FinermanWorks

November 1, 1790:  Another Classic To Quote But Not Read

On this day in 1790, Edmund Burke was making the rounds of talk shows to plug his new book “Reflections on the Revolution in France.” (Larry King diverted the discussion by recounting the time he played golf with Voltaire.)  Burke contended that the French Revolution, then in its earliest and most gentle stage, would eventually fail for a fundamental reason:  the French weren’t English.

According to Burke, freedom was an English idiosyncrasy.  The English may have been a nation of idiot savants but their savoir happened to be parliamentary government.  Ironically, by the same Anglomaniac standards, Burke was optimistic about America’s democracy.  The Americans might affect an air of independence, but they remained English by heritage and culture.  But the French, having been so rude as to win “The Hundred Years” war, had deprived themselves of the evolutionary benefits of English rule.  France could have had all the pleasures of being Wales.

While Burke was quoting aloud the Magna Carta or singing all forty verses of “Greensleeves”, you might overlook the obvious question:  “Since when is Burke an English name?”  Yes, or such I say “Faith and Begorrah”, Burke’s Anglophilia was based on wishful thinking.  Apparently, when Burke looked in the mirror, he saw Jude Law instead of Barry Fitzgerald.  No one else did, though.

Unkind people–invariably Whigs–might upset Mr. Burke by asking what he had given up for Lent: his brogue or his ancestry?  (Elderly Mother Burke certainly was an ethnic inconvenience, walking around Dublin with her rosary.)

Yet, whatever delusional pathology shaped his opinions, Burke was right about the French Revolution.  It did fail, and the underlying reason was a further justification for Anglophilia.  France’s royalty was even dumber than Britain’s.

Although the French Revolution began in 1789, for the first two years it was a polite affair (except for the hapless guards of the Bastille). The Estates General and then the National Assembly were intent upon establishing a constitutional monarchy: imagine England with a palatable cuisine.

Unfortunately, Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette were opposed to a constitutional monarchy; in a way, they got their wish. The royal idiots attempted to flee the country; they were caught when they lost time by having a picnic. Furthermore, they had invited–in incriminating letters–the monarchies of Europe to invade France and restore absolutism. Somehow, those gestures did not improve their popularity or lifespans.

In the face of the foreign invasion, France initially was in peril. The army seemed on the point of dissolution; half of the officer corp (more loyal to their aristocratic class than to France) had defected. Of course, the French populace responded by slaughtering any aristocrat in its grasp. Any thought of monarchy was killed, along with the monarchs.

The French army reconstituted itself with a few radical reforms. First, conscription produced massive armies, vastly outnumbering the forces of the invaders. Second, to command the conscripts, officers were chosen for their ability rather than their lineage. (That really was revolutionary!) So, with large armies commanded by competent officers, France defeated the invaders and then proceeded to invade the invaders’ countries. Lieutenant Bonaparte was to have a very exciting career.   

 And Edmund Burke could have said, “I told you so.” Gloating, however, might have seemed suspiciously Irish.

October 30, 1863:  Nepotism Pays Off Even It Takes 22 Generations

There have always been some advantages to being a princess.  If nothing else, you never starved.  (Throughout much of European history, that was a major advantage.)  Unfortunately, most princesses were superfluous and expendable.  In the Russian court, at least until Peter the Great, the imperial sister and daughter were  packed off to a convent.  True, most of those convents had all the luxuries of the Kappa Kappa Gamma house at Northwestern except for the mating with Delta Kappa Epsilon; nonetheless it was exile.  The French Court was a little more generous with mademoiselle la princesse.  The king permitted his spinster sisters to stay at Versailles and teach the harpsichord to his spinster daughters.

Of course, many princesses had diplomatic careers–as the sacrifice in a political marriage.  Mary Tudor, the sister of Henry VIII, was married off to Louis XII–who was three times her age.  At least the old goat was kind to her, and also was obliging enough to die after three months of marriage.  Other princesses were far more miserable.  The French princess who married Edward II discovered she was the lesser queen of the two.  A sixth century Ostrogothic princess had her nose slit off by her husband–quite literally the King of the Vandals; at least her father took her back and broke off the alliance.  There were worse fates than a comfy convent.

During the Middle Ages, the Byzantine Princess was esteemed as the most prestigious bride for a political marriage.  She represented the wealth and sophistication of the greatest power in Christendom.  Indeed, when one Byzantine daughter married into the Capetians, she was the only literate in the French royal family.  Of course, Byzantium dismissed most European suitors as unworthy of an imperial bride; but a few indispensible allies were begrudged the distinction.  The Doges of Venice were entitled to the Emperor’s nieces.  And to placate the northern shore of the Black Sea, the Great Princes of Kiev could have an imperial sister or daughter.

By the end of the 12th century, however, the Byzantine Empire was in decline and so were the standards for a political marriage.  The Empire still dominated the Balkans but had lost Sicily and Southern Italy to Norman brigands.    Holding off the Turks in Western Anatolia (a losing battle since the area is now called Turkey), the Byzantines had no force to reconquer their lost Italian provinces.  However, the Empire still had a strategy for winning back the territory.  Her name was Irene Angelina, the daughter of Emperor Isaac II, and she was married off to the crown prince of Norman Sicily.  Irene was all of 12 years old.

She was a bride in 1193, a widow the same year, and a prisoner in 1194.  Southern Italy and Sicily had been conquered by Philip of Swabia, a cousin of the Norman line, who felt that he had a more legitimate claim to the throne.  He certainly had the better army.  Philip was smitten with the young Byzantine princess.  He was twice her age–but that only made him 27–and he decided to marry her.  The German prince had nothing to gain from a political perspective.  Her father had been overthrown, blinded and imprisoned by his brother–who had his own daughters available for political alliance.  So Irene’s looks and charm were all the dowry she could offer.

But they lived happily ever after–until childbearing finally killed her in 1208.

On October 30, 1863, Prince Christian Wilhelm Ferdinand Adolf George of Schleswig-Holstein-Sonderburg-Glucksberg arrived in Greece, invited by public vote to take the throne.  No, his name does not sound Greek, but the future George I did boast of his Hellenic heritage.   He was the great-great-great-great-great-(you get the idea–22 generations) grandson of Irene Angelina.

Well, this is a surprise!  I had intended to place this essay on my publications page.  But there is no reason that you can’t read my account the Spanish Flu.  The topic is still timely.  Just click on the link.

influenza

October 28, 312:  In This Sign Lose

Some people are famous only for losing: candidate Harold Stassen, explorer Robert Scott, alleged actress Susan Lucci. There is also Gen. George McClellan, who retreated even when he won a battle. This list probably starts with Abel.  And today, let us commemorate another of these unlustrious souls: the Emperor Maxentius.

Maxentius owes his dubious fame to his dramatic loss of battle, throne and life to his brother-in-law Constantine. (Yes, that Constantine!) Of course, the drama was all due to Constantine and his sudden change of sponsors on the eve of battle. The use of crosses as battle insignia was great product placement for a certain religion.

Constantine may have had friends in high places but he was also the greatest general of his time. Maxentius wouldn’t have even made the top fifty list. He had no qualifications to be an Emperor except for the fact that his father was one. However, even his father wasn’t impressed with Maxentius and had excluded him from the imperial succession. (The old man actually preferred his son-in-law Constantine.)

At the time, the growing threat of the barbarians and the chronic problem with the Persians (that certainly is chronic) had led to an administrative reform of the Empire. There were two co-Emperors, one ruling from Asia Minor and the other from Northern Europe. The Roman Empire had dispensed with Rome. Furthermore, to avert the bloodbaths that usually determined who would be the next emperor, the two co-emperors would appoint their successors.

As his successor in the West, the Emperor Maximian preferred the House of Constantine to his own dynasty. However, the overlooked Maxentius felt that nepotism had its rights and the snubbed 28 year-old used his allowance and trust fund to bribe the garrison of Rome. In 306, Maxentius was proclaimed Emperor–at least in Rome–but much of Italy embraced him. The country had grown tired of absent emperors, some of whom had even threatened to end Rome’s tax-free perks: its bread and circuses.

Galerius, the legitimate Emperor of the East, attempted to crush the revolt. Upon entering Italy, however, the imperial army founded itself ambushed with bribes. Unable to resist, the army left Italy. Galerius then decided that this was an issue for the Emperor of the West.

Constantine had the title but he needed Italy for the authenticity. In 312 he invaded. His army would not be susceptible to bribes. When Roman legionnaires adopt Christian insignia at the Emperor’s command, they evidently revered or feared him more than than the Gods. Maxentius commanded a far larger force but most of his soldiers’ experience of combat was shaking down shopkeepers. And Maxentius was not even that proficient. He wedged his army into a tactical disaster, stationed in front of a deep river with only one rickety bridge as an avenue for retreat.  The “Battle of Milvian Bridge” was on this day in 312.

Can’t you guess what happened? After sufficient mauling by Constantine’s veterans, Maxentius’ amateurs panicked, the weight of the chaotic retreat collapsed the Milvian Bridge, and Maxentius was on it at the time. His body was fished out of the water the next day. Constantine was now the undisputed Emperor of the West; and he was free to promote his theological quirks. (He had to kill another brother-in-law before he ruled the entire empire.)

Of course, losing to Constantine is why anyone remembers Maxentius. Fourth century Rome was filled with rich mediocrities; they comprised the Senate. However, Maxentius was not content to enjoy his inadequacies. His ambition far surpassed his ability, but his amazing presumption and dramatic failure do entitle him to history’s sarcasm. And he would have preferred that to obscurity.

October 28, 1922:  Fasc and Loose

Nature may abhor a vacuum but it was amused by Benito Mussolini. On this day in 1922, Mussolini and his Black Shirts wore out their Guccis marching on Rome to demand control of the government. Surprised that any Italian even cared, the government promptly (even gleefully) capitulated.

Politically, Italy is anarchy with charm. The Italians have not had a competent government since the reign of Theodoric who died in 526…and they really don’t care. It is a tribute to Italians’ enlightenment that they prefer thieves and lunatics in government than being public nuisances on the street. (Remember that Italian lunatics would be more endearing than American and–especially–German psychotics.

Mussolini is rightfully remembered as a tyrannical buffoon. To put him in our contemporary political terms, he combined a Republican’s personality with a Democrat’s competence. Yet, he might be revered as the inspiration of “reality television.”

What happens when the most ridiculous man in Italy wants to run the country? YOU LET HIM.

October 27, 1553:  Michael Servetus’ Bonfire Voyage

On this day in 1553, Michael Servetus was burned alive for heresy–by the Protestants. No, he was not doing anything inordinately Catholic, such as singing Irish ballads or organizing bingo nights (although the Calvinists would have killed him for that, too). The distinguished physician and scholar was a free-thinker and thought that the Trinity was an unnecessary bureaucracy.

(Hello. You have reached the department of Metaphysical Resources. Press one if you wish to pray to the Father. Press two if you wish to pray to the Son….)

Servetus knew that his views would not be appreciated in his native Spain but he imagined that the Protestants would be more tolerate. After all, they were being persecuted for their beliefs. He might have been right about the Dutch, but anywhere else he was asking to be kindling. Martin Luther didn’t like dissenters and Jean Calvin really didn’t like anyone. (Calvin’s appeal was that surly manners and stinginess were signs of divine grace; he was the pioneer of self-help motivational speakers.) Unfortunately for Servetus, he sought refuge in Geneva, the headquarters of “Rude Your Way to Heaven.”

Calvin believed in the Trinity. He probably enjoyed the idea of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit brawling with each other when they weren’t picking on mankind. However, Servetus disagreed with Calvin–and therefore God. At least, the roasted Servetus was spared one indignity; the Swiss had yet to invent the fondue.

Last year, on the anniversary of Agincourt, the New York Times decided to disillusion us.  According to the newspaper, a  number of modern historians are disputing the hallowed account of the battle.  In the traditional account of Agincourt, a dog-weary English army–outnumbered five-to-one–triumphed over the haughty French host.  However, the revisionist historians have researched Michelin receipts and so deduced that the French force was no more than twice the size of the English.  So the English victory hardly counts.

Of course, you would expect French historians to downplay the dimensions of the French humiliation.  They might deny the battle ever occurred or somehow blame the Americans.  However, many of these revisionists are British!  Are they traitors?  Yes, but they also might be right.  Besides, historians are a desperate lot.  First, they have to come up with a fresh topic for their doctorate–“Flax production in 14th century Kent”–and then they have to keeping churning out NEW research if they hope to get and keep a decent niche at an university.  “Flax production in 15th century Kent–the sequel” is not a guaranteed claim to fame or tenure.  But come up with an iconclastic view of a cherished event–and you can make the New York Times and at least get a free lunch from The History Channel.

Now I will concede that Henry V could not have made that glorious St. Crispin’s Day speech.  First, it would have been in Middle English–which no one ever understood.  Furthermore, the speech–in that form–would never have survived the departmental approval procedure.  Before delivering the St. Crispin’s speech, Henry–or his speechwriter–was required to submit a draft to the legal department and human resources.

In 1415, that editorial inquisition was in the hands of Lord Chancellor Beaufort and the King’s brother, the Duke of Bedford.

Beaufort:  “We few, we happy few…”  Too many pronouns, too many adjectives.  “We” is too vague a term, too easy to misintepret.  A positive and specific identification is necessary, if only to avoid trademark disputes in future treaties. “Few” has a negative context, as if the English army were conceding an inadequate number for this campaign.  If Henry survives the battle, he would never survive the litigation.  Come up with a more positive description of our army’s size.

Bedford:  And “Happy”?  Really, that is unprofessional and inappropriate to a war.  If we must have an adjective, let’s make it a serious one.   And “band of brothers?”  I am the king’s brother and I have no idea what that means.  Is he promising everyone can be a duke like me?

Beaufort:  Carried away by alliteration, completely irresponsible.   There has to be a concise and practical definition of the relationship between the king and his soldiers.

Bedford:  “For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother …”

Is he criticizing our healthcare policy?  We certainly do cover wounds–at least battle-related ones–and the men will receive appropriate bandages rather than this unsolicited affection.  You know, that could actually be viewed as a form of harassment….

So, on October 25, 1415,  Henry V assured his beleaguered men:

“This adequately numbered English army, this proactive English army

This armed association

For anyone who, in this specific time period, should acquire a work-related decoagulating condition

Would be entitled to appropriate coverage from this association.”

And if Henry said anything more, no one was listening.

October 25, 1415:  The Battle of Agincourt

On this day in 1415, a beleaguered CEO offered these team-building thoughts to his “stakeholders”:

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he today that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother …

Stirred by such speech, you too might well overlook the fact that your newfound brother makes 300 times more than you, and that he is the buffoon who put you in such a desperate plight.

In fact, the battle of Agincourt was decided by French incompetence, not English poetry. Outnumbering the English by approximately five-to-one, the French could have used any number of tactics to win the campaign: flanking, envelopment, siege….There was only one possible way that the French could have lost the battle of Agincourt. That would be a full-frontal cavalry assault in constricted terrain, leading to an impassable traffic jam of horses and easy shooting for English archers.

Of course, who would be that stupid? Oh, oui.

October 25, 1760:  More of Queen Elizabeth’s Embarrassing Ancestors

On this day in 1760, George III because King of Great Britain. It could have been worse.

But for the quality of 18th century medicine, the 13 colonies would have revolted against King Frederick I. He was the oldest son of George II and the father of George III.

Hanoverian fathers and sons tended to hate each other: George I vs. George II, George II vs. Prince Frederick. (George III was the exception. He didn’t know his father well enough to loathe him–but everyone else did.)

Whereas as George II was a lethargic figurehead content to entrust policy to his capable Whig ministers, Prince Frederick had given ample evidence of being a dynamic dolt.  Out of pure spite, the Prince allied himself to the Tories. Had he ascended to the throne, his rule would have been a series of tantrums.

George III was a man of personal virtue–which evidently wasn’t hereditary–and he was the first in his dynasty who didn’t have a German accent. (After forty-six years of ruling Britain, someone had finally learned English.) However, George did have his father’s politics and obstinacy. In 15 years, he drove America to rebellion. Perhaps Frederick could have done it in 8.

Today’s headline stories from The New York Times:

No Einstein in Your Crib? Get a Refund

By TAMAR LEWIN

Parent alert: the Walt Disney Company is now offering refunds for all those “Baby Einstein” videos that did not make children into geniuses.

They may have been a great electronic baby sitter, but the unusual refunds appear to be a tacit admission that they did not increase infant intellect.

“We see it as an acknowledgment by the leading baby video company that baby videos are not educational, and we hope other baby media companies will follow suit by offering refunds,” said Susan Linn, director of Campaign for a Commercial-Free Childhood, which has been pushing the issue for years.

The Disney Company now will produce training videos  within the parameters of infant behavior: “Baby Caligula” and “Baby Ayn Rand.” 

A 3,500-Year-Old Queen Causes a Rift Between Germany and Egypt

By JUDY DEMPSEY

BERLIN — Culture lovers reveled in the reopening of the Neues Museum in the heart of Berlin on Friday, the culmination of decades of efforts to renovate the site, which was destroyed during World War II.

But the celebrations have been marred by a growing dispute between the German and Egyptian governments over the star of the show: the 3,500-year-old limestone-and-stucco bust of Queen Nefertiti, a wife of Pharaoh Akhenaten.

Nefertiti has been in Germany since 1913. But now Egypt is demanding that the fragile object, perched alone in a domed room that overlooks the length of the museum, be returned home.

Zahi Hawass, general secretary of Egypt’s Supreme Council of Antiquities, told German newspapers over the past few days that Nefertiti belonged to Egypt.

 

 Germany found it pleasantly surprising to have “borrowed” anything without first having caused a war.  The German government is granting Nefertiti political asylum; “We know how Moslems treat women–and imagine how they would regard a pagan one.”

In a related development, Egypt is demanding the syndication rights to “Seinfeld.”  Filing a lien on intellectual property rights, Egypt has identified Jerry Seinfeld and Larry David as escaped Hebrew slaves.

And now our regularly scheduled pedantics:

October 24, 1648:  The Treaty of Westphalia

If you haven’t already sent a sympathy card to the Hapsburgs, at least offer to buy them lunch.

As you know (but I will belabor), the Treaty of Westphalia ended The Thirty Years War. The War basically was a simple, religious affair: Catholics slaughtered Protestants and Protestants returned the favor. Both sides proved very enthusiastic. Armies were paid by what they could pillage–and it is always easier to rob the dead. Central Europe was reduced to a charnel house. At least one third of the population was killed.

It looked like the Catholics–led by the Hapsburgs–were ahead on points–when France intervened. Cardinal Richelieu did not want to see a triumphant Austria unifying the German states. The brilliant statesman may have had premonitions of 1870, 1914 and 1940. Relegating his religious preferences behind his national interests, Richelieu brought France to the Protestant side, and that led the war to a stalemate.

The Hapsburgs finally realized that there were too many Protestants to kill and who certainly were not cooperating in the effort. So, Catholics and Protestants agreed to stop slaughtering each other. England did not sign the treaty, however, so Catholics were still fair game in Scotland and Ireland.

And Holland was finally granted independence from Spain. Of course, the Dutch hadn’t bothered to wait and had been governing their country for more forty years. It just took that long for Spain to notice the obvious.

The Protestants of Germany were saved. Austria was frustrated and spent. And now the greatest power on continental Europe was France. Richelieu did not live to see his triumph, succumbing to natural causes in 1643.  There has yet to be a proposal to grant him sainthood.

Learning of Richelieu’s death Pope Urban VII concluded, “If there is a God, he will pay dearly for his conduct.  If there is no God, then he was truly an admirable man.”

I am feeling a bit unsteady on my feet–beyond my unusual lack of coordination.  (When school teams were picked, I was slightly preferable to children in wheelchairs.  I could have taught St. Vitus to dance.)  On the other hand, I am not a hypochondriac but quite the opposite–a hyperchondriac.  For instance, if one of my legs fell off because of gangrene, I would hold off on going to the doctor so long as I still had the other leg.  Yes, I probably am the pinup of the medical insurance cartel.  (Your insurance adjuster may have already told you, “Why can’t you be more like Eugene!”)

So, if I am admitting to feeling light-headed–no pain, but the sensation is like sitting through three Busby Berkeley musicals–I must be rather ill. 

What are the first symptoms of swine flu? 

Lacking the stamina for a fresh lecture on history, I am going to recycle this pedantic from last year.  You probably will forgive me.

October 22:  The Wrong Exorcism

https://finermanworks.com/your_rda_of_irony/2008/10/22/the-wrong-exorcism/

October 21, 1805:  Trafalgar–Not Bad For a One-Eyed, One-Armed Man

Today is the anniversary of Trafalgar and here is how you can reenact Lord Nelson’s spectacular victory in 1805. In a swimming pool set afloat 33 loaves of French bread to represent the French/Spanish fleet. To represent the British fleet, have twenty-seven people with shotguns firing at the bread. That accurately represents France’s chances at Trafalgar.

The British make much of the fact that Nelson’s fleet was smaller: Britain’s 27 ships of-the- line against 33 French and Spanish ships. Of course, the British fleet was superior in every way. The French fleet may have had newer ships…if only to replace the vessels sunk or captured by the British. (And the French sailors were newer, too…for the same reason.) But that veteran English fleet was the best in the world and led by one of history’s greatest admirals. The English victory was never in doubt; the extent of the triumph was remarkable. The French and Spanish lost two-thirds of their fleet.

Nelson likely was more fearful of the accountants at the British admiralty. At the time, naval warfare was expected to be profitable. The fleet was maintained and the crews were paid by the proceeds of captured ships and plundered cargos. The cannons were aimed to knock down masts or shred sails, leaving the enemy ship dead in the water–and ripe for looting. Sinking the ship would have ruined this financial system.

Unfortunately, in 1798 at the Battle of Nile, Nelson had proved to be somewhat extravagant. Under unerring British bombardment, the French flagship blew up. I can only imagine how the accounting office at the Admiralty reacted to that lost fortune….

“We suppose that you expect to be congratulated, Admiral Nelson. But who is going to pay for your pyrotechnics? We no longer have those 13 colonies to tax, and it is because of spendthrifts like you we don’t!”

With the proceeds of the captured fleet, Lord Nelson made a fortune at Trafalgar. Unfortunately, he didn’t live to enjoy it. A sniper demonstrated the only French marksmanship that day. Contrary to Nelson’s wishes, the money went to his widow instead of his mistress.

And but for that French sniper, Nelson might have commanded the British fleet in the attack on Ft. McHenry.

In that situation, I imagine that Francis Scott Key would have written “The White Flag Rag.”