Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Satan in American Politics: The Civil War

As the country lurches into an election year, and the rhetoric turns even uglier and more sour than it is now (!) I thought it might be fun to take a look back. We tackled presidential antichrists already, so I wanted to create a series of posts about Big Red and his role in American Politics throughout history. Above is an 1865 lithograph by John L. Magee of Philadelphia. Note the peacock feather. A possible explanation from Alarms and Discursions by GK Chesterton:

In a very old ninth-century illumination which I have seen, depicting the war of the rebel angels in heaven, Satan is represented as distributing to his followers peacock feathers--the symbols of an evil pride.

Below we have an opposing viewpoint, John Brown's Entrance Into Hell -- an 1863 song sheet by the printer "C.T.A." of Baltimore, MD (Maryland, you'll remember, stayed in the Union but had decidedly mixed loyalties).
The thing takes a foreboding turn when Satan announces:

You'll take your seat at my left hand,
Why I do this you'll understand;
Be not surprised, when I tell you,
Old Abraham is coming too.

So the devil has a space on his right side waiting for the president. C.T.A. prints this thing two years before Lincoln's assassination. And even before war had broken out people were using this kind of rhetoric. In 1858 a man named Abraham Smith sent a letter to Lincoln, then running against Stephen Douglas, stating:

But Douglas is a cuning dog & the devil is on his side-- As I view the contest (tho we say it is between Douglass & Lincoln --) it is no less than a contest for the advancement of the kingdom of Heaven or the kingdom of Satan -- a contest for an advance or a retrograde -- in civilization -- and the fate of Douglas or Lincoln is comparatively a trifle...

The misspellings and crazy punctuation are the author's own. Read the whole thing here. Lincoln received other letters like this. Professor Jupiter Hesser wrote to him, saying:

Fearlessly and in great power, a great number of the ablest Democrats, left their party, as soon she had nominated three canditates for the Presidency of the U. St., thinking -- that the Democrats Days are counted and, when I house, a party, is in discontent in itself -- its destruction is sealed. Woe! Satan knew, that he has little more time and is therefore doing the worst with the most powerful of maliciousness and spitefulness. When the Devil came to Christ in the West and showed him all the beauties of the world, if he falls down before him and adorse him -- he recieved a purpose what does the South more, or less to the Union through his satanic spirits of its leaders as to dictate with 6 or 7 Millions of inhabitans to the Union with 18-25 Millions of true Union men. If we would give up yet, we would be laught at to the end and foolt by every unjust, robbing, treacherous, (so called,) Democrats.

I think some of this found its way into one of Ann Coulter's books.

And the NY Historical Society has a collection of envelopes showing devilish versions of the state seals of the confederates. Here is Louisiana, North Carolina, and Florida. My favorite picture from this collection is this one of devils snatching Confederate President Jeff Davis away to hell:

I can't completely disapprove. The Confederate states kept millions of human beings as slaves, after all. This crime, as John Brown predicted, would only be paid off with blood.

It is important to keep in mind the power of these images, however. They help whip people into a frenzy. Which is great if you no longer want to settle things through politics. If you'd rather kill young men by the thousand and the ten thousand, all over the beautiful green places of our shared country. We don't want to do that anymore. Right?

Monday, December 12, 2011

The Tell-Tale Whatever

TRUE!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses—not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

Okay, let me stop you there. Just as an FYI: You are so totally not convincing as a sane person.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

His eye? What, he had a cataract or something, and you're going to kill him? Really? Are you even listening to yourself?

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.

Let's get something clear here. There's crazy, and there's sloppy. Sloppy and crazy, crazy and sloppy. You're confusing them. Planning a dude's murder because his eye is beaming juju-rays at you is not okay if you do it in an organized way. Martha Stewart is the most together person on the planet and some of her former therapists don't even use their real names because she might find them.

Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.

At any point did you think to just... oh, I don't know... move the fuck out of your apartment? Change cities, find a new job, get a fresh start? Instead of this stalk-and-kill-the-landlord plan? Seems like you just made more work for yourself.

I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out—"Who's there?"

I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.

Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room.

Maybe the guy had a crap health plan, you know? Like, he couldn't get his eye fixed, and now you're going to kill him for it. You ever think to just put something up on the web, try to get some money raised so he could have an operation? I guess not.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily—until, at length a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over acuteness of the senses?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.

Again, you're not helping yourself with the I'm-not-balls-crazy part of your story. And are you sure the sound of that watch enveloped in cotton wasn't, well, a watch enveloped in cotton? This is the guy's bedroom, right? Did he have a dresser with some knickknacks? You should have checked this out.

But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.

So, you clearly have problem-solving skills. But you are seriously misapplying them.

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha!

Here's another hitch -- and don't think I'm try to tell you the right way to perform a homicide. But generally the idea is you get the body as far from you as possible. Fields, long-term parking lots, lakes... these are what people use. In fact I think I know where this story goes and why you're telling it to me through a metal screen.

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart,—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.

I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.

Again, I'm not really on your side here... but I need to mention some stuff. This whole sit-down-and-have-a-friendly-chat-with-our-chief-suspect thing... this is what cops do. This is every episode of Law and Order in existence. Acting all friendly is not going to save you.

No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!—

Fuck, I think there really is a watch involved. You didn't check at all, did you?

"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Well, that was... that was something. Make sure your lawyer doesn't put you on the stand, okay?

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Dickens's "A Christmas Carol" Might Save Your Life

Horrible media people have been producing TV versions of "A Christmas Carol" for as long as anyone can remember. Fonzie, Patton, and even Mr. Magoo have gotten into the act. Sitcoms have parodied it beyond recognition. And now you store it in your brain next to the felonious Grinch and terrifying claymation Rudolph. And this is sad, because Christmas is filled with trite and saccharine stories. But "A Christmas Carol" is not one of them.

The tale is not just about being nice around the holidays. It's about the nature of good and evil. About how we distinguish one from the other. The key is to realize that there is really only one proper ghost in this story - the disembodied spirit of Jacob Marley. What are the others - Christmas Past, Present, and Yet To Come? They're not ghosts as we normally think of them. They're allegorical representations, like Ignorance and Want, the two sickly children who appear clinging to the robes of Christmas Present just as the plot takes that dark turn. But more than that, they each represent a specific imaginative leap. And the genius of them is that they represent a leap we all take every day.

In a moment you can call up your own Fezziwig, the boisterous and kindly boss. You can imagine the party you aren't attending, going on right now -- and what they might say about you there. You can think about your own death, and the possibility that someone somewhere might actually be relieved about it.

The spirits reveal no great secrets to Ebeneezer Scrooge. They only reveal that other people exist, that they live their own lives beyond our reach. With the smallest effort we could imagine what they might -- what they must -- be doing. How we've helped them or hurt them. How they're getting on. And that little bit of imagination is everything. It is the first thing the Golden Rule commands. Before you know how to do unto others... you must start by thinking of them, by putting yourself in their place. All else follows. Even Dickens's vision of hell seems to indicate this: being forced to wander a world of people you are noticing for the first time, now powerless to help them in any way.

Dickens rescues the humanity of the season, which is usually lost in the shopping and party-going and even the religious ceremony with its incense and self-righteousness, and its porcelain Baby Jesuses. He reminds us that we don't live alone, that we are all "fellow-travellers to the grave." The ghosts haunt us, because they should. And they are everywhere.
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