As students of history know, 150 years ago the French historian Alexis de Tocqueville spent a great deal of time traveling our young and vibrant nation. Among the many insights de Tocqueville had into this country was the recognition that, for all its grittiness and promise, America was not immune from the same follies that have plagued nations since the dawn of time. Among the problems he foresaw was the emergence of a form of "soft despotism" in which a paternalistic government would take control of society from an enfeebled people that was sapped of its own vitality and self-confidence. And all that stood between America and the voluntary surrender of liberty to a state eager to enhance power over an increasingly dependent population was the invigorating "habits of the heart" he saw in our 19th Century ancestors.
Unfortunately, our modern educational system doesn't seem to teach history very well. And among the insights most students of today never read is de Tocqueville's warning about what happens to a society in which citizens look to their government, rather than to themselves, to satisfy their needs and wants:
"After having thus successively taken each member of the community in its powerful grasp and fashioned him at will, the supreme power then extends its arm over the whole community. It covers the surface of society with a network of small complicated rules, minute and uniform, through which the most original minds and the most energetic characters cannot penetrate, to rise above the crowd. The will of man is not shattered, but softened, bent, and guided; men are seldom forced by it to act, but they are constantly restrained from acting. Such a power does not destroy, but it prevents existence; it does not tyrannize, but it compresses, enervates, extinguishes, and stupefies a people, till each nation is reduced to nothing better than a flock of timid and industrious animals, of which the government is the shepherd."
Alexis de Tocqueville, Democracy in America
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
In Praise of Heroes
Safe in our modern sophisicated cubicles, we like to think that we are the most enlighted and best educated people in the history of our planet. Attempting to convince ourselves that we of the Modern Age are free from the mythologies of the past, we have deconstructed most of our history and our heritage: not content with acknowledging the flaws of our Founders, many modern scholars parse through the history books looking for icons to shatter, much like the vanguard of the Inquisition sought to destroy all vestiges of the past from the lands of the people they conquered. The loss of the Library of Alexandria, or the Mayan codices, caused incalcuable loss to the history of civilization --- a loss occasioned, in large part, by the belief that the amassed wisdom of an alien population could offer nothing to the modern era...whether that "modern era" was seeking to destroy the lies of the devil, or the culture of a vanquished people.
It is, perhaps, a conceit that seems peculiar to our era that the myths and legends of our own past serve no useful purpose for our Modern Age. But if we look to the past, we see that each thriving culture nurtures and cherishes those myths that bind people together, and that loss of that common heritage --- whether through conquest or self-denegration --- often precedes the unraveling of a civilization.
In this country, it has become fashionable to look upon our American legends as little more than lies told to justify the status quo. But this view of our past overlooks the truth that our own era is less than perfect --- and that if judged by the standards of some future day, by people too small-minded to view us within the context of our own times, it is unlikely that we will measure up nearly as well.
Among our many modern faults is that we often fail to recognize is that each thriving culture needs its heroes, and its legends. Modern-day America is not different in that regard than ancient Rome, or the Native Americans, whose myths and legends we now see as quaint and charming, without understanding that they were the glue that held their culture together. And by casting off those that have sustained us for our first two centuries, we are sailing into dangerous waters...having just tossed our compass overboard.
Today marks the anniversary of the event that sparked one such myth: the "eighteenth of April" was the date of Paul Revere's ride through the countryside to warn the people that British troops were on the march. Longfellow's poem was not exactly a precise historical account: he neglected to mention other riders that night, or the various misadventures that beset them along the way. But it is stirring, and it is patriotic --- and despite the literary license it takes with the facts, it speaks more to what it means to be an American than most of the dreadfully dry and politically correct history books we inflict upon our young.
The poem was once required reading for all schoolchildren; it is a pity that today, so few of us blessed to live in the greatest country Planet Earth has yet produced have ever actually read it.
Paul Revere's Ride
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
It is, perhaps, a conceit that seems peculiar to our era that the myths and legends of our own past serve no useful purpose for our Modern Age. But if we look to the past, we see that each thriving culture nurtures and cherishes those myths that bind people together, and that loss of that common heritage --- whether through conquest or self-denegration --- often precedes the unraveling of a civilization.
In this country, it has become fashionable to look upon our American legends as little more than lies told to justify the status quo. But this view of our past overlooks the truth that our own era is less than perfect --- and that if judged by the standards of some future day, by people too small-minded to view us within the context of our own times, it is unlikely that we will measure up nearly as well.
Among our many modern faults is that we often fail to recognize is that each thriving culture needs its heroes, and its legends. Modern-day America is not different in that regard than ancient Rome, or the Native Americans, whose myths and legends we now see as quaint and charming, without understanding that they were the glue that held their culture together. And by casting off those that have sustained us for our first two centuries, we are sailing into dangerous waters...having just tossed our compass overboard.
Today marks the anniversary of the event that sparked one such myth: the "eighteenth of April" was the date of Paul Revere's ride through the countryside to warn the people that British troops were on the march. Longfellow's poem was not exactly a precise historical account: he neglected to mention other riders that night, or the various misadventures that beset them along the way. But it is stirring, and it is patriotic --- and despite the literary license it takes with the facts, it speaks more to what it means to be an American than most of the dreadfully dry and politically correct history books we inflict upon our young.
The poem was once required reading for all schoolchildren; it is a pity that today, so few of us blessed to live in the greatest country Planet Earth has yet produced have ever actually read it.
Paul Revere's Ride
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.
He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."
Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.
Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.
Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.
Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.
Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.
A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.
It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.
It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.
It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.
You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.
So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
The Federalist, No 62, by James Madison
Among the priceless treasures of American history is work collectively known as The Federalist, written while the adoption of our Constitution was still a matter of public controversy. Some, looking to the chaos and confusion stemming from trying to govern thirteen unruly colonies under the weak and ineffective Articles of Confederation, believed that only a united government could keep America strong and free—or, in the words of the Preamble, to “secure the Blessings of Liberty for ourselves and our Posterity.” Others, the Anti-Federalists, feared that a strong, centralized government would be a vehicle for tyrants to impose their will on the population.
In the ensuing public debate, a writer known only as Publius, wrote a series of persuasive essays, pointing out the benefits on the new federal constitution, as well as explaining its provisions to the reading audience. In truth, the essays were written by three giants of American history: James Madison, who would become our fourth president; Alexander Hamilton, who would become our first Secretary of the Treasury; and John Jay, who would become the first Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.
In the sixty-second essay, James Madison explained the purpose and theory behind having a second house in the Legislature, which the proposed Constitution called the Senate. Among its benefits was intended to be to lend a degree of stability to the new government: since its members would serve six-year terms, he argued, they would be more inclined to take a broader view—and would serve as a brake upon the House of Representatives, which—being elected every two years (and expected to have a high turnover, service in the House being perceived as a sacrifice for those elected to serve), would lack the institutional memory needed to keep the young nation on a steady course.
To the modern reader, such concerns may seem prophetic—for Madison wrote of the need of the nation to avoid being “inconstant” or to “carry on...affairs without any plan at all,” to escape becoming “a speedy victimness to...unsteadiness and folly.” A constant parade of ever-changing laws and regulations, he feared, would give the “moneyed few” a distinct and unconscionable advantage over the industrious masses—for money would enable the elites to monitor and manipulate changes in the laws to their own advantage, while leaving the rest of the country in scrounging for a living in the dust and mud. And constantly changing laws would “be so voluminous that they cannot be read, or so incoherent that they cannot be understood,” leaving the “prudent merchant” or farmer or manufacturer reluctant to “hazard his fortunes” on any new enterprise, mindful of the fact that the laws were as variable as the wind, and that his fortunes would always be at the mercy of “an inconstant government.”
Like many passages in the Federalist, Number 62 is remarkable for its concise logic, the gracefulness of its expression, and the persuasive quality of the writing. It is also among the most prescient and insightful commentaries on the risks of self-government—and its lessons about incoherent and intrusive laws appear to have been forgotten, when they should be required reading for everyone, most particularly those who aspire to take upon themselves the responsibility to write our laws and set our policies.
From The Federalist, No. 62, by James Madison:
To trace the mischievous effects of a mutable government would fill a volume. I will hint a few only, each of which will be perceived to be a source of innumerable others.
In the first place, it forfeits the respect and confidence of other nations, and all the advantages connected with national character. An individual who is observed to be inconstant to his plans, or perhaps to carry on his affairs without any plan at all, is marked at once, by all prudent people, as a speedy victim to his own unsteadiness and folly. His more friendly neighbors may pity him, but all will decline to connect their fortunes with his; and not a few will seize the opportunity of making their fortunes out of his. One nation is to another what one individual is to another; with this melancholy distinction perhaps, that the former, with fewer of the benevolent emotions than the latter, are under fewer restraints also from taking undue advantage from the indiscretions of each other. Every nation, consequently, whose affairs betray a want of wisdom and stability, may calculate on every loss which can be sustained from the more systematic policy of their wiser neighbors. But the best instruction on this subject is unhappily conveyed to America by the example of her own situation. She finds that she is held in no respect by her friends; that she is the derision of her enemies; and that she is a prey to every nation which has an interest in speculating on her fluctuating councils and embarrassed affairs.
The internal effects of a mutable policy are still more calamitous. It poisons the blessing of liberty itself. It will be of little avail to the people, that the laws are made by men of their own choice, if the laws be so voluminous that they cannot be read, or so incoherent that they cannot be understood; if they be repealed or revised before they are promulgated, or undergo such incessant changes that no man, who knows what the law is to-day, can guess what it will be to-morrow. Law is defined to be a rule of action; but how can that be a rule, which is little known, and less fixed?
Another effect of public instability is the unreasonable advantage it gives to the sagacious, the enterprising, and the moneyed few over the industrious and uniformed mass of the people. Every new regulation concerning commerce or revenue, or in any way affecting the value of the different species of property, presents a new harvest to those who watch the change, and can trace its consequences; a harvest, reared not by themselves, but by the toils and cares of the great body of their fellow-citizens. This is a state of things in which it may be said with some truth that laws are made for the few, not for the many.
In another point of view, great injury results from an unstable government. The want of confidence in the public councils damps every useful undertaking, the success and profit of which may depend on a continuance of existing arrangements. What prudent merchant will hazard his fortunes in any new branch of commerce when he knows not but that his plans may be rendered unlawful before they can be executed? What farmer or manufacturer will lay himself out for the encouragement given to any particular cultivation or establishment, when he can have no assurance that his preparatory labors and advances will not render him a victim to an inconstant government? In a word, no great improvement or laudable enterprise can go forward which requires the auspices of a steady system of national policy.
But the most deplorable effect of all is that diminution of attachment and reverence which steals into the hearts of the people, towards a political system which betrays so many marks of infirmity, and disappoints so many of their flattering hopes. No government, any more than an individual, will long be respected without being truly respectable; nor be truly respectable, without possessing a certain portion of order and stability.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
In the ensuing public debate, a writer known only as Publius, wrote a series of persuasive essays, pointing out the benefits on the new federal constitution, as well as explaining its provisions to the reading audience. In truth, the essays were written by three giants of American history: James Madison, who would become our fourth president; Alexander Hamilton, who would become our first Secretary of the Treasury; and John Jay, who would become the first Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court.
In the sixty-second essay, James Madison explained the purpose and theory behind having a second house in the Legislature, which the proposed Constitution called the Senate. Among its benefits was intended to be to lend a degree of stability to the new government: since its members would serve six-year terms, he argued, they would be more inclined to take a broader view—and would serve as a brake upon the House of Representatives, which—being elected every two years (and expected to have a high turnover, service in the House being perceived as a sacrifice for those elected to serve), would lack the institutional memory needed to keep the young nation on a steady course.
To the modern reader, such concerns may seem prophetic—for Madison wrote of the need of the nation to avoid being “inconstant” or to “carry on...affairs without any plan at all,” to escape becoming “a speedy victimness to...unsteadiness and folly.” A constant parade of ever-changing laws and regulations, he feared, would give the “moneyed few” a distinct and unconscionable advantage over the industrious masses—for money would enable the elites to monitor and manipulate changes in the laws to their own advantage, while leaving the rest of the country in scrounging for a living in the dust and mud. And constantly changing laws would “be so voluminous that they cannot be read, or so incoherent that they cannot be understood,” leaving the “prudent merchant” or farmer or manufacturer reluctant to “hazard his fortunes” on any new enterprise, mindful of the fact that the laws were as variable as the wind, and that his fortunes would always be at the mercy of “an inconstant government.”
Like many passages in the Federalist, Number 62 is remarkable for its concise logic, the gracefulness of its expression, and the persuasive quality of the writing. It is also among the most prescient and insightful commentaries on the risks of self-government—and its lessons about incoherent and intrusive laws appear to have been forgotten, when they should be required reading for everyone, most particularly those who aspire to take upon themselves the responsibility to write our laws and set our policies.
From The Federalist, No. 62, by James Madison:
To trace the mischievous effects of a mutable government would fill a volume. I will hint a few only, each of which will be perceived to be a source of innumerable others.
In the first place, it forfeits the respect and confidence of other nations, and all the advantages connected with national character. An individual who is observed to be inconstant to his plans, or perhaps to carry on his affairs without any plan at all, is marked at once, by all prudent people, as a speedy victim to his own unsteadiness and folly. His more friendly neighbors may pity him, but all will decline to connect their fortunes with his; and not a few will seize the opportunity of making their fortunes out of his. One nation is to another what one individual is to another; with this melancholy distinction perhaps, that the former, with fewer of the benevolent emotions than the latter, are under fewer restraints also from taking undue advantage from the indiscretions of each other. Every nation, consequently, whose affairs betray a want of wisdom and stability, may calculate on every loss which can be sustained from the more systematic policy of their wiser neighbors. But the best instruction on this subject is unhappily conveyed to America by the example of her own situation. She finds that she is held in no respect by her friends; that she is the derision of her enemies; and that she is a prey to every nation which has an interest in speculating on her fluctuating councils and embarrassed affairs.
The internal effects of a mutable policy are still more calamitous. It poisons the blessing of liberty itself. It will be of little avail to the people, that the laws are made by men of their own choice, if the laws be so voluminous that they cannot be read, or so incoherent that they cannot be understood; if they be repealed or revised before they are promulgated, or undergo such incessant changes that no man, who knows what the law is to-day, can guess what it will be to-morrow. Law is defined to be a rule of action; but how can that be a rule, which is little known, and less fixed?
Another effect of public instability is the unreasonable advantage it gives to the sagacious, the enterprising, and the moneyed few over the industrious and uniformed mass of the people. Every new regulation concerning commerce or revenue, or in any way affecting the value of the different species of property, presents a new harvest to those who watch the change, and can trace its consequences; a harvest, reared not by themselves, but by the toils and cares of the great body of their fellow-citizens. This is a state of things in which it may be said with some truth that laws are made for the few, not for the many.
In another point of view, great injury results from an unstable government. The want of confidence in the public councils damps every useful undertaking, the success and profit of which may depend on a continuance of existing arrangements. What prudent merchant will hazard his fortunes in any new branch of commerce when he knows not but that his plans may be rendered unlawful before they can be executed? What farmer or manufacturer will lay himself out for the encouragement given to any particular cultivation or establishment, when he can have no assurance that his preparatory labors and advances will not render him a victim to an inconstant government? In a word, no great improvement or laudable enterprise can go forward which requires the auspices of a steady system of national policy.
But the most deplorable effect of all is that diminution of attachment and reverence which steals into the hearts of the people, towards a political system which betrays so many marks of infirmity, and disappoints so many of their flattering hopes. No government, any more than an individual, will long be respected without being truly respectable; nor be truly respectable, without possessing a certain portion of order and stability.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
Sunday, September 26, 2010
The War on Laughter
The impulse to control others seems inbred in some of us. I've always suspect that it burns with particular fervor in the hearts of those intent on saving humanity from itself, and willing to force the rest of us to endure hardships fof our own good. In some dark corner among those self-annointed saviors, there are things beyond their comprehension, that they feel the urge to crush in their fellow human beings...laughter and joy foremost among them.
In this country, we can see it in the self-righteous prudishness of true believers of many different stripes, religious as well as secular. Perhaps because of an emptiness in their own souls there is, among some eager to save the world, a bitter undercurrent of resentment that people can smile amid sorrow, or find joy and pleasure in life when misery exists all around them. Among the truly serious-minded, laughter is a frivolity that must never intrude on the task at hand...whatever that task might be. Thus, some religions ban dancing and frown on music; and some secular "true believers" would ban any form of entertainment---from video games to musical genres---that conflict with their vision of what the "correct society" would look like.
Fortunately, Americans traditionally have little patience with busybodies, and usually ignore them. But that tactic carries its own risks: while most of us are too busy living to worry about what other people are doing for fun, the busybodies are too busy fretting to have much of a life---and, unfortunately, busybodies with nothing to divert their attention can still manage to capture the ears of our politicians, who are too busy running for office to waste time thinking. The growth of the Nanny State is one outcome, one that we are free to ridicule and, if it gets out of hand, to change. The rest of the world isn't always as lucky: totalitarians, it seems, are puritans at heart, and tend to take a dim view of joy and laughter.
In Soviet Russia, the communists reduced art and literature to propaganda arms of the state. Lenin, its founder, dismissed music as tending to make people soft-hearted and tender---hardly the sort to kill each other for the sake of making a revolution. Islamic fundamentalists seem enraged by the tendency of ordinary people to savor the joys of life: Aytollah Khomeini, the founder of the theocracy that currently rules Iran, once remarked that "Allah did not create man so that he could have fun"; rather, the whole point of creation was to put us through "hardship and prayer." While this may explain a lot about the regime's behavior during the past thirty years, it doesn't make them easier to live with. And the Chinese, though discarding Mao's approach to economics, seem to be adopting his approach to dealing with humorous irreverence, silencing one of their people's favorite comics---a gifted comedian named Guo Degang---for committing the offense of Wit Against the State.
In the end, I suspect that the self-annointed saviors of the world are fighting a losing battle. The human spirit is stronger than any attempt to stamp it out. Joy is, in the end, a more attractive lure than the promise of endless misery. And ridicule being the best weapon in the battle against pomposity, laughter will always prevail over prudishness.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
In this country, we can see it in the self-righteous prudishness of true believers of many different stripes, religious as well as secular. Perhaps because of an emptiness in their own souls there is, among some eager to save the world, a bitter undercurrent of resentment that people can smile amid sorrow, or find joy and pleasure in life when misery exists all around them. Among the truly serious-minded, laughter is a frivolity that must never intrude on the task at hand...whatever that task might be. Thus, some religions ban dancing and frown on music; and some secular "true believers" would ban any form of entertainment---from video games to musical genres---that conflict with their vision of what the "correct society" would look like.
Fortunately, Americans traditionally have little patience with busybodies, and usually ignore them. But that tactic carries its own risks: while most of us are too busy living to worry about what other people are doing for fun, the busybodies are too busy fretting to have much of a life---and, unfortunately, busybodies with nothing to divert their attention can still manage to capture the ears of our politicians, who are too busy running for office to waste time thinking. The growth of the Nanny State is one outcome, one that we are free to ridicule and, if it gets out of hand, to change. The rest of the world isn't always as lucky: totalitarians, it seems, are puritans at heart, and tend to take a dim view of joy and laughter.
In Soviet Russia, the communists reduced art and literature to propaganda arms of the state. Lenin, its founder, dismissed music as tending to make people soft-hearted and tender---hardly the sort to kill each other for the sake of making a revolution. Islamic fundamentalists seem enraged by the tendency of ordinary people to savor the joys of life: Aytollah Khomeini, the founder of the theocracy that currently rules Iran, once remarked that "Allah did not create man so that he could have fun"; rather, the whole point of creation was to put us through "hardship and prayer." While this may explain a lot about the regime's behavior during the past thirty years, it doesn't make them easier to live with. And the Chinese, though discarding Mao's approach to economics, seem to be adopting his approach to dealing with humorous irreverence, silencing one of their people's favorite comics---a gifted comedian named Guo Degang---for committing the offense of Wit Against the State.
In the end, I suspect that the self-annointed saviors of the world are fighting a losing battle. The human spirit is stronger than any attempt to stamp it out. Joy is, in the end, a more attractive lure than the promise of endless misery. And ridicule being the best weapon in the battle against pomposity, laughter will always prevail over prudishness.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
A New Addition to the Family
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For good or ill, we're often defined by those we share our lives with. Others may judge us by the company we keep, and those we choose as friends can offer insights into our hearts that a simple conversation can never reveal. And, after all, those who lay down with dogs shouldn't be surprised if they have to live with fleas. Which brings us to today.Until this past winter, Nonie and I had never been without a dog. Our first dog was Honey --- a pet she inserted into our marriage (against her new husband's wishes), because she couldn't bear the thought of seeing the poor creature put down. She'd had a rough upbringing, wasn't completely housebroken, was afraid of her shadow, and was, in essence, the world's wimpiest dog. She was also one of the canine world's great escape artists, vowing at an early age that no fence could hold her. But, she had a good heart and, though I would have much preferred starting out a new marriage with a new puppy, she managed to infiltrate our house to the extent that evicting her became impossible. Kind of like the stepchildren of a new spouse, stepchildren, except that stepkids usually don't pee all over everything.
Shortly after Honey and I can to a grudging truce, another dog appeared at our house...again, courtesy of my wife, who apparently was unable to resist taking any stray home with her. (I was too kind-hearted to demand that she take the intruder immediately to the pound. It is a persistent shortcoming of mine --- one that I've been working to remedy --- but on this occasion I could only grunt and resign myself to more years of living pergatory). Skipper was peppy, and filled with a zest for life. He was also far more fearless than his small size warranted, showing a willingness to take on (and get tossed about) by dogs twice his size, without the slightest inclination to learn from his experience and adopt a more discreet attitude about defending the world from other dogs. He did like Honey, however, and would growl at salesmen who overstayed their welcome. The two of them formed a real odd couple, and were with us for many years.
When Honey finally died at a ripe old age, the family was finally ready to exist as Nature intended: with one dog. Since this state of affairs proved intolerable to at least one member of our household, however, I soon found a small beagle puppy named Daisy gracing our house. A bout with parvo virus and extensive vet's bills later, she was a fully functioning member of the family...running off following her nose whenever possible. Though not an escape artist, she would usually take off for hours at the Yanik Family Farm...usually just before we wanted to leave. On one of these adventures, she led an aging Skipper on a merry adventure, through fields and forests, and causing a forest-full of worry for Nonie, who does not take kindly to any misadventure visited upon any of her pets.We found both dogs a bit later...courtesy of neighbors by the farm, who called the number on their dog tags. Daisy, a healthy young dog, was none the worse for the wear; Skipper, the old codger, didn't fare quite as well. He died a few months later --- although not directly from his ordeal: it weakened an already aging dog, and probably shortened his life. But I suspect he found the freedom of wandering about to be quite an adventure.
Obviously, something had to change...and, true to form, one day Nonie came home with a puppy she'd stumbled across at the soccer field. A cute, rolling ball of fuzz that resembled a small golden retriever. But, apparently a lot more domestically astute than her clueless husband, her approach to smuggling newcomers into the house had become far more sophisticated. This time, she took care to introduce the animal to our two small kids first. And, realizing at once that she'd managed to turn my flank yet again, there was little to do but groan and accept the reality that the little fuzz ball would be around for a while. We named her Callie.Daisy and Callie were with us together for many years. Daisy seemed to be a magnet for misadventure and played the part of the animal world's Don Knotts. She was also stubborn as a mule, liked to howl, and tended to venture off on any scent trail that crossed her path. Callie, on the other hand, was sociable and loved to play fetch. She also loved camping, and accompanied us on many of our most memorable trips. We lost them over the course of the last two years---Callie two years ago at Christmas; and Daisy earlier this year, as we were getting our new house ready. Both dogs would have loved the new place: plenty of room, and lots of interesting smells. And their shadows will still haunt our memories.
Since we moved, Nonie has been increasingly agitated, insisting that the absence of a canine presence meant that the new place was seriously understaffed. For myself, I appreciated the respite, the lack of drool, and the absence of crap in the yard. Today, though, the Zoo had one of its many pet adoption events...and so we drove to Royal Oak to see if any of the animals struck our fancy.
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There were, of course, the beagles: sweet and serene, pleading to be taken home. There were even two adorable beagle puppies---eight weeks old, and cute as the dickens. We do, after all, have 4-1/2 acres for a dog to explore. But with their tendency to roam---and with horses nearby---we weren't quite sure that a beagle would be our best bet..JPG)
We saw a number of other nice dogs...of various cross-breeds. In the end, Nonie was drawn to a black lab mix...with a sweet disposition and an eagerness to please. It's also a male...which will be quite a switch, since nearly all the dogs I've had (all but Skipper) have been girls.
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The animal shelter named him "Bosley"...a name I like, and would just as soon keep. I think it has just the right mixture of whimsy to suit him.
Alana thinks we should call him "Buster" (possibly after the Mythbusters test dummy...though I'm not sure she had that Buster in mind). I suspect "Buster" will prevail.
So...welcome Bosley. Or Buster. Or Whatever.
And if it's not too much trouble, please try to keep the crap outside.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
The Time Portal
Part of being human is experiencing the constant pull of emotions. As we grow, our experiences blend into the montage that becomes "me". And throughout our lives, we often trigger memories that call to mind earlier days. Some of these memories can be sad or scary; others cause our eyes to mist and our throats to swell, as we recall bygone days that are special.
Much of my childhood was spent playing sports. I passed most of my summers playing baseball, often at the ball diamond adjoining the local elementary school. But come September, a chill would creep into the air, and the wistfulness at the end of summer would make way for a new sport: football.
I played organized football for a few seasons, but soon found it too regimented for my tastes: the coaches were usually drill-sergeant wannabees, and the plays they insisted we run largely reduced us to the status of machines: cogs in their own visions of glory. I was always a good athlete, playing both offense and defense in various positions; and I was the team's punter as well. But I soon found myself bored by the routine and grind of practice. By the time I reached high school, I found that playing with my friends was a lot more fun than being screamed at by adults. And so I came to spend most autumn afternoons after school on the field adjoining that same old elementary school...running and passing and punting until dark.
When I think back on all the memories of my youth, the purest joys I had came from things we kids could do on our own, when we escaped the world of adults and family responsibilities and just played together as friends.
Seasons come and go throughout our lives; and as we grow older our responsibilities grow with us. But for me, the cool crispness of freshly mowed grass on a sunny September afternoon will always call to mind touch football...and a young boy too busy having fun to worry about the burdens of adulthood that were looming in the shadows.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
Much of my childhood was spent playing sports. I passed most of my summers playing baseball, often at the ball diamond adjoining the local elementary school. But come September, a chill would creep into the air, and the wistfulness at the end of summer would make way for a new sport: football.
I played organized football for a few seasons, but soon found it too regimented for my tastes: the coaches were usually drill-sergeant wannabees, and the plays they insisted we run largely reduced us to the status of machines: cogs in their own visions of glory. I was always a good athlete, playing both offense and defense in various positions; and I was the team's punter as well. But I soon found myself bored by the routine and grind of practice. By the time I reached high school, I found that playing with my friends was a lot more fun than being screamed at by adults. And so I came to spend most autumn afternoons after school on the field adjoining that same old elementary school...running and passing and punting until dark.
When I think back on all the memories of my youth, the purest joys I had came from things we kids could do on our own, when we escaped the world of adults and family responsibilities and just played together as friends.
Seasons come and go throughout our lives; and as we grow older our responsibilities grow with us. But for me, the cool crispness of freshly mowed grass on a sunny September afternoon will always call to mind touch football...and a young boy too busy having fun to worry about the burdens of adulthood that were looming in the shadows.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Burning Books Instead of Reading Them
In one of the low moments of our current interval of xenophobic exhuberance, it seems that a church in Florida is planning to reinstitute a centuries-old tradition of small-minded people throughout the ages: burning books they don't like.
In 1821, the writer Heinrich Heine wrote: "Where they burn books, they will end in burning human beings." We regard the Nazi book-burning rituals with horror: one of my favorite lines from the last Indiana Jones movie has Sean Connery telling one of the evil Nazis that "goose-stepping morons like yourself should try reading books instead of burning them". And Ray Bradbury's novel Fahrenheit 451 gave us a vision of a futuristic society where the authorities institutionalized the practice of burning books they deemed unfit to read. I find it depressing that in the 21st Century America---the Land of Liberty and home of the First Amendment---we are facing the prospect of another round of book-burning.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
In 1821, the writer Heinrich Heine wrote: "Where they burn books, they will end in burning human beings." We regard the Nazi book-burning rituals with horror: one of my favorite lines from the last Indiana Jones movie has Sean Connery telling one of the evil Nazis that "goose-stepping morons like yourself should try reading books instead of burning them". And Ray Bradbury's novel Fahrenheit 451 gave us a vision of a futuristic society where the authorities institutionalized the practice of burning books they deemed unfit to read. I find it depressing that in the 21st Century America---the Land of Liberty and home of the First Amendment---we are facing the prospect of another round of book-burning.
JEFFREY CAMINSKY, a retired public prosecutor from Michigan, writes on a wide range of topics. His books include the science fiction adventure novel The Star Dancers, the exciting second volume in the Guardians of Peace-tm series, The Sonnets of William Shakespeare, and the acclaimed Referee’s Survival Guide, a book on soccer officiating. All are published by New Alexandria Press, and are available on Amazon, as well as directly from the publisher.
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