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May 2, 1808:  Goya Gets Inspiration and the French Get Target Practice

Whatever Napoleon’s motives for invading Spain, they were not petty. He had no Gallic version of Halliburton, and Sevres was not trying to annex Lladros. None of his siblings were unemployed and needed a spare throne. First, Spain really was a cultural embarrassment; still shackled to its repressive Catholicism, Spain’s political and social development was two centuries behind the rest of Western Europe. (Spanish painting was excellent, however; the Church never discouraged that.) The ruling Bourbons had brought French debauchery to Spain, but not the Enlightenment. In fact, the Bourbons were eager to assimilate Spanish prejudices and rekindled the Inquisition. (There were not any Jews left but Freemasons proved to be flammable.) Furthermore, neither Spain nor Portugal were enforcing Napoleon’s trade boycott of Britain. Napoleon was resolved to “liberate” Spain.

In 1807 the Emperor actually persuaded Spain to permit the entry of the French army. The French purpose was ostensibly to invade Portugal; for its collaboration, Spain expected to be rewarded with most of the conquered country. However, Napoleon had other plans. In 1808, Napoleon coerced the King of Spain and the Crown Prince to abdicate, freeing Spain from Bourbon ignorance and incompetence. In their place, Napoleon set up as King his reluctant brother Joseph–who had been quite happy as the French satrap of Southern Italy. Bringing the Enlightenment to Spain, Joseph abolished the Inquisition and the remaining vestiges of feudalism. Unfortunately, the Spanish preferred their own ignorance and repression to foreign liberation.

On this day in 1808, Madrid revolted. A rallying cry of the resistance was “Down with Liberty”. Of course, the French army crushed the uprising. In his paintings, Francisco Goya depicted the initial slaughter and the summary executions that followed. Madrid may have been pacified, but the revolt spread throughout Spain. The French were unprepared to fight partisan warfare, with the Spanish resistance ambushing the French and then disappearing amidst a sympathetic civilian population. Furthermore, the war had an unparalleled savagery. The Spanish tortured to death their French prisoners; the French responded with wholesale slaughter. Goya also depicted these atrocities in a series of drawings called “The Horrors of War.” Indeed, a word was coined for this type of war: guerrilla–the Spanish for “little war.”

But it was not a little war. The initial uprising drove the French out of most of Spain in 1808. Then Napoleon had to invade the country a second time. He did regain control of the major cities, but he had to leave 300,000 men to hold Spain. Two-thirds of the army were assigned to protecting the supply lines against the Spanish guerrillas. The rest of the French force had to contend with the British force that occupied Portugal and was supporting the Spanish resistance. The British commander was unusually competent, a chap named Arthur Wellesley. Wellesley had already established himself (and a fortune) in India, where he had been a tax collector and enforcer (the two professions overlapped). Now this younger son of Anglo-Irish gentry would really make a name for himself; the French would certainly remember it. Leading the British as well as Spanish and Portuguese troops, Wellesley began a five-year campaign that would drive the French from Spain; and this time, the French could not afford a third invasion. There was no additional army to sacrifice. The Russian campaign precluded that possibility. For his victories in Spain, Wellesley was granted the title of Duke of Wellington in 1814. (And we should be grateful that the Duke was too important to be sent to America in 1814. Otherwise, Francis Scott Keyes would have composed the “White Flag Rag”.)

Perhaps the French also should have been grateful to Wellington. At least, they could fight a conventional war against him; when they lost, it was within the rules of military etiquette. But there were no rules, no etiquette in the war with the Spanish guerrillas; the French were trying to fight an enemy whom they could not find and could never understand. The French had cannons but were not sure where to aim; the Spanish had daggers and no doubts.

April 28, 1789:  Captain Bligh’s First Mutiny

Of course, you know about the mutiny on the Bounty.  Hollywood won’t let you forget it.  There have been three versions of the Fletcher Christian’s revolt against Captain Bligh (At least in English; there was also an Australian version.)  In 1935, handsome noble Clark Gable leads a revolt against the cruel and thieving Charles Laughton.  Then, in 1962 sensitive Marlon Brando ousts the sadistic Trevor Howard.  Finally, in 1984 party animal Mel Gibson overthrows bourgeois killjoy Anthony Hopkins–and, yes, this is the most historically accurate version, although I can’t help but call it “Fast Times at Bounty High.”  In fact, the next production is overdue.  This one will probably depict Renee Zellweger mutinying against Meryl Streep.

After the Bounty was seized by the mutineers, Bligh and 18 loyal crew members were cast adrift in an open boat.  Of course, they were expected to die but Bligh, however deficient his charisma, was a superb navigator.  He determined that the nearest European outpost was the Dutch colony at Timor, so he set sail for it–a mere 3600 miles away.  And 47 days later he and his crew were there.  The etiquette of the British Navy did require a formal inquiry into the mutiny.  Had Bligh been a raving sadist, the Admiralty still might have exonerated him; but by a pleasant coincidence he actually deserved to be found innocent.  Besides–navigating the Pacific in an open boat–he was such a brilliant sailor, who cared if he was a charmless drip.

William Bligh continued his naval career, achieving successes and promotions.  Lord Nelson personally commended him for his heroism at the battle of Copenhagen in 1801.  By 1806, the Bounty incident was a mere anecdote in an otherwise laudable record.  The British penal colony of New South Wales–alias Australia–needed a governor and the stalwart, efficient Bligh seemed the perfect choice. 

Since Britain was somewhat preoccupied with Napoleon, the Australian colony had been left virtually autonomous.  With a scarcity of money, the unofficial currency of Australia was rum.  And that was one of the more decorous aspects of the colony.  Corruption was rampant.  The prison guards–the New South Wales Corps– were themselves criminal,  “recruited” from army gaols, and their officers the rejects from reputable regiments.  The Corps soon was dominating and ruling the colony.  What the Corps did not own outright, it extorted a cut.  Of course, the officers got the choice tracts of lands, establishing themselves as the colony’s aristocracy and they very much acted the part.  Convicts worked as serfs on the officers’ estates.  The colony was less than 20 years old but the Corps was thoroughly entrenched.

This was the situation when Bligh arrived as governor.  His predecessors had either succumbed to bribes or the languor, but Bligh intended to make New South Wales into a proper British colony.  He tried curtailing the trading of rum, which happened to be a major business of the Corps; he tried breaking the Corps’ monopolies and he tried firing the most conspicuously corrupt officers in the Corps.  In theory, Governor Bligh had every right to do so.  However, the only military or police force in the colony happened to the Corps–and for some reason, it wasn’t cooperating.  Bligh was powerless and he never had the charm to negotiate a compromise.  All he really could do was to annoy the Corps.  He didn’t last two years. 

On January 26, 1808 William Bligh faced his second mutiny.  He was overthrown by the Corps which declared martial law over the colony.  The mutineers offered to let Bligh return to England but he refused, insisting that he was the rightful governor and would not abandon his post.  He even attempt to incite a popular uprising to reinstate him; of course, popularity was never his skill.  So, at his own insistence, Bligh remained in Australia until his officially designated successor arrived.  That was in 1810.  The new governor also had a way with dealing with the New South Wales Corp; he brought along his own regiment of troops.  Under these circumstances, the Corps accepted reassignment back to Britain.  However, many of its officers resigned their commissions to enjoy their baronial estates in the colony.  Their descendants remain the creme of Australian society.

As for Bligh, he was exonerated by another official board of inquiry.  Ironically, he would be assigned to a post in Ireland.  But of all places, somehow he didn’t cause a mutiny there.

April 13-15, 1204: Just Some Old Scrolls

Today, if historians and librarians seem less vivacious than usual, they may be brooding over the lost works of Aristotle.  During a three day rampage by Crusaders, the last complete collection of Aristotle went up in flames along with most of Constantinople.  The Crusaders could not read their own language (French or Italian), so they certainly made no sense of classical Greek.  The ancient parchments meant nothing to them.  In their sack of the greatest city in Christendom, the Crusaders applied a simple criterion:  if you can’t cash it, drink it or rape it, then burn it.  Unfortunately, Aristotle made a fun bonfire.

Constantinople and the Byzantine Empire never recovered from the Crusaders’ attack.  When the Ottoman Turks showed up 249 years later, they scavenged only the despoiled remnant of the city.  However, I will defer the story of the Fourth Crusade for another day.  Today, I would rather pick on the victims.

Between barbarian invasion and Christian censorship, much of Greek and Latin literature was lost.  Of the great cities of the Roman world, Constantinople alone survived–and indeed thrived.  It had an university and libraries and, at least, the tolerance and intellectual curiosity to preserve the writings of pagan authors.  In the 9th century, a Patriarch of Constantinople would brag about possessing the collected works of Aristotle; at the time, western Europe had forgotten who the philosopher was.  The Patriarch referred to books that are now lost; today we  only have a third of Aristotle’s writings.

Why didn’t the Byzantines safeguard that invaluable trove of ancient scrolls and make copies for posterity?  Well, Aristotle wasn’t exactly on the top of their syllabus.  It was one thing to collect his works, but far more controversial to teach them.  Education in Byzantium had to comply with Christian values, and Aristotle was lamentably pagan.  Since his books on rhetoric and logic were not explicit endorsements of polytheism, they were permissible in the Byzantine curriculum.  But that was  just a fraction of his writings.  Imagine if Dostoyevsky were only valued as a primer on epilepsy.  The works of Aristotle were more often dusted than read.

The monks and scholars of Byzantium could keep busy transcribing the Patriarch’s sermons and writing biographies of the most obscure saints, but why waste their time and parchment making copies of pagan literature.  One set of Aristotle’s works seemed sufficient.  The Byzantine scribes would do just enough to repair the mice gnawings.  But in 1204 the Crusaders proved a little more destructive than that.

Aristotle was unappreciated by the Byzantines and unknown to the Western Europeans; ironically, his most enthusiastic students were Moslems.  They had found fragments of his work in the libraries of Syria and Egypt, and their scholars had translated his writings into Arabic.  Yet, even with their incomplete texts, the Moslem intellectuals would introduce Aristotle to western Europe.  In the 12th century the Moors of Spain were reading him, and they thought that he was too good to hoard.  Jewish and Christian Spaniards were making translations, and the Latin editions eventually got past the Pyrenees.

By the mid-13th century, the scholars of western Europe could not get enough of this “new” philosopher.  Because of Byzantine dogma and Crusader destruction, they never would.

April 15th is both the income tax deadline and the feast day for the patron saint of laundresses. Either way, you get taken to the cleaners. Since you probably know the IRS more than you wish, let me introduce you to St. Hunna. She was a German noble of the seventh century who turned her fetish into a sainthood. Hunna liked to wash the poor.

Everyone in 7th century Western Europe was filthy. (You would not want to be a flea in the Dark Ages.) Hunna’s fellow nobles were just as encrusted as the peasants, but at least they could not be bullied by a shrew with a wash rag. The poor, however, were in no position to refuse Lady Hunna. Let’s hope that she coaxed them rather than terrorized them. “I’ll give you a slice of bread if you let me bathe you.” (Footnote for our younger or unattached readers: this is a lousy pickup line. At least offer a whole pizza.)

Soap had yet to be introduced into Europe; those decadent Moslems were inventing it at this time. So Hunna’s method of washing would have been limited to soaking and scraping. She would have washed a body the way that we would clean a pan. The miserable but clean poor: I don’t know if any of them became saints, but they all were martyrs.

Considering how many psychopaths and pyromaniacs have been canonized, Hunna’s fetish does seem comparatively holy. Happy Saint Hunna’s Day to you all

By the standards of 7th century Hispania, Isidore of Seville (c.560-636) may well have been the most learned man of his day.  True, he barely would have qualified as a washroom attendant in Constantinople; but in western Europe any literacy was the definition of genius.  If presumption alone was the measure of education, Isidore was indeed brilliant.  He thought that he knew Latin, Greek, Hebrew, history, medicine, law, rhetoric, astronomy, zoology and music.  His actual knowledge ranged from superficial (Latin and history) to unintended parody (everything else).   But no one dared to dispute his claims.

You see, Isidore was  more than just a pompous blowhard.  He was the leader of the Catholic Church in Hispania and, for all practical purposes, was running the country.  The Visigothic kings, descended from the barbarian chieftains who had seized Roman Iberia in the fifth century, were the nominal rulers; but they were content with having the crown and the army.  The more mundane details of government–the entire realm of domestic policies–were ceded to the presumably literate and avowedly selfless Church.  Who better to settle pasture disputes than the people who could actually read law?  The Church appreciated the implicit power in such drudgery; it would be governing Hispania and the prelates considered that their birthright.

The hierarchy of the Church was the Spanish chapter of the Roman Senate.  Men like Isidore were patricians whose families had settled in Hispania when Jesus was taking woodshop classes at Nazareth High.  Hispania was a great place for a Roman aristocrat.  Its climate and lifestyle were comparable to Italia’s, but a safe distance from Caligula, Domitian and those other zany emperors.  However, Hispania could not be forever spared the turmoil in the Empire.  At the end of the fourth century, in its last effective exertion of imperial power, Rome ordered the patricians to become Christian.  To enforce this policy, the empire began transferring municipal government from patrician bureaucrats to bishops.   In Hispania, the patricians made a complete conversion:  they became Christians and then began appointing themselves as bishops.  At the time, the Church had no specific requirements for a bishop; it was an administrative rather than a theological position, and the bishops often were elected by their community.  So if the largest landowner in Seville nominates himself as the new bishop, do you think that his tenants and slaves–his congregation–dare object?  Even if these early prelates were aristocratic opportunists, most of their grandsons (celibacy was not yet required) proved devout bishops.  Isidore certainly was one, judging how much he hated heretics and Jews.

Furthermore the Church proved an effective protection against the invading Visigoths.  The German tribe respected the Church’s property and dealt with the prelates as the leaders of the Catholic people of Hispania.  The Church and the Visigoths reached a cordial and long-lasting accommodation.  Of course, the Church lost nothing.  The patrician classes ceded one third of their lands to the Germanic overlords, but would not be left starving or particularly humbled.  The Visigoths had the army, so they had the ultimate power; but how often would they wield that?  No, the kings increasingly relied on the Church’s prelates, meeting in synods, to determine the domestic policies of Hispania.

Someone had to repair the aqueducts, maintain the roads and revive the decaying cities. But  even Archbishop Isidore never claimed to know engineering and he didn’t think of borrowing a book from Constantinople.  His only solution to halt the further disintegration of civilized life was education.  He ordered that each archbishopric have a school and he would provide the curriculum.  Isidore himself compiled an encyclopedia of all the available knowledge.  It was called “Eytmologiae.”  Unfortunately, Isidore was more earnest than erudite.  He presumed much more than he actually knew, and the available sources in 7th century Hispania were not exactly comprehensive and extant.  Imagine if our total knowledge were based on an incomplete collection of Reader’s Digests, with half of their pages torn out.

“Eytmologiae” would become one of the great reference works of the Middle Ages, and might explain why the Renaissance took another seven centuries.  Within a century after Isidore, Hispania did have a revival of civilization but the Moors brought it.

March 22, 1765:  Parliament Passes a Perfectly Reasonable Law

From a British perspective, the Seven Years’ War might have seemed effortless: victory after victory after victory. Britain gained domination over India and conquered Canada. The few setbacks were just enough to keep James Fenimore Cooper interesting. But all those triumphs did come at a cost–quite literally. Waging a world war is expensive. Britain’s national debt nearly doubled in those seven years, from 72 million pounds to 129 million.

Nor could its new Canadian empire immediately recoup the expenses. Maple syrup was not likely to become a staple of the British diet. Compelling some British regiments to wear bearskin hats would not quickly offset the cost of taking Quebec. Furthermore, peace was no bargain either. To garrison Canada and protect the American colonies from the tribes of the original landlords, a standing army of 10,000 men would be required and at a cost of 200,000 pounds a year. The Exchequer thought “Would it be too much to expect those loyal and grateful colonists to defer some of that cost?” So, on this day in 1765, Parliament passed the Stamp Act.

The surchanges on printed material, ranging from a half-penny to a shilling, was expected to raise 70,000 pounds a year. That was one third of what Britain would spend to protect the colonists. However, the Stamp Act raised rebellion rather than revenues. No matter how legitimate the expenses, the Americans did not like having taxes imposed upon them. It was a violation of their rights or at least British etiquette: no taxation without representation. Parliament backed down and repealed the Stamp Act, but the national debt could not be easily cancelled. Since the Americans had actually started the French and Indian War, and had simply dragged Britain into it, the Crown felt justified in asking the colonists, “Would you like to pay for your damn war?” But the colonists felt free to say, “No.” Neither George III nor his Tory ministers had the tact or charm to coax the Americans into compromise. (A Whig government would have.) The pompous, badgering presumptions of the Tory government drove America to Revolution.

Ironically, while Britain was losing money and colonies in North America, it was making a fortune in India. The management of the subcontinent was completely different: greedy, amoral, ruthless and so obviously successful. Britain basically subcontracted the control of India to a corporation: the East India Company. The British company was the Halliburton of its day, a private business with a lucrative–really quite incestuous–arrangement with the Crown. When its dealings required “muscle”, the Company was free to borrow the British army or navy; but the sly, insidious approach was preferred. The Company offered its services to the various rajahs and princes of India, providing “western” efficiency–at a considerable fee–while the Indian royalty was lulled into indolence and dependence. Company officials made fortunes as military advisors and tax collectors for the Rajahs. Occasionally, the incomes were so astronomical that Parliament had inquiries; after all, partners-in-crime don’t like being cheated of their share. The Company also preoccupied the Indian populace by the hallowed strategy of “divide and conquered”, princes, sects and castes were pitted against each other. And there was the company in the middle–arbitrating, encouraging and profiting.

Unfortunately for Britain, it never thought of using a similar strategy in North America. An Englishman can’t be treated like a Wog. But in hindsight, why not? What if a West India Company had been given license to manage the American colonies? The India Company approach might have set up the Lees as the Rajahs of Virginia, and then toy with the Randolphs and the Byrds about supplanting the Lees. Maryland and New Jersey would have been advised about the aggressive policies of Pennsylvania–those Quakers aren’t as pacificist as they claim–and Pennsylvania would have to be protected against its neighbors. (And New Jersey can’t really trust those Maryland Catholics.) The Dutch and the English of New York would be at each others’ throats–with only the Company to stop the bloodshed that it had incited. With 13 colonies, the Company could create and manage 52 crises–one for every direction.

And for these indispensable services, the Colonists would gladly pay pounds in taxes to the Company; and the Crown would get its share in shillings without any of the blame. Yes, the Colonists would finally catch on; Americans might have won autonomy or independence under a mystic pacifist named Lincoln. By that time, however, American taxes would have paid off Britain’s debts for several wars, and Sir Andrew Jackson would have won the battle of Old Orleans–against Napoleon.

Should we honor St. Patrick today

Just for drowning some snakes in a bay?

While you cannot contest

That the snake is a pest,

It at least kept the English away!

Euan Finn–born March 17, 1952

The Hystery of St. Patrick

And St. Patrick spoke to the Happy Hour crowd at The Drunken Druid’s Pub. “Consider all that God has to offer you.”

And the crowd grumbled, “Not that shamrock bit again.”

Patrick replied, “Obviously you are in no hurry for eternal salvation. You want immediate benefits. Okay. In my religion, we don’t have to sacrifice your good-looking virgins in the nearest bog…or anywhere. In fact, we want your homeliest ones and we’ll put them in convents.”

And the crowd considered this a miracle. But a bartending Druid challenged Patrick. “Now, what would you be wanting them homely virgins? After all, they are still our sisters.”

And Patrick answered, “We’ll guarantee them full-time work in gratifying jobs–teaching and terrorizing the children of the good-looking former virgins.”

But the Druid demanded, “But what kind of God would want a homely virgin?” And the crowd had to agree.

Patrick shrugged and said, “A Jewish one. They have the strangest taste in shiksas.”

The Druid sneered, “A Jewish God? One who can’t hold his own liquor?”

Patrick answered, “But He can make the liquor, distribute and market it!’

And so Ireland converted.

Euan the Bard

Imagine yourself a tourist in ancient Rome and you wanted to buy 15 postcards (the ones using mosaics were impressive but the postage was exorbitant). Of course, you would tell the shopkeeper, “I’d like Ides, please.”  If he were obliging, he would lift his tunic. Otherwise, he would think you a babbling idiot.

You see, Ides does not mean 15. It rather refers to the full moon by which the old Roman calendar divided the month. The similarity between month and moon is not a coincidence.

Ancient Rome was built on seven hills and an absurd lunar calendar. The Roman year had ten months as well another sixty days in winter that didn’t count. Be fair: if you were stuck using Roman numerals, you’d resort to any short cut, too. Such a slovenly, lackadaisical calendar might suit a small Tiber village or modern Italy, but not a growing empire. The government decided to organize the dead time into two new months: Ianuarius and Februarius.

That improved the bookkeeping but not the accuracy of the calendar. The Roman year was 355 days. As Rome expanded, it was coming into contact with more sophisticated systems. The Greeks had realized that a sun-based calendar was more accurate. Yet, out of self-reverence, for six centuries Rome adhered to its ridiculous calendar.

But that outdated calendar was just one tradition that Julius Caesar intended to end. While in Alexandria, Caesar was seduced by more than just Cleopatra. The city was the think tank of the ancient world. Greek science and Babylonian mathematics had produced a calendar of unequaled precision. Caesar was so impressed that he decided to impose it on the Roman world. And for some reason, people called it the Julian calendar.

(Alexandria’s scientific community also successfully promoted a chronological concept called the “week.” The seven-day period once had been dismissed as just another Jewish idiosyncrasy. But when Alexandria adopted the idea, everyone loved it.)

The Julian calendar went into effect on January 1, 45 B.C. If the Roman traditionalists had any objections, they certainly expressed them on March 15, 44 B.C.

March 10, 1536: Thomas Howard Manages to Be Born Without Committing Treason

Is decapitation hereditary?

If Thomas Howard, fourth Duke of Norfolk, were here to celebrate his 474th birthday, I would ask that question. Surely he would have noticed that much of his family–Dad, Aunt Catherine, Cousin Anne, etc.– was dying in the Tower of London rather than Norfolk. Grandfather nearly went to the block but instead spent years watching the mold on his cell walls. At the very least, being a Duke of Norfolk seemed to have some risk. So, why was the fourth Duke writing fan letters–perhaps including vague marriage proposals– to Mary, Queen of Scots? Perhaps he couldn’t help himself if decapitation is a hereditary trait. He certainly discovered that Queen Elizabeth I had a hereditary trait too: Tudor vindictiveness.  She proved that in 1572, retiring the Fourth Duke to the family vault and demoting his heirs to mere earls.  (Charles II would restore the dukedom in 1660.)

Yet, the Howards were fairly adapt at surviving.   They had been on the wrong side at the Battle of Bosworth, but switched their loyalty from York to Tudor. They could be just as flexible in theology, oscillating their piety from Rome to Canterbury to Rome. The Howards were devoutly Anglican when it came to seizing monastery lands from the Catholic Church. Once they sated themselves upon the Church’s wealth, they could be Anglicans for Henry VIII and Edward VI; they could be Catholics for Mary. (Caught between Elizabeth and Mary Stuart, they tried being everything. That proved tricky.) Had the Ottoman fleet sailed up the Thames, the ingratiating Howards probably would have become the Emirs of Norfolk.

In the 17th century, when the reigning Stuarts were subconscious or covert Catholics, the Dukes of Norfolk felt safe to resume their Catholicism. For the last three centuries, they have avoided any unpleasant stays in the Tower. And yes, the Howards are still the Dukes of Norfolk.