one is constantly amazed that a single human being could investigate and analyse so many different things, things about which nothing was known at the time and few cared to know about. Yet few of his contemporaries had any inkling of the many discoveries that this famous painter was making, or knew of his novel ideas. He was left-handed and wrote in minuscule mirror-writing, a reversed script, which is far from easy to read. This was probably intentional, for in those days it was not always safe to hold independent opinions. Among his notes we find the sentence: 'The sun does not move.' No more than that. But enough to tell us that Leonardo knew that the earth goes round the sun, and that the
sun does not circle the earth each day, as had been believed for thousands of years. Perhaps Leonardo limited himself to this one sentence because he knew it didn't say so in the Bible, and that many people believed that what the Bible had to say about nature must never be contradicted, even though the ideas it contained were those of Jews who had lived two thousand years earlier, when the Bible was first written down.
In the course of the hundred years that passed between the deaths of Frederick Barbarossa in 1190 and Rudolf I of Habsburg in 1291, Europe changed in more ways than it is possible to imagine. As I have already said, at the time of Barbarossa there were powerful cities, mainly in Italy, whose citizens were bold enough to oppose and even take up arms against the emperor, while at that time Germany was largely a land of knights, monks and peasants. But over the following hundred years the situation in Germany changed beyond recognition. Many eastward crusades had already taken Germans far from home and they had established trading relationships in distant countries. They no longer exchanged oxen for sheep, or drinking horns for cloth, because they, too, were using money. And where there was money there were markets where all sorts of goods could be bought. These markets could not be held just anywhere. They had to be in fixed places protected by walls and towers, usually near a castle. Anyone who set up a stall in one and traded, as a burgher was no longer bound in serfdom to a landowner. People liked to say 'city air brings freedom', because burghers in the bigger towns answered to no one but the king.
But you mustn't imagine that life in a town in the Middle Ages was anything like it is today. Most towns were small, crooked mazes of tiny alleys and narrow houses with high, pointed gables. Merchants and craftsmen lived there with their families, crowded together in little space. When a merchant went on his travels he was usually accompanied by armed guards. This was because many knights in those days had forgotten all about chivalry and were little more than brigands. High up in their castles they sat, waiting for merchants to rob. However, the burghers didn't put up with this for long: they had money and they were able to hire soldiers. As a result there were frequent fights between burghers and robber knights, and quite often it was the burghers who won.
Craftsmen such as tailors, shoemakers, drapers, bakers, locksmiths, painters, joiners, stonemasons and master builders all belonged to groups or associations known as guilds. A guild such as that of the tailors was almost as hard to enter and had rules that were almost as strict as those of the knights. Not just anyone could become a master-tailor. First you had to serve your time as an apprentice. Then you became a journeyman and went on your travels in order to get to know other towns and other ways of working. Young men like these went on foot, and often spent years wandering through many countries before they returned home, or found a city which had a place for a master-tailor. Small towns didn't need many tailors, and the guilds made sure there were no more masters of any trade than there was work for them to do. A journeyman had to demonstrate his skill by completing a masterpiece (perhaps a fine coat) and only then would he be ceremoniously declared a Master and admitted to the guild.
Each guild had its own rules and entertainments, its banners and fine mottos, just like the knights. And of course their mottos, too, were not always respected. But at least they had them. A member of a guild was bound to support his fellow members and not steal their trade, nor must he cheat his own customers with poor goods. He was expected to treat his apprentices and journeymen well and do his best to uphold the good name of his trade and his town. He was, so to speak, one of God's craftsmen, just as a knight was a warrior fighting for God.
Indeed, while knights gave their lives in crusades to liberate Christ's tomb, burghers and craftsmen would often sacrifice their wealth, their strength and their well-being when it came to building a church in their town. The new church or cathedral had to be bigger, more beautiful and more magnificent than any building the neighbouring towns could boast of. The whole town shared this ambition and all the inhabitants devoted themselves to the project. The best-known master-builder was summoned to draw up the plans, stonemasons were engaged to cut stone and carve statues, painters to paint pictures for the altar and make windows that would shine like jewels within the church. But more important than whose idea it had been, or who had designed or built it, was the fact that the church was the work of the whole town, a communal offering to God. You only need look at one to see it. For these churches are no longer the massive fortresses that were still being built in Germany in Barbarossa's time, but glorious, high-vaulted halls with slim pillars and slender bell towers, and room inside for the whole town to gather when they came to hear the preachers. For by now new monastic orders had sprung up whose monks were less concerned with tilling the soil around their monasteries and copying manuscripts, but chose instead to roam the land as beggars, preaching repentance to the people and explaining the Holy Scriptures. Everyone flocked to the churches to hear them and wept over their sins, promising to mend their ways and live according to Christ's teachings of loving kindness.
But like the crusaders, who in the name of piety had carried out that dreadful massacre in Jerusalem, there were many citizens who failed to hear in those penitential sermons a call to mend their ways, and instead learnt to hate all those who didn't share their faith. Jews, above all, were their targets, and the more pious they felt themselves to be, the more they abused them. You must bear in mind that the Jews were the only tribe from antiquity left in Europe. The Babylonians, the Egyptians, the Phoenicians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Gauls and the Goths had all either perished or merged with other peoples. Only the Jews, whose state had been repeatedly destroyed and who had endured all those terrible times when they had been persecuted and hounded from one country to the next, had survived. After two thousand years, they were still patiently awaiting the coming of their Saviour, the Messiah. Forbidden to own fields, they couldn't be peasants, let alone become knights. Nor were they allowed to practise any craft. The only occupation open to them was trade. So that is what they did. Even then they were only permitted to live in specified parts of the town and only allowed to wear certain clothes. Yet, in time, some of them were able to earn a lot of money which knights and burghers borrowed and were often unable to repay. This only made the Jews more hated and they were repeatedly attacked and robbed. Having neither the power nor the right to defend themselves, they were helpless, unless the king or a priest chose to take their side - but this was rarely the case.
Bad enough then to be a Jew, but worse still if you were someone who, having pored long over the Bible, began to doubt some aspect of its teaching. Such people were called heretics and the persecutions they suffered were terrible. Anyone perceived to be a heretic was publicly burned alive, just like the Christians in Nero's time. Whole cities were razed to combat heresy and entire regions laid waste. Crusades were waged against them, just as they were against Muslims. And all this was done by the very people who, for the God of mercy and his Good News, were building those magnificent cathedrals. Buildings which, with their soaring towers and great decorated porches, with their stained glass windows gleaming like jewels in the darkness and their thousands of statues, seemed to offer a glorious vision of the Kingdom of Heaven.
and
How nice it would be if, suddenly, heralds were to ride through the streets crying: 'Attention please! A new age is beginning!' But things aren't like that: people change their opinions without even noticing. And then all of a sudden they become aware of it, as you do when you look at your old school books. Then they announce with pride: 'We are the new age.' And they often add: 'People used to be so stupid!'
Something of the sort happened after 1400 in the cities of Italy. Especially in the large and prosperous cities of central Italy, and in Florence in particular. They had guilds there too, and had built a great cathedral. But Florence had none of the noble knights that were to be found in France and Germany. For a long time Florentine burghers had ignored the commands ol their German emperors, and by now they were as free and independent as the citizens of ancient Athens. And as the years went by these free and prosperous burghers, shopkeepers and craftsmen had come to care about entirely different things from those that had mattered to the knights and craftsmen of the Middle Ages.
To be a warrior or a craftsman and dedicate one's life to the service and glory of God was no longer every man's aim. What mattered was to be someone in your own right, to have a head on your shoulders and know how to use it. To think and judge for yourself. To act on your own authority, without the need to consult others. And, rather than resorting to old books to find out how things were done in the past, to use your own eyes and act accordingly. That's what it really came down to: using your eyes and acting accordingly. Independence, ability, intellect, knowledge and skill were what counted. People no longer asked first about your rank, your profession, your religion or what country you came from. They said: tell us what you can do.
And suddenly, in about 1420, the Florentines noticed that they were no longer the people they had been in the Middle Ages. They had different concerns. They found different things beautiful. To them the old cathedrals and paintings seemed gloomy and rigid, the old traditions irksome. And, in their search for something more to their liking, something free, independent and unconstrained, they discovered antiquity. And I mean literally discovered. It mattered little to them that the people of those times had been heathens. What astonished them was what those people could do. How they had freely and openly debated and discussed, with arguments and counter-arguments, everything in nature and the world. How everything interested them. These people were to serve as their models.
A great search for books written in Latin began, and people strove to write Latin that was as clear and as precise as that of the ancient Romans. They also learnt Greek and so discovered the wonderful works of the Athenians of the time of Pericles. Soon people were more interested in Themistocles and Alexander, in Gaesar and in Augustus than in Charlemagne or Barbarossa. It was as if the entire period since antiquity had been nothing but a dream, as if the free city of Florence were about to become an Athens or a Rome. People suddenly felt they were witnessing a rebirth of the ancient, long-gone era of Greek and Roman culture. They themselves felt born again through the discovery of these ancient works. And this is why this period in history came to be known in Italy as the Rinascimento, or as we know it from the French, the Renaissance - the re-birth. Everything that had happened in between they blamed on the barbarian Germanic tribes who had destroyed the empire. The Florentines were determined to do all they could to revive the spirit of antiquity.
They were enthusiasts for everything Roman, for the superb statues and the magnificent and imposing buildings whose ruins lay all over Italy. Previously dismissed as 'heathen ruins', these had been shunned and feared. Now people suddenly rediscovered their beauty. And the Florentines once more began to build with columns.
But people didn't just seek out old things. They looked at nature again, this time with the fresh and unprejudiced eyes of the Athenians, two thousand years before them. And when they did so they discovered a new beauty in the world, in the sky and trees, in human beings, flowers and animals. They painted these things as they saw them. The solemn grandeur and spirituality of the illustrations to sacred texts in monks' books and cathedral windows now gave way to a style that was natural and spontaneous, full of colour and vitality, yet accurate and true to life as they intended. Using your eyes and acting accordingly also made for the best art. Which might explain why the greatest painters and sculptors were to be found in Florence at this time.
Nor did these painters merely sit down before their paintings like good craftsmen and represent what they saw. They wanted to understand what it was that they were painting. In Florence there was one artist in particular for whom painting good paintings was not enough, no matter how beautiful they might be. And his were far and away the finest. He wanted to have a perfect understanding
of all the things he painted and how they related to each other. This painter's name was Leonardo da Vinci. He lived from 1452 to 1519 and was the son of a farm servant-girl. He wanted to know how a person looked when they cried and when they laughed, and also what the inside of a human body was like - the muscles, bones and sinews. So he asked hospitals to give him the bodies of people who had died, which he then dissected and explored. This was something quite unheard of at the time. And he did not stop there. He also looked at plants and animals in a new way and puzzled over what makes birds able to fly. This led him to think about whether people, too, might not be able to fly. He was the first person to carry out an accurate and precise investigation into the possibility of constructing an artificial bird or flying machine. And he was convinced that one day it would be done. He was interested in everything in nature. Nor did he limit himself to the writings of Aristotle and the Arab thinkers. He always wanted to know if what he read was really true. So, above all, he used his eyes, and with those eyes he saw more than anyone had ever seen before, because he was always asking himself questions about what he observed. Whenever he wanted to know about something - for example, why whirlpools happen or why hot air rises - he did an experiment. He had little time for the learned writings of his contemporaries and was the first person to investigate the secrets of nature by means of experiments. He made sketches and noted down his observations on scraps of paper and in a vast accumulation ofnotebooks. Leafing through his jottings today, one is constantly amazed that a single human being could investigate and analyse so many different things, things about which nothing was known at the time and few cared to know about. Yet few of his contemporaries had any inkling of the many discoveries that this famous painter was making, or knew of his novel ideas. He was left-handed and wrote in minuscule mirror-writing, a reversed script, which is far from easy to read. This was probably intentional, for in those days it was not always safe to hold independent opinions. Among his notes we find the sentence: 'The sun does not move.' No more than that. But enough to tell us that Leonardo knew that the earth goes round the sun, and that the
sun does not circle the earth each day, as had been believed for thousands of years. Perhaps Leonardo limited himself to this one sentence because he knew it didn't say so in the Bible, and that many people believed that what the Bible had to say about nature must never be contradicted, even though the ideas it contained were those of Jews who had lived two thousand years earlier, when the Bible was first written down.
The Painted Veil
Some alarming insights on the Asian people from W. Somerset Maugham
The Manchu lady handed Kitty a green tin of Three Castles cigarettes. Beside the table and the chairs the room contained little furniture; there was a wide pallet bed on which was an embroidered head rest and two sandalwood chests.
"What does she do with herself all day long?" asked Kitty.
"She paints a little and sometimes she writes a poem. But she mostly sits. She smokes, but only in moderation, which is fortunate, since one of my duties is to prevent the traffic in opium."
"Do you smoke?" asked Kitty.
"Seldom. To tell you the truth I much prefer whisky."
There was in the room a faintly acrid smell; it was not unpleasant, but peculiar and exotic.
"Tell her that I am sorry I cannot talk to her. I am sure we have many things to say to one another."
When this was translated to the Manchu she gave Kitty a quick glance in which there was the hint of a smile. She was impressive as she sat, without embarrassment, in her beautiful clothes; and from the painted face the eyes looked out wary, self-possessed, and unfathomable. She was unreal, like a picture, and yet had an elegance which made Kitty feel all thumbs. Kitty had never paid anything but passing and somewhat contemptuous attention to the China in which fate had thrown her. It was not done in her set. Now she seemed on a sudden to have an inkling of something remote and mysterious. Here was the East, immemorial, dark, and inscrutable. The beliefs and the ideals of the West seemed crude beside ideals and beliefs of which in this exquisite creature she seemed to catch a fugitive glimpse. Here was a different life, lived on a different plane. Kitty felt strangely that the sight of this idol, with her painted face and slanting, wary eyes, made the efforts and the pains of the everyday world she knew slightly absurd. That coloured mask seemed to hide the secret of an abundant, profound, and significant experience; those long, delicate hands with their tapering fingers held the key of riddles undivined.
"What does she think about all day long?" asked Kitty.
"Nothing," smiled Waddington.
More of the rotten, rotten Tudors
What is often depicted as the apotheosis of the Elizabethan Age, the
turning point at Which the Wisdom of everything the queen had done
Was made manifest and the Way Was cleared for England’s emergence as
the greatest of World poWers, came in the third Week of July 15 88. It Was
then that Philip’s mighty Armada came plowing up the Channel into
England’s home Waters, found Drake and Elizabeth’s other sea dogs
Waiting, and Was put to flight. It Was indeed an escape for England, even
a victory, though it Was accomplished as much by Weather and Spanish
mistakes as by Weapons. But it changed very little and settled nothing.‘ It
Was less a culmination than a bright interlude, and it led only to the fif-
teen years of trouble and decline that Would be the long final third of
Elizabeth’s reign
and....
THE PUNISHMENT OF THE INNOCENT
TUDOR ENGLAND WAS A WORLD lN WHICH THE RlCH GOT
richer while the poor got not only poorer but much, much more numer-
ous. Twenty years into Elizabeth's reign she had so many seriously poor
subjects, and the situation of many of them was so desperate, that figur-
ing out what to do with them had become one of the challenges of the
age.
There were many reasons why the condition of ordinary English fam-
ilies deteriorated precipitously during the Tudor century: the destruction
of an ecclesiastical social welfare system that for centuries had reached
‘out from the monasteries and parish churches into every corner of the
kingdom; the ongoing enclosure of arable land and the expulsion of the
people who had long farmed it to make way for sheep; an unprece-
dented concentration of wealth in the hands of a gentry class that was
only a tiny part of the population; and a toxic mix of economic forces
that caused real wages to fall decade after decade even as prices relent-
lessly rose.
Added to all this was the emergence of a new set of social values—
call it the Protestant ethic—that encouraged the prosperous to equate
wealth with virtue and to regard the destitute as responsible for (even
predestined to) their predicament. An older worldview in which society
was expected to provide a place for everyone, in which the poor were
believed to have a special relationship with God and caring for them
was supposed to be one of the primary moral obligations of every per-
son, was inexorably passing away.
Poverty did not begin with the Tudors, obviously. Parliamentary
statutes dealing with the homeless and unemployed had first appeared
Such persons were described as vagabonds” even then, and if they
were sturdy vagabonds —drifters capable of working—they were to be
as early as the reign of King Richard ll, late in the fourteenth century.
put into the stocks wherever they were found and then ordered to go
back to where they had come from. Only the "impotent" were permitted
to beg——only, that is, the very young and very old and those otherwise
genuinely unable to earn a living—and they needed a license and were
forbidden to beg very far from home. ln these first poor laws as for cen-
turies thereafter, one of the government's chief objectives was to prevent
idlers from roaming wherever they wished.
Implicit in all this was the assumption that even the poorest could find
atleast minimal subsistence in their home districts, and that appears to
have been generally true. That there were no new laws dealing with the
poor for almost a century after Richard ll, and that when Henry Vll re-
vised the old law in 1495 he did so to ease the prescribed penalties,
seems a clear indication that poverty remained a negligible problem, for
the government at least, for a very long time. The introduction of new
measures in 1531 had less to do with Henry V||l’s quarrel with Rome
than with the economic problems of the late 1520s, which had driven
streams of people out of their homes and onto the roads in search of food
and work. Soon thereafter, however, the expropriation of the resources
of the church destroyed the one traditional refuge of the English poor,
and poverty became a significant policy issue. What is striking about the
new laws that followed is the contempt for the poor that they reflect. This
was something new to English life. An inclination to treat poverty asgan
offense deserving punishment came to dominate the Privy Council's ac-
tions.
From the early 1530s on, anyone judged to be a vagabond was to be
not merely put in stocks but given a public whipping before being driven
away. It was a curiously cold-blooded way to deal with people who no
longer had homes, could not find work, and could find no way to escape
starvation. But it set the pattern for what lay ahead: a national system of
laws and proclamations designed not to help the poor but to keep them
confined: to limit their mobility, increase their difficulties in entering a
skilled trade, force them to take any available work on whatever terms
were offered, and punish and humiliate those able to find nothing.
Everything was slanted to the advantage of the property-owning
classes—Parliament not only put limits on wages but made it a crime to
either demand or pay more—and only the immediate threat of civil un-
rest could on rare occasions force council or Parliament to intervene
even briefly on behalf of workers or the unemployed.
A theme that runs through all the poor laws from the 1530s on is fear
of the itinerant homeless. This was not irrational; people living on farms
or in tiny villages had reason to be concerned when ragged strangers
suddenly appeared, whether singly or in groups. it is no coincidence,
therefore, that one of the most savagely repressive measures of the whole
Tudor era was passed in 1547, a time when thousands of men had re-
cently returned from the last of King Henry's continental wars. These
were hardened cases, many of them, and penniless, and often resentful
of the callous treatment that was the lot of soldiers in those days. Many
of them had little option but to take to the highways, begging as they
went, looking for work or, failing that, for something to steal. The scare
that they put into the gentlefolk of southeastern England was a factor in
Parliament's passage of a law unlike any other in the recorded history of
England—one that prescribed branding for vagrancy and enslavement
for those who failed to mend their ways. When this law was repealed
after two years—it was simply too repulsive to be enforced or de-
fended—whipping and expulsion once again became the standard pun-
ishment for poor people who showed up where they were not wanted.
As the years went by and unrelenting punishment failed to solve the
poverty problem, local authorities and central government alike were
slowly, grudgingly forced to the realization that some people were poor
not because they were lazy but as the result of conditions beyond their
control. It became impossible to believe that force alone was going to
maintain public order. Thomas Cromwell seems to have understood this
as early as the 15305: he drafted a bill that would have required parishes
to collect alms for the support of the impotent and assigned the able un-
employed to public works projects supervised by ”councils to avoid
vagabonds.” He was ahead of his time, however, and the bill never be-
came law. Finally, in 1552, begging was banned completely, parishes
were admonished to take up collections for the impotent, and so for the
first time the helpless no longer had to fend for themselves. Five years
later, during the reign of Queen Mary, a system was established to provide
the unemployed and their families with materials—hemp, flax, wool—-
that they could fashion into items for sale and so support themselves.
and
With the death of Henry VIII, the supreme headship of the church
in England, the authority to decide what every man and woman
in the kingdom was required to believe about God and salvation and the
nature of ultimate reality, passed to a nine-year-old child. Little Edward
Tudor, upon becoming King Edward VI, was recognized by church and
state alike as the one person empowered by God to resolve conflicts over
doctrine and practice that divided the most powerful and learned of his
subjects.
It would have been a challenging situation under the best of circum-
stances. England’s experience of being ruled by boys had been merci-
fully limited but not very happy. Even in the days before the Crown was
responsible not only for the government but for a fractured and frac-
tious church, it had been an experience of struggles for power punctu-
ated with betrayal, bloodshed, and disorder. In the late 1540s, under the
Circumstances that Henry had created with his jumble of innovations,
rule by a child-king was a recipe for trouble, little better than an absurd-
ity. With a restless population kept quiet only by the threat of armed
force, and with court and church divided into factions that hated each
Other mortally, the chances that Edward’s minority could be passed
Without serious difficulty must have seemed slim indeed.
The church of Henry’s making was, at the time of his death, emphat-
ically not Roman Catholic but just as emphatically not Lutheran (the
king having made it a capital crime to follow Luther in denying free will
or believing in justification by faith alone). The new theology contra-
dicted itself so boldly on so many points as to border on incoherence: in
the King’s Book of 1543, for example, Henry had forbidden the very use
of the word purgatory, but then in his will he made provision for thou-
sands of masses to be said for the repose of his soul (which could only
have benefited if it were in something like purgatory). The result was
confusion, contention, and division on a scale without precedent.
The main points of dispute were familiar by now. They ranged from
free will to justification by faith, from whether the eucharistic bread and
wine were literally the body and blood of jesus Christ (Henry and
Luther had both affirmed this, but increasingly influential Swiss theolo-
gians denied it and were winning over Englishmen as eminent as Arch-
bishop Cranmer) to whether religious statues and pictures should be
destroyed as idolatrous and practices that had been at the center of En-
glish religious life for a millennium should be banned as superstitious.
Disagreement was almost boundless, debate smoldered just below the
surface of public life in spite of Henry’s readiness to condemn anyone
who disputed his truth, and the dangers of the situation were com-
pounded by the fact that so many people believed the questions at issue
to be matters of eternal life and death. People in every camp, if not al-
ways prepared to die in defense of their positions, wereprepared to kill
to prevent others from luring the population into the fires of hell.
In the final weeks of Henry’s life, as the various organs of his huge
body began to malfunction and he became incapable even of rising from
his bed, he had focused the last of his strength on arrangements for
holdingthe kingdom together until his son grew old enough to take
charge. Someone, or some group, was going to have to manage the
kingdom in Edward’s name, probably for almost a decade, Finding such
a person would not be as simple as it had been in similar situations in the
past. The royal family was small: Henry had no brother or uncle entitled
by blood to rule on the boy-king’s behalf, and his only adult child, Mary,
the former princess, remained illegitimate in consequence of the annul-
ment of her parents’ marriage. Mary’s legal status would have made her
an unsuitable candidate to serve as regent during her half-brother’s mi-
nority even if Henry had trusted her on the supremacy, which he rightly
did not.
The central contest continued to be between the traditionalists,
who wanted the religion of their ancestors regardless of whether they
secretly accepted the leadership of the pope, and the evangelicals, a di-
verse party united by its contempt for the old church and a determina-
tion to restore what its adherents believed to have been the purity and
simplicity of earliest Christianity. Henry, whether by craft or good luck,
had since his break with Rome been able to maintain a balance between
the two sides, dividing the highest offices of church and state between
them while leavening his own conservative pronouncements on doc-
trine and dogma with enough reformist measures to keep both sides in-
secure. The traditionalists, the most prominent of whom were by the
mid-1540s Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and Stephen Gardiner,
bishop of Winchester, undoubtedly represented by a wide margin the
greatest part of England’s population. Though evangelicals hostile to
the old ways had been prominent at court at least since the days of Anne
Boleyn, King Henry’s conservatism had always required them to tread
carefully and appear more conservative than they actually were. This
had become more true than ever after Thomas Cromwell began to fall
out of favor; it was then that Henry lost his appetite for religious inno-
vation and made it a crime punishable with death to reject Catholic or-
thodoxy in favor of the Lutheran beliefs he despised. By the early 1540s
it must have seemed inevitable that, if Henry ever made provision for
the governing of England after he was dead and before Edward attained
his majority, he would reinforce the position of the traditionalists. Even
if he made no such provision, conservative dominance after his death
must have seemed practically certain. Most of England’s clergy, most of
the bishops included, belonged to the traditionalist camp. So did most of
the population, the nobles, and the gentry. On their side they had the
law of the land: the Six Articles, with which Parliament had upheld the
real presence and clerical celibacy. On their side, too, they had the King’s
Book, which to the horror of the evangelicals had affirmed the tradi-
tional creed and all seven of the Catholic sacraments. As a final bulwark
they had Henry’s heresy laws, which made it a capital crime not to be-
lieve as the king believed.
Thus the evangelicals could preach as they believed only at the risk of
their lives. Even if they had been left free to express themselves, they
would have been a tiny and scorned minority almost everywhere except
turning point at Which the Wisdom of everything the queen had done
Was made manifest and the Way Was cleared for England’s emergence as
the greatest of World poWers, came in the third Week of July 15 88. It Was
then that Philip’s mighty Armada came plowing up the Channel into
England’s home Waters, found Drake and Elizabeth’s other sea dogs
Waiting, and Was put to flight. It Was indeed an escape for England, even
a victory, though it Was accomplished as much by Weather and Spanish
mistakes as by Weapons. But it changed very little and settled nothing.‘ It
Was less a culmination than a bright interlude, and it led only to the fif-
teen years of trouble and decline that Would be the long final third of
Elizabeth’s reign
and....
THE PUNISHMENT OF THE INNOCENT
TUDOR ENGLAND WAS A WORLD lN WHICH THE RlCH GOT
richer while the poor got not only poorer but much, much more numer-
ous. Twenty years into Elizabeth's reign she had so many seriously poor
subjects, and the situation of many of them was so desperate, that figur-
ing out what to do with them had become one of the challenges of the
age.
There were many reasons why the condition of ordinary English fam-
ilies deteriorated precipitously during the Tudor century: the destruction
of an ecclesiastical social welfare system that for centuries had reached
‘out from the monasteries and parish churches into every corner of the
kingdom; the ongoing enclosure of arable land and the expulsion of the
people who had long farmed it to make way for sheep; an unprece-
dented concentration of wealth in the hands of a gentry class that was
only a tiny part of the population; and a toxic mix of economic forces
that caused real wages to fall decade after decade even as prices relent-
lessly rose.
Added to all this was the emergence of a new set of social values—
call it the Protestant ethic—that encouraged the prosperous to equate
wealth with virtue and to regard the destitute as responsible for (even
predestined to) their predicament. An older worldview in which society
was expected to provide a place for everyone, in which the poor were
believed to have a special relationship with God and caring for them
was supposed to be one of the primary moral obligations of every per-
son, was inexorably passing away.
Poverty did not begin with the Tudors, obviously. Parliamentary
statutes dealing with the homeless and unemployed had first appeared
Such persons were described as vagabonds” even then, and if they
were sturdy vagabonds —drifters capable of working—they were to be
as early as the reign of King Richard ll, late in the fourteenth century.
put into the stocks wherever they were found and then ordered to go
back to where they had come from. Only the "impotent" were permitted
to beg——only, that is, the very young and very old and those otherwise
genuinely unable to earn a living—and they needed a license and were
forbidden to beg very far from home. ln these first poor laws as for cen-
turies thereafter, one of the government's chief objectives was to prevent
idlers from roaming wherever they wished.
Implicit in all this was the assumption that even the poorest could find
atleast minimal subsistence in their home districts, and that appears to
have been generally true. That there were no new laws dealing with the
poor for almost a century after Richard ll, and that when Henry Vll re-
vised the old law in 1495 he did so to ease the prescribed penalties,
seems a clear indication that poverty remained a negligible problem, for
the government at least, for a very long time. The introduction of new
measures in 1531 had less to do with Henry V||l’s quarrel with Rome
than with the economic problems of the late 1520s, which had driven
streams of people out of their homes and onto the roads in search of food
and work. Soon thereafter, however, the expropriation of the resources
of the church destroyed the one traditional refuge of the English poor,
and poverty became a significant policy issue. What is striking about the
new laws that followed is the contempt for the poor that they reflect. This
was something new to English life. An inclination to treat poverty asgan
offense deserving punishment came to dominate the Privy Council's ac-
tions.
From the early 1530s on, anyone judged to be a vagabond was to be
not merely put in stocks but given a public whipping before being driven
away. It was a curiously cold-blooded way to deal with people who no
longer had homes, could not find work, and could find no way to escape
starvation. But it set the pattern for what lay ahead: a national system of
laws and proclamations designed not to help the poor but to keep them
confined: to limit their mobility, increase their difficulties in entering a
skilled trade, force them to take any available work on whatever terms
were offered, and punish and humiliate those able to find nothing.
Everything was slanted to the advantage of the property-owning
classes—Parliament not only put limits on wages but made it a crime to
either demand or pay more—and only the immediate threat of civil un-
rest could on rare occasions force council or Parliament to intervene
even briefly on behalf of workers or the unemployed.
A theme that runs through all the poor laws from the 1530s on is fear
of the itinerant homeless. This was not irrational; people living on farms
or in tiny villages had reason to be concerned when ragged strangers
suddenly appeared, whether singly or in groups. it is no coincidence,
therefore, that one of the most savagely repressive measures of the whole
Tudor era was passed in 1547, a time when thousands of men had re-
cently returned from the last of King Henry's continental wars. These
were hardened cases, many of them, and penniless, and often resentful
of the callous treatment that was the lot of soldiers in those days. Many
of them had little option but to take to the highways, begging as they
went, looking for work or, failing that, for something to steal. The scare
that they put into the gentlefolk of southeastern England was a factor in
Parliament's passage of a law unlike any other in the recorded history of
England—one that prescribed branding for vagrancy and enslavement
for those who failed to mend their ways. When this law was repealed
after two years—it was simply too repulsive to be enforced or de-
fended—whipping and expulsion once again became the standard pun-
ishment for poor people who showed up where they were not wanted.
As the years went by and unrelenting punishment failed to solve the
poverty problem, local authorities and central government alike were
slowly, grudgingly forced to the realization that some people were poor
not because they were lazy but as the result of conditions beyond their
control. It became impossible to believe that force alone was going to
maintain public order. Thomas Cromwell seems to have understood this
as early as the 15305: he drafted a bill that would have required parishes
to collect alms for the support of the impotent and assigned the able un-
employed to public works projects supervised by ”councils to avoid
vagabonds.” He was ahead of his time, however, and the bill never be-
came law. Finally, in 1552, begging was banned completely, parishes
were admonished to take up collections for the impotent, and so for the
first time the helpless no longer had to fend for themselves. Five years
later, during the reign of Queen Mary, a system was established to provide
the unemployed and their families with materials—hemp, flax, wool—-
that they could fashion into items for sale and so support themselves.
and
With the death of Henry VIII, the supreme headship of the church
in England, the authority to decide what every man and woman
in the kingdom was required to believe about God and salvation and the
nature of ultimate reality, passed to a nine-year-old child. Little Edward
Tudor, upon becoming King Edward VI, was recognized by church and
state alike as the one person empowered by God to resolve conflicts over
doctrine and practice that divided the most powerful and learned of his
subjects.
It would have been a challenging situation under the best of circum-
stances. England’s experience of being ruled by boys had been merci-
fully limited but not very happy. Even in the days before the Crown was
responsible not only for the government but for a fractured and frac-
tious church, it had been an experience of struggles for power punctu-
ated with betrayal, bloodshed, and disorder. In the late 1540s, under the
Circumstances that Henry had created with his jumble of innovations,
rule by a child-king was a recipe for trouble, little better than an absurd-
ity. With a restless population kept quiet only by the threat of armed
force, and with court and church divided into factions that hated each
Other mortally, the chances that Edward’s minority could be passed
Without serious difficulty must have seemed slim indeed.
The church of Henry’s making was, at the time of his death, emphat-
ically not Roman Catholic but just as emphatically not Lutheran (the
king having made it a capital crime to follow Luther in denying free will
or believing in justification by faith alone). The new theology contra-
dicted itself so boldly on so many points as to border on incoherence: in
the King’s Book of 1543, for example, Henry had forbidden the very use
of the word purgatory, but then in his will he made provision for thou-
sands of masses to be said for the repose of his soul (which could only
have benefited if it were in something like purgatory). The result was
confusion, contention, and division on a scale without precedent.
The main points of dispute were familiar by now. They ranged from
free will to justification by faith, from whether the eucharistic bread and
wine were literally the body and blood of jesus Christ (Henry and
Luther had both affirmed this, but increasingly influential Swiss theolo-
gians denied it and were winning over Englishmen as eminent as Arch-
bishop Cranmer) to whether religious statues and pictures should be
destroyed as idolatrous and practices that had been at the center of En-
glish religious life for a millennium should be banned as superstitious.
Disagreement was almost boundless, debate smoldered just below the
surface of public life in spite of Henry’s readiness to condemn anyone
who disputed his truth, and the dangers of the situation were com-
pounded by the fact that so many people believed the questions at issue
to be matters of eternal life and death. People in every camp, if not al-
ways prepared to die in defense of their positions, wereprepared to kill
to prevent others from luring the population into the fires of hell.
In the final weeks of Henry’s life, as the various organs of his huge
body began to malfunction and he became incapable even of rising from
his bed, he had focused the last of his strength on arrangements for
holdingthe kingdom together until his son grew old enough to take
charge. Someone, or some group, was going to have to manage the
kingdom in Edward’s name, probably for almost a decade, Finding such
a person would not be as simple as it had been in similar situations in the
past. The royal family was small: Henry had no brother or uncle entitled
by blood to rule on the boy-king’s behalf, and his only adult child, Mary,
the former princess, remained illegitimate in consequence of the annul-
ment of her parents’ marriage. Mary’s legal status would have made her
an unsuitable candidate to serve as regent during her half-brother’s mi-
nority even if Henry had trusted her on the supremacy, which he rightly
did not.
The central contest continued to be between the traditionalists,
who wanted the religion of their ancestors regardless of whether they
secretly accepted the leadership of the pope, and the evangelicals, a di-
verse party united by its contempt for the old church and a determina-
tion to restore what its adherents believed to have been the purity and
simplicity of earliest Christianity. Henry, whether by craft or good luck,
had since his break with Rome been able to maintain a balance between
the two sides, dividing the highest offices of church and state between
them while leavening his own conservative pronouncements on doc-
trine and dogma with enough reformist measures to keep both sides in-
secure. The traditionalists, the most prominent of whom were by the
mid-1540s Thomas Howard, Duke of Norfolk, and Stephen Gardiner,
bishop of Winchester, undoubtedly represented by a wide margin the
greatest part of England’s population. Though evangelicals hostile to
the old ways had been prominent at court at least since the days of Anne
Boleyn, King Henry’s conservatism had always required them to tread
carefully and appear more conservative than they actually were. This
had become more true than ever after Thomas Cromwell began to fall
out of favor; it was then that Henry lost his appetite for religious inno-
vation and made it a crime punishable with death to reject Catholic or-
thodoxy in favor of the Lutheran beliefs he despised. By the early 1540s
it must have seemed inevitable that, if Henry ever made provision for
the governing of England after he was dead and before Edward attained
his majority, he would reinforce the position of the traditionalists. Even
if he made no such provision, conservative dominance after his death
must have seemed practically certain. Most of England’s clergy, most of
the bishops included, belonged to the traditionalist camp. So did most of
the population, the nobles, and the gentry. On their side they had the
law of the land: the Six Articles, with which Parliament had upheld the
real presence and clerical celibacy. On their side, too, they had the King’s
Book, which to the horror of the evangelicals had affirmed the tradi-
tional creed and all seven of the Catholic sacraments. As a final bulwark
they had Henry’s heresy laws, which made it a capital crime not to be-
lieve as the king believed.
Thus the evangelicals could preach as they believed only at the risk of
their lives. Even if they had been left free to express themselves, they
would have been a tiny and scorned minority almost everywhere except
Monday, May 05, 2014
The Grapes of Wrath
The penny candy scene from the Ford film.
Excerpts:
“Sure, cried the tenant men,but it’s our land…We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it’s no good, it’s still ours….That’s what makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it."
"We’re sorry. It’s not us. It’s the monster. The bank isn’t like a man."
"Yes, but the bank is only made of men."
"No, you’re wrong there—quite wrong there. The bank is something else than men. It happens that every man in a bank hates what the bank does, and yet the bank does it. The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It’s the monster. Men made it, but they can’t control it.”
####
“Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, and emerges ahead of his accomplishments.
####
“Casy said, "Ol' Tom's house can't be more'n a mile from here. Ain't she over that third rise?"
Sure," said Joad. "Less somebody stole it, like Pa stole it."
Your pa stole it?"
Sure, got it a mile an' a half east of here an' drug it. Was a family livin' there, an' they moved away. Grampa an' Pa an' my brother Noah like to took the whole house, but she wouldn't come. They only got part of her. That's why she looks so funny on one end. They cut her in two an' drug her over with twelve head of horses and two mules. They was goin' back for the other half an' stick her together again, but before they got there Wink Manley come with his boys and stole the other half. Pa an' Grampa was pretty sore, but a little later them an' Wink got drunk together an' laughed their heads off about it. Wink, he says his house is a stud, an' if we'll bring our'n over an' breed 'em we'll maybe get a litter of crap houses. Wink was a great ol' fella when he was drunk. After that him an' Pa an' Grampa was friends. Got drunk together ever' chance they got.”
Excerpts:
“Sure, cried the tenant men,but it’s our land…We were born on it, and we got killed on it, died on it. Even if it’s no good, it’s still ours….That’s what makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it."
"We’re sorry. It’s not us. It’s the monster. The bank isn’t like a man."
"Yes, but the bank is only made of men."
"No, you’re wrong there—quite wrong there. The bank is something else than men. It happens that every man in a bank hates what the bank does, and yet the bank does it. The bank is something more than men, I tell you. It’s the monster. Men made it, but they can’t control it.”
####
“Man, unlike any other thing organic or inorganic in the universe, grows beyond his work, walks up the stairs of his concepts, and emerges ahead of his accomplishments.
####
“Casy said, "Ol' Tom's house can't be more'n a mile from here. Ain't she over that third rise?"
Sure," said Joad. "Less somebody stole it, like Pa stole it."
Your pa stole it?"
Sure, got it a mile an' a half east of here an' drug it. Was a family livin' there, an' they moved away. Grampa an' Pa an' my brother Noah like to took the whole house, but she wouldn't come. They only got part of her. That's why she looks so funny on one end. They cut her in two an' drug her over with twelve head of horses and two mules. They was goin' back for the other half an' stick her together again, but before they got there Wink Manley come with his boys and stole the other half. Pa an' Grampa was pretty sore, but a little later them an' Wink got drunk together an' laughed their heads off about it. Wink, he says his house is a stud, an' if we'll bring our'n over an' breed 'em we'll maybe get a litter of crap houses. Wink was a great ol' fella when he was drunk. After that him an' Pa an' Grampa was friends. Got drunk together ever' chance they got.”
Saturday, April 19, 2014
Giving up on....
John Lanchester's verbose, overwrought 'The Debt to Pleasure', but not before snatching one nice anecdote worth noting.
Tallyrand used to spend an hour a day speaking to his chef, who at one point was the incomparable Careme. When the great dimplomatist warned the great chef of the dangers of coal-fired stoves, the betoqued genius replied, definitively for all members of the creative trades: "Shorter life, greater fame."
Tallyrand used to spend an hour a day speaking to his chef, who at one point was the incomparable Careme. When the great dimplomatist warned the great chef of the dangers of coal-fired stoves, the betoqued genius replied, definitively for all members of the creative trades: "Shorter life, greater fame."
Friday, April 18, 2014
An Agatha break
Read the mid-career An Overdose of Death (formerly: The Patriotic Murders (more formerly: One Two Buckle My Shoe)).
Great covers on all but the one I had.
Great covers on all but the one I had.
Involving a dentist who must have been murdered by one of the patients he or his partner has scheduled, and resulting in quite a bit of lurking in wait on the back stairs, and being observed doing so, one lurker stacked above the next being themselves observed from above and then sneaking quietly away, never revealing the fact to the police out of fear. The murderer is inapparent until the final pages but the motivations are so poor and the method so extravagant that it would be virtually impossible to guess. The murderer has somehow gotten the victim to schedule an appointment at the same time as himself and has coincidentally appropriated an alias that is being used by another patient on the same day. The thing which might stump a reader entirely is the necessity of patterning the unraveling of the mystery to the verses of some nursery rhyme.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
Sunday, April 06, 2014
The Duel from 'Duel'
That same night, July 10th, in his New York City house, Nathaniel
Pendleton was writing the regulations for tomorrow’s duel. He
dated the paper ]uly 11th—perhaps a sign of his inner agitation or of the
way that date loomed in his mind. The parties were to leave New York for
the dueling ground at 5 :00 A.M. The distance was to be ten paces--about
thirty feet. The pistols were not to exceed eleven inches in the barrel. The
choice of positions would be determined by a coin toss.
The previous day, William P. Van Ness had written his own set of regu-
lations, which agreed with Pendleton’s almost verbatim. Oarsmen had
been hired by the seconds to row the three miles across the Hudson to
Weehawken. For a doctor, both sides had agreed to call on Hamilton’s
family physician, David Hosackf There was nothing more for anyone to
do but try to get some sleep.
The night was hot and muggy-—typical New York weather for July.
How or if Hamilton slept in his Cedar Street house has gone unrecorded.
We know Burr threw himself down on a couch in the Richmond Hill li-
brmy. William P. Van Ness, ]ohn Swartout, and Matthew Davis found
him there in the predawn darkness, sleeping soundly. He dressed quickly
in black pantaloons, half boots, and a coat of dark bombazine. They hur-
ried down to the shore of the Hudson, where a boat was waiting for the
colonel and Van Ness. Duelists generally did not breakfast. It was widely
believed that food in the stomach would lead to rapid infection if a bullet
penetrated that organ.
Van Ness and Burr reached the dueling ground first, and began clearing
away tree limbs and underbrush. No one had exchanged shots on this
grassy ledge below the cliffs known as the Palisades for some time. The
outcropping was about six feet wide and eleven yards long. At one corner
was a granite boulder. Nearby stood a large cedar tree. The site had be-
come a dueling ground because of its inaccessibility. There was no path
leading down the cliff face from the village of Weehawken. Walkers along
the Hudson shore could only reach it at low tide. The future town of
Hoboken, two and a half miles to the south, was unborn. The isolation
was a virtual guarantee against an interruption of the deadly business
transacted there.
Hamilton set out from another dock in what is now Greenwich Vil-
lage, not far from the country house of New York merchant William Ba-
yard, a client and friend. The General and Nathaniel Pendleton may have
been delayed by the necessity to collect Dr. Hosack. They seem to have
arrived on the Weehawken shore considerably after Burr and Van Ness.
The physician stayed down on the water’s edge with the boatmen while
the General and his second clambered up a narrow path to find Burr and
Van Ness in their shirt sleeves, clearing away nature’s debris. The two par-
ties greeted each other in gentlemanly fashion. The seconds conferred on
the regulations and found they were in agreement. They had already de-
cided to use the Church pistols.
Burr put on his coat and waited at a distance. Hamilton stayed at a
roughly equal distance on the other side of the seconds while they tossed
a coin to see who would have the choice of positions and who would give
the order to fire. Pendleton won both tosses. By now it was approaching
seven o’clock. The July sun had begun beating down on the river, creating
an intense glare. The sun itself was still low enough in the sky to strike the
dueling ground at an angle. Pendleton chose to position Hamilton with
his back to the cliff, facing the light. Some people have criticized him for
this move, but Pendleton probably thought Burr was a better target, out-
lined against the glistening river. Hamilton had said he was going to
throw away his first fire, but he had not decided on his second round, if
Bun‘ insisted on one.
II
The two seconds now loaded the pistols with powder and a “smooth ball,”
as the regulations required. The inside of the guns’ barrels was also
smooth. This made a handgun, with its short barrel, though precision
made, even more inaccurate than a musket. Inside and outside the barrel,
the spinning bullet was subject to forces over which the gun wielder had
no control. A rifled barrel, prohibited by the dueling code, would give a
marksman far more accuracy. Beyond thirty yards, a smoothbore pistol
was almost a useless weapon, and even at that range it was extremely un-
predictable. These ballistics were part of the reason why the duel was not
always a fatal encounter.
With the pistols loaded, the duelists took their positions, and their sec-
onds walked over to hand each his weapon. As Pendleton gave General
Hamilton his gun, he asked: “Do you want the hair spring set?”
“Not this time,” Hamilton replied.
Pendleton stepped back and walked out of the line of fire. He briefly
explained the rules they were following. First he would ask them if they
were ready. If they answered in the affirmative, he would say “Present!”
Thereafter, each could fire whenever he pleased.
Both men nodded. At this point, according to Burr and William P. Van
Ness, General Hamilton raised his pistol “as if to try the light,” and asked
them to pardon him. He said the “direction of the light” made it hard for
him to adjust his eyes. With his left hand, he drew spectacles from his
pocket and put them on.
Pendleton asked if they were ready. “Yes,” both said.
“Present!” Pendleton said.
By this time, both men had assumed the duelist’s stance, the right foot
about twenty—six inches in front of the left foot, the face positioned over
the right shoulder, the stomach sucked in, the right thigh and leg cover
ing the left leg. The goal was to present as little body surface as possible.
Even the pistol was wielded with protection in mind; it was held some-
what to the left, where it could deflect a bullet?
Both men leveled their pistols and the guns boomed within seconds of
each other. Van Ness thought Hamilton fired first. He spun his head to see
if Burr was hit. At that instant the colonel fired and almost simultaneously
his body seemed to jerk as if Hamilton’s bullet had struck him. Later, Van
Ness would discover Burr had stepped on a stone as he assumed the oblique
position and as he fired he must have pressed his foot on it.
Pendleton thought Burr fired first. His eyes remained on Hamilton and
the Virginian saw his arm jerk upward as he pulled the trigger. To his hor-
ror he realized the General was hit. A swirl of gunsmoke enveloped both
duelists. For a moment, time, perception, understanding froze. Still
clutching his pistol, Hamilton pitched forward on his face, The oversize
lead ball had penetrated his right side a little above the hip, torn through
his liver and diaphragm, and lodged in his vertebrae.
The vice president uttered a small sound of dismay and started toward
him. Pendleton shouted: “Dr. Hosack!” Van Ness rushed forward and led
Burr down the path toward the water. One account has him shielding Burr
with an umbrella so that the boatmen and Dr. Hosack, who were rushing
up the same path, could not testify that they had seen him there. When
Burr and Van Ness reached their boat, the vice president hesitated. “I must
go and speak to him,” he reportedly said. Van Ness persuaded him this was
out of the question and the boatmen soon had them out on the river?
Dr. Hosack found Hamilton half sitting on the ground in Nathaniel
Pendleton’s arms. “This is a mortal wound, Doctor,” he gasped. A second
later he lost consciousness and Hosack thought he was going to die on
the spot. The doctor pulled up his bloody shirt and saw at a glance that
Hamilton was probably right. Hosack could find no pulse, nor was
Hamilton breathing. He put his hand on the Generals heart and found
“no motion there.” Hosack thought Hamilton was “irretrievably gone.”
Against the cliff the air was dense with heat and humidity. Hosack de-
cided the only hope was to get the General on the water as soon as possi-
ble. Together he and Pendleton carried him down the path to the point
where the land fell steeply to the water’s edge. As they labored, an an-
guished Pendleton told Hosack about Hamilton’s refusal to fire at Burr.
With the help of the oarsmen they got the wounded man into the boat
and pulled off. Hosack began rubbing Hamilton’s face with spirits of
hartshorne. He applied this invigorating potion to his neck and chest and
wrists and palms, and even tried to get some into his mouth.
About fifty yards from shore, Hamilton gave a great sigh and began
breathing again. The hartshorne, along with the cooler air on the river,
had restored him to life. His eyes wandered across the water and around
the boat and he muttered: “my vision is indistinct.” Gradually, his pulse
returned to near normal, his breathing became regular. Hosack tried to
examine the wound but even a slight touch caused Hamilton such pain,
he “desisted.”
III
As Hamilton’s sight returned, he saw John Barker Church’s pistol case
open in the bottom of the boat, with the gun he had used lying outside it.
“Take care of that pistol,” he said. “It is undischarged and still cocked——it
may go off and do harm.” Attempting to turn his head to Pendleton, who
was sitting behind him in the stern, Hamilton added: “Pendleton knows I
did not intend to fire at him.”
“Yes,” Pendleton said. “I have already told Dr. Hosack that.”
Hamilton fell silent. After a few minutes with the only sound the
grunts of the sweating oarsmen, Dr. Hosack began asking the Wounded
man how he felt—-nauseous, dizzy? He was trying to get some idea what
organs the bullet had struck. Hamilton told him he had lost all feeling in
his body from the waist down. He could not move his legs. Hosack tried
to rearrange his legs hoping circulation would be restored, but Hamilton
reported no improvement. Once or twice he asked Hosack to take his
pulse, which the doctor reported was still fairly normal.
As they approached the shore, Hamilton told Pendleton and Hosack to
send for his wife. He asked them to break the news to her gradually. “Give
her hopes,” he said.
A moment later they were alongside the dock from which they had set
out. Looking up, Hamilton found his friend William Bayard gazing down
at him. A servant had seen Hamilton and Pendleton and Hosack setting
out in the dawn and told Bayard, who immediately knew where they were
going. Bayard already feared the worst. As the boat approached he saw
only Hosack and Pendleton sitting up. When the merchant saw Hamil-
ton lying in the bottom of the boat he burst into tears.
Hosack told Bayard to prepare a bed for his wounded friend. Bayard
was so overwhelmed by grief, he was almost useless. His whole family was
soon weeping and wailing. Pendleton and Dr. Hosack almost joined
them. In his account of this part of the return from Weehawken, the doc-
tor noted that only Hamilton kept his composure.
IV
When they finally got the General to a bed on the second floor of Ba-
yard’s lamentation-filled house, Hamilton seemed almost comatose. But
Dr. Hosack revived him with some wine and water. With help from oth-
ers, the doctor undressed him and administered a strong “anodyne”-—-a
painkiller. He rubbed it on the parts of Hamilton’s body where he com-
plained of pain, particularly his back. The drug did little to assuage the
wounded man’s agony.
Dr. Hosack sent for Dr. Wright Post, professor of anatomy at Columbia
College and one of the New York’s leading physicians. Dr. Post soon arrived
but he only confirmed Dr. Hosack’s opinion that the wound was mortal.
Several hours later, the French consul sent surgeons from two men of
war in New York harbor in the hope that their experience with gunshot
wounds might help. But they too concluded that General Hamilton was a
dying man.
The General had no doubts about this diagnosis. His thoughts were al-
ready focused on the next world. He asked the Bayards to send a servant
to Benjamin Moore, Episcopal bishop of New York and president of Co-
lumbia College. The bishop came as requested, but was unhappy to learn
that Hamilton had been wounded in a duel, an activity Moore considered
sinful. Worse, the dying man had never joined the Episcopal church.
When Moore learned that Hamilton wanted to receive holy communion,
the Bishop demurred. This reception of the body and blood of ]esus, in a
consecrated wafer of bread, was for Christians a central act of faith, and
could not be administered casually. The bishop departed, declaring he
wanted to give the dying man “time for reflection.”
Hamilton asked Bayard to summon another clergyman, the Reverend
]ohn M. Mason, pastor of the Scotch Presbyterian Church. This was the
faith that had stirred Hamilton in his youth, when a Presbyterian minister
had befriended the orphaned boy on St. Croix. Mason hurried to Bayard’s
house. But the minister sadly informed Hamilton that his church forbade
him to give communion privately. It could only be done at the altar, in the
course of a Sunday ceremony. He tried to assure Hamilton that commu-
nion was only a “pledge” of the forgiveness of sin that ]esus had purchased
by his death on the cross. The same forgiveness was available to Hamilton
by faith.
The dying man did not find this idea satisfactory and pleaded for
someone to persuade Bishop Moore to return as soon as possible. Mean-
while, around noon, Elizabeth Hamilton arrived. In obedience to the
General’s wishes, no one had told her the truth about his condition. She
believed Hamilton was suffering from stomach spasms. But a few min-
utes with her husband must have revealed everything. When Betsy grew
frantic with grief, Hamilton reminded her in a strong firm voice: “Re-
member, Eliza, you are a Christian."
+
Gouverneur Morris said: If we were truly brave we would not accept a challenge but we are all cowards.
Pendleton was writing the regulations for tomorrow’s duel. He
dated the paper ]uly 11th—perhaps a sign of his inner agitation or of the
way that date loomed in his mind. The parties were to leave New York for
the dueling ground at 5 :00 A.M. The distance was to be ten paces--about
thirty feet. The pistols were not to exceed eleven inches in the barrel. The
choice of positions would be determined by a coin toss.
The previous day, William P. Van Ness had written his own set of regu-
lations, which agreed with Pendleton’s almost verbatim. Oarsmen had
been hired by the seconds to row the three miles across the Hudson to
Weehawken. For a doctor, both sides had agreed to call on Hamilton’s
family physician, David Hosackf There was nothing more for anyone to
do but try to get some sleep.
The night was hot and muggy-—typical New York weather for July.
How or if Hamilton slept in his Cedar Street house has gone unrecorded.
We know Burr threw himself down on a couch in the Richmond Hill li-
brmy. William P. Van Ness, ]ohn Swartout, and Matthew Davis found
him there in the predawn darkness, sleeping soundly. He dressed quickly
in black pantaloons, half boots, and a coat of dark bombazine. They hur-
ried down to the shore of the Hudson, where a boat was waiting for the
colonel and Van Ness. Duelists generally did not breakfast. It was widely
believed that food in the stomach would lead to rapid infection if a bullet
penetrated that organ.
Van Ness and Burr reached the dueling ground first, and began clearing
away tree limbs and underbrush. No one had exchanged shots on this
grassy ledge below the cliffs known as the Palisades for some time. The
outcropping was about six feet wide and eleven yards long. At one corner
was a granite boulder. Nearby stood a large cedar tree. The site had be-
come a dueling ground because of its inaccessibility. There was no path
leading down the cliff face from the village of Weehawken. Walkers along
the Hudson shore could only reach it at low tide. The future town of
Hoboken, two and a half miles to the south, was unborn. The isolation
was a virtual guarantee against an interruption of the deadly business
transacted there.
Hamilton set out from another dock in what is now Greenwich Vil-
lage, not far from the country house of New York merchant William Ba-
yard, a client and friend. The General and Nathaniel Pendleton may have
been delayed by the necessity to collect Dr. Hosack. They seem to have
arrived on the Weehawken shore considerably after Burr and Van Ness.
The physician stayed down on the water’s edge with the boatmen while
the General and his second clambered up a narrow path to find Burr and
Van Ness in their shirt sleeves, clearing away nature’s debris. The two par-
ties greeted each other in gentlemanly fashion. The seconds conferred on
the regulations and found they were in agreement. They had already de-
cided to use the Church pistols.
Burr put on his coat and waited at a distance. Hamilton stayed at a
roughly equal distance on the other side of the seconds while they tossed
a coin to see who would have the choice of positions and who would give
the order to fire. Pendleton won both tosses. By now it was approaching
seven o’clock. The July sun had begun beating down on the river, creating
an intense glare. The sun itself was still low enough in the sky to strike the
dueling ground at an angle. Pendleton chose to position Hamilton with
his back to the cliff, facing the light. Some people have criticized him for
this move, but Pendleton probably thought Burr was a better target, out-
lined against the glistening river. Hamilton had said he was going to
throw away his first fire, but he had not decided on his second round, if
Bun‘ insisted on one.
II
The two seconds now loaded the pistols with powder and a “smooth ball,”
as the regulations required. The inside of the guns’ barrels was also
smooth. This made a handgun, with its short barrel, though precision
made, even more inaccurate than a musket. Inside and outside the barrel,
the spinning bullet was subject to forces over which the gun wielder had
no control. A rifled barrel, prohibited by the dueling code, would give a
marksman far more accuracy. Beyond thirty yards, a smoothbore pistol
was almost a useless weapon, and even at that range it was extremely un-
predictable. These ballistics were part of the reason why the duel was not
always a fatal encounter.
With the pistols loaded, the duelists took their positions, and their sec-
onds walked over to hand each his weapon. As Pendleton gave General
Hamilton his gun, he asked: “Do you want the hair spring set?”
“Not this time,” Hamilton replied.
Pendleton stepped back and walked out of the line of fire. He briefly
explained the rules they were following. First he would ask them if they
were ready. If they answered in the affirmative, he would say “Present!”
Thereafter, each could fire whenever he pleased.
Both men nodded. At this point, according to Burr and William P. Van
Ness, General Hamilton raised his pistol “as if to try the light,” and asked
them to pardon him. He said the “direction of the light” made it hard for
him to adjust his eyes. With his left hand, he drew spectacles from his
pocket and put them on.
Pendleton asked if they were ready. “Yes,” both said.
“Present!” Pendleton said.
By this time, both men had assumed the duelist’s stance, the right foot
about twenty—six inches in front of the left foot, the face positioned over
the right shoulder, the stomach sucked in, the right thigh and leg cover
ing the left leg. The goal was to present as little body surface as possible.
Even the pistol was wielded with protection in mind; it was held some-
what to the left, where it could deflect a bullet?
Both men leveled their pistols and the guns boomed within seconds of
each other. Van Ness thought Hamilton fired first. He spun his head to see
if Burr was hit. At that instant the colonel fired and almost simultaneously
his body seemed to jerk as if Hamilton’s bullet had struck him. Later, Van
Ness would discover Burr had stepped on a stone as he assumed the oblique
position and as he fired he must have pressed his foot on it.
Pendleton thought Burr fired first. His eyes remained on Hamilton and
the Virginian saw his arm jerk upward as he pulled the trigger. To his hor-
ror he realized the General was hit. A swirl of gunsmoke enveloped both
duelists. For a moment, time, perception, understanding froze. Still
clutching his pistol, Hamilton pitched forward on his face, The oversize
lead ball had penetrated his right side a little above the hip, torn through
his liver and diaphragm, and lodged in his vertebrae.
The vice president uttered a small sound of dismay and started toward
him. Pendleton shouted: “Dr. Hosack!” Van Ness rushed forward and led
Burr down the path toward the water. One account has him shielding Burr
with an umbrella so that the boatmen and Dr. Hosack, who were rushing
up the same path, could not testify that they had seen him there. When
Burr and Van Ness reached their boat, the vice president hesitated. “I must
go and speak to him,” he reportedly said. Van Ness persuaded him this was
out of the question and the boatmen soon had them out on the river?
Dr. Hosack found Hamilton half sitting on the ground in Nathaniel
Pendleton’s arms. “This is a mortal wound, Doctor,” he gasped. A second
later he lost consciousness and Hosack thought he was going to die on
the spot. The doctor pulled up his bloody shirt and saw at a glance that
Hamilton was probably right. Hosack could find no pulse, nor was
Hamilton breathing. He put his hand on the Generals heart and found
“no motion there.” Hosack thought Hamilton was “irretrievably gone.”
Against the cliff the air was dense with heat and humidity. Hosack de-
cided the only hope was to get the General on the water as soon as possi-
ble. Together he and Pendleton carried him down the path to the point
where the land fell steeply to the water’s edge. As they labored, an an-
guished Pendleton told Hosack about Hamilton’s refusal to fire at Burr.
With the help of the oarsmen they got the wounded man into the boat
and pulled off. Hosack began rubbing Hamilton’s face with spirits of
hartshorne. He applied this invigorating potion to his neck and chest and
wrists and palms, and even tried to get some into his mouth.
About fifty yards from shore, Hamilton gave a great sigh and began
breathing again. The hartshorne, along with the cooler air on the river,
had restored him to life. His eyes wandered across the water and around
the boat and he muttered: “my vision is indistinct.” Gradually, his pulse
returned to near normal, his breathing became regular. Hosack tried to
examine the wound but even a slight touch caused Hamilton such pain,
he “desisted.”
III
As Hamilton’s sight returned, he saw John Barker Church’s pistol case
open in the bottom of the boat, with the gun he had used lying outside it.
“Take care of that pistol,” he said. “It is undischarged and still cocked——it
may go off and do harm.” Attempting to turn his head to Pendleton, who
was sitting behind him in the stern, Hamilton added: “Pendleton knows I
did not intend to fire at him.”
“Yes,” Pendleton said. “I have already told Dr. Hosack that.”
Hamilton fell silent. After a few minutes with the only sound the
grunts of the sweating oarsmen, Dr. Hosack began asking the Wounded
man how he felt—-nauseous, dizzy? He was trying to get some idea what
organs the bullet had struck. Hamilton told him he had lost all feeling in
his body from the waist down. He could not move his legs. Hosack tried
to rearrange his legs hoping circulation would be restored, but Hamilton
reported no improvement. Once or twice he asked Hosack to take his
pulse, which the doctor reported was still fairly normal.
As they approached the shore, Hamilton told Pendleton and Hosack to
send for his wife. He asked them to break the news to her gradually. “Give
her hopes,” he said.
A moment later they were alongside the dock from which they had set
out. Looking up, Hamilton found his friend William Bayard gazing down
at him. A servant had seen Hamilton and Pendleton and Hosack setting
out in the dawn and told Bayard, who immediately knew where they were
going. Bayard already feared the worst. As the boat approached he saw
only Hosack and Pendleton sitting up. When the merchant saw Hamil-
ton lying in the bottom of the boat he burst into tears.
Hosack told Bayard to prepare a bed for his wounded friend. Bayard
was so overwhelmed by grief, he was almost useless. His whole family was
soon weeping and wailing. Pendleton and Dr. Hosack almost joined
them. In his account of this part of the return from Weehawken, the doc-
tor noted that only Hamilton kept his composure.
IV
When they finally got the General to a bed on the second floor of Ba-
yard’s lamentation-filled house, Hamilton seemed almost comatose. But
Dr. Hosack revived him with some wine and water. With help from oth-
ers, the doctor undressed him and administered a strong “anodyne”-—-a
painkiller. He rubbed it on the parts of Hamilton’s body where he com-
plained of pain, particularly his back. The drug did little to assuage the
wounded man’s agony.
Dr. Hosack sent for Dr. Wright Post, professor of anatomy at Columbia
College and one of the New York’s leading physicians. Dr. Post soon arrived
but he only confirmed Dr. Hosack’s opinion that the wound was mortal.
Several hours later, the French consul sent surgeons from two men of
war in New York harbor in the hope that their experience with gunshot
wounds might help. But they too concluded that General Hamilton was a
dying man.
The General had no doubts about this diagnosis. His thoughts were al-
ready focused on the next world. He asked the Bayards to send a servant
to Benjamin Moore, Episcopal bishop of New York and president of Co-
lumbia College. The bishop came as requested, but was unhappy to learn
that Hamilton had been wounded in a duel, an activity Moore considered
sinful. Worse, the dying man had never joined the Episcopal church.
When Moore learned that Hamilton wanted to receive holy communion,
the Bishop demurred. This reception of the body and blood of ]esus, in a
consecrated wafer of bread, was for Christians a central act of faith, and
could not be administered casually. The bishop departed, declaring he
wanted to give the dying man “time for reflection.”
Hamilton asked Bayard to summon another clergyman, the Reverend
]ohn M. Mason, pastor of the Scotch Presbyterian Church. This was the
faith that had stirred Hamilton in his youth, when a Presbyterian minister
had befriended the orphaned boy on St. Croix. Mason hurried to Bayard’s
house. But the minister sadly informed Hamilton that his church forbade
him to give communion privately. It could only be done at the altar, in the
course of a Sunday ceremony. He tried to assure Hamilton that commu-
nion was only a “pledge” of the forgiveness of sin that ]esus had purchased
by his death on the cross. The same forgiveness was available to Hamilton
by faith.
The dying man did not find this idea satisfactory and pleaded for
someone to persuade Bishop Moore to return as soon as possible. Mean-
while, around noon, Elizabeth Hamilton arrived. In obedience to the
General’s wishes, no one had told her the truth about his condition. She
believed Hamilton was suffering from stomach spasms. But a few min-
utes with her husband must have revealed everything. When Betsy grew
frantic with grief, Hamilton reminded her in a strong firm voice: “Re-
member, Eliza, you are a Christian."
+
Gouverneur Morris said: If we were truly brave we would not accept a challenge but we are all cowards.
Pele-Mele
From Duel:
The president compounded this misunderstanding by continuing to
call Ambassador Merry’s large outspoken wife a “virago.” He used this
term in a letter to Special Envoy James Monroe in London and appar-
ently repeated it to visitors to the presidential palace.
Stubbornly refusing to admit they had done anything wrong, and ig-
noring the political “buzz,” as former ambassador to London Rufus King
called it, the president and his secretary of state spent hours drawing up a
promulgation called “Canons of Etiquette” that established Republican
standards of péle-méle for all official gatherings in Washington, D.C. It
had begun to dawn on Jefferson that he was verging on the ridiculous, but
he did not know how to back out of this social cul—de~sac. “I blush to have
put so much trash on paper,” he confessed to Special Envoy Monroe.
Waxing toward the extreme, as he was inclined to do when he had pen
in hand, the president told another former diplomat, Virginian William
Short, that he was trying to establish “the true principal of equality” at his
dinner table. He fumed that American ministers had to submit to the
practices of foreign courts and that justified forcing diplomats to accept
the absence of manners among Americans. Completely carried away, Jef-
ferson revealed his underlying isolationist streak. “I have ever considered
diplomacy as the pest of the peace of the world,” he told Short. The pres-
ident boasted that he had gotten rid of half the American diplomatic
corps and wished he could jettison the rest.“
Next, Jefferson took the time to write an anonymous article for the
Philadelphia Aurora, defending péle—méle as quintessential Americanism.
He lashed out at “unfounded stuff” in Federalist papers and accused
them of trying to foment “misunderstandings with other nations”—an
attempt to put the shoe on the other foot. He ranted on about how the
Jefferson administration had abolished the “court of the United States”—
a nasty reference to the mild formalities observed at receptions given by
Presidents Washington and Adams. Péle—méle and “next [nearest] the
door” were the social rules that Americans followed, roundly declared the
president.
The president compounded this misunderstanding by continuing to
call Ambassador Merry’s large outspoken wife a “virago.” He used this
term in a letter to Special Envoy James Monroe in London and appar-
ently repeated it to visitors to the presidential palace.
Stubbornly refusing to admit they had done anything wrong, and ig-
noring the political “buzz,” as former ambassador to London Rufus King
called it, the president and his secretary of state spent hours drawing up a
promulgation called “Canons of Etiquette” that established Republican
standards of péle-méle for all official gatherings in Washington, D.C. It
had begun to dawn on Jefferson that he was verging on the ridiculous, but
he did not know how to back out of this social cul—de~sac. “I blush to have
put so much trash on paper,” he confessed to Special Envoy Monroe.
Waxing toward the extreme, as he was inclined to do when he had pen
in hand, the president told another former diplomat, Virginian William
Short, that he was trying to establish “the true principal of equality” at his
dinner table. He fumed that American ministers had to submit to the
practices of foreign courts and that justified forcing diplomats to accept
the absence of manners among Americans. Completely carried away, Jef-
ferson revealed his underlying isolationist streak. “I have ever considered
diplomacy as the pest of the peace of the world,” he told Short. The pres-
ident boasted that he had gotten rid of half the American diplomatic
corps and wished he could jettison the rest.“
Next, Jefferson took the time to write an anonymous article for the
Philadelphia Aurora, defending péle—méle as quintessential Americanism.
He lashed out at “unfounded stuff” in Federalist papers and accused
them of trying to foment “misunderstandings with other nations”—an
attempt to put the shoe on the other foot. He ranted on about how the
Jefferson administration had abolished the “court of the United States”—
a nasty reference to the mild formalities observed at receptions given by
Presidents Washington and Adams. Péle—méle and “next [nearest] the
door” were the social rules that Americans followed, roundly declared the
president.
Saturday, April 05, 2014
Send Me No Flowers
On Doris Day's 90th birthday.
“The desire to take medicine is perhaps the greatest feature which distinguishes man from animals.”
Sir William Osler
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