Lift Up Your Hearts!

Ours is a very safe neighborhood, so I rarely worry when Porter goes out for a run, as he does several times a week. If the time of day happens to be dusk or dawn, I can't resist warning him to watch out for bears, and of course there's always the risk of angering a dog that's running loose. But we've always considered those to be remote possibilities.

The attack, when it came, was totally unexpected.

Due to a mild injury, Porter chose to walk this afternoon, rather than to speed along at his usual running pace. Suddenly, he staggered under a powerful blow to the head. Totally out of the blue. Literally, out of the blue. Shocked but still upright, he looked up to see one of our local hawks with murder in his eye. In truth, Porter coudn't exactly see the bird's eyes, and in any case it was probably murder in her eye. Our best guess is that there was a nest nearby and the—not helicopter, but certainly hovering—parent saw this slow-moving, strange man as a threat. The man thought it best to be on his way quickly.

Porter wears a hat when he runs, to keep off the sun. I rarely wear hats, because they make me too hot. Today, Porter's choice was vindicated.

I suppose writing a history book is like making a sculpture: the art comes from choosing what to leave out. And critics will always quarrel with your choices.

I've mentioned recently how much I'm enjoying Isaac Asimov's four-part book series on American history. The fact that it was written in the early to mid-1970's I have not found to be a hindrance; indeed, I appreciate that he does not write with the stridency I'm accustomed to from modern commentators on our history. His language sometimes reveals that these are older books—using the term "Indian" rather than "Native American," for example—but he uses what was considered right at the time, and can't be held responsible for our subsequent preferences.

As I finished the section on Andrew Jackson, however, I realized with a shock that Asimov had omitted a term that could not be left out of a history of Jackson's administration today: the Trail of Tears.

In Jackson's administration, the long martyrdom of the Indians reached a new stage. By now, the Indians remaining in the various states of the Union were, for the most part, helpless before the organized power of the White Man. They could no longer fight wars; they could only appeal to the courts.

When gold was discovered in Georgia on land which had been assigned to the Cherokee tribe, the White Man moved in, and the treaties with the Indians were torn up as casually and as callously as were all such treaties both before and after. The Indians sued and the case went to the Supreme Court. Eventually, old John Marshall decided that it was the federal government that ruled over Indian territories, and that Georgia's laws against the Cherokees were unconstitutional.

Georgia defied the judgment and Jackson refused to do anything about it. That old Indian-fighter was not in office to uphold the Red Man against the White Man. He is reported to have said, "John Marshall has made his decision, now let him enforce it!"

Indeed, what Jackson pushed for was the gradual and complete transfer of all Indians to lands west of the Mississippi. This was accomplished, gradually, but not entirely peacefully. [Emphasis mine.]

Asimov goes on to describe briefly the Black Hawk War, and the Seminole Wars, that came about as part of the process, but of the long, deadly march represented by the highlighted sentence, he says nothing. For what it's worth, according to Google Book Ngram Viewer, the use of the term "Trail of Tears" peaked in 1995.

Of all the things Asimov does not cover—in a history book one must always leave out most of what happened—this is the first that really caused me to sit up and take notice. (No, I take that back. In the first book of the series, I was surprised that he doesn't mention the Battle of Saratoga as the "Turning Point of the Revolution." He mentions the battle, and that it was a turning point, but growing up in Upstate New York, not far from Saratoga, its designation at the turning point was emphasized—it's one of the few things I remember from my history classes.)

This discovery does not sour me in any way against Asimov's books, but merely reinforces the idea that history must be approached from several angles and through many sources.

I'm currently in the third of Isaac Asimov's four-book American history series, which I will review later. I'll throw out the hint that I highly recommend it despite some obvious biases on the author's part (fairly mild, and unavoidable; that's why we need to read history from several sources). These are adult books, but easily accessible for literate middle schoolers; Asimov has the gift of speaking clearly to those without much knowledge of the subject, while not being in the least condescending—a skill all too few of us possess.

As I said, this isn't a review. But this morning I came upon some passages from a chapter on Andrew Jackson that I thought worth sharing.

The gradual democratization of the voting process had removed barriers and increased the numbers of those eligible to vote. ... The era when elections were in the hands of the educated and comparatively well-to-do was over.

This meant politicians had to vie for the votes of the uneducated and unsophisticated, and that, in turn, meant that wild accusations, exaggerations, and outright lies could be used profitably.

The 1828 elections were the first to involve the kind of dirty campaign tactics that the United States has been accustomed to ever since. [John Quincy] Adams, for instance, one of the most honest men ever to be in public life, was charged with all kinds of corruption by men who knew they were lying when they made the charges.

Jackson's inauguration marked a strong break in American tradition. Until then, the presidency had been held by men of the upper classes, bred in the cultivated tradition of the coastal regions. In the forty years since the Constitution had been adopted, the office had been held by men from Virginia for thirty-two years and by men from Massachusetts for eight years.

Jackson was from Tennessee and had been only sketchily educated. Violent and tough, he was widely known as "Old Hickory," indicating that he was as hard and rugged as the wood of the hickory tree. He was a great believer in the common man—which meant he had a certain suspicion of the educated man. Where earlier presidents could boast of family, Jackson was born in a log cabin; his success (and the growth of the voting population among the less well-to-do) made it virtually obligatory for politicians to boast of humble origins and to disclaim any pretensions to education and refinement. (Wealth was all right in itself—politicians could be rich, as long as they were crude.)

In fact, the Jacksonian Democrats' contempt for education was such that the embittered National Republicans took to symbolizing the Democratic party with a donkey, and that symbol has remained to this day.

Jackson was the first colorful president of the United States. Before him, presidents had been inaugurated in dignified seclusion; Jackson, however, invited the public into the White House to help him celebrate, and in their enthusiasm, the shouting, liquor-filled men completely ruined the furnishings.

Nor did Jackson stand on his dignity and serve merely as the grave executor of laws passed by Congress. He actively pushed for laws he wanted and unhesitatingly vetoed laws he didn't like; he was the first president to be the kind of powerful and active leader we have grown accustomed to these days. He knew he had the people with him, and he relied on them to back him against Congress and even against the Supreme Court.

Another aspect of the new democracy came about with Jackson's belief in the average man. It seemed to Jackson a matter of little importance just which man filled which governmental job. Since all men were equal, any man could do the job, so why shouldn't it go to a friend rather than to an enemy?

Until Jackson's inauguration, presidents had, more or less, followed the principle of allowing men to stay in their government jobs unless and until they displayed incompetence. ... This way of looking at public office as booty rather than as responsibility has ... been called the "spoils system" ever since. ... Jackson actually used this system only moderately, but he established the precedent.

Asimove wrote those words more than 40 years ago, but he could have penned them last week.

Here we are, nearly 200 years after the opening of the first American public high school in the United States, exactly 100 years since education became compulsory in all states, in an era of unprecedented levels of college attendance—and what have we gained? I see a few possible conclusions.

• The American public education system has failed utterly to create a general population sufficiently educated to resist the political tactics developed specifically to appeal to "the uneducated and unsophisticated."
• Despite the enormous portion of our young days given over to the educational system, that system has proved insufficent to counter other, more powerful forces that shape our national character.
• Educated, intelligent, civilized, and responsible behavior is subject to its own form of the second law of thermodynamics, and will always disintegrate into chaos without the expenditure of considerable energy.
• Asinine behavior is by no means limited to the party that first earned the donkey label.
• It's time our politicians started raising the bar, and treating the electorate as the educated populace we ought by now to be.
• It's time we starte behaving, in our political lives, like the educated populace we think we are.

As part of my research into some of the Davises in our family tree (related to David Wood, about whom I wrote before), I've been reading about early New Jersey churches. That line was primarily Baptist, and settled there to escape persecution.

Morgan Edwards' work, Materials Toward a History of the Baptists, provided amusement along with information. For example, these paragraphs about the Cohansey Baptist Church [Vol. 1, p. 89]:

In 1710 ... Rev. Timothy Brooks and his company united with this church: they had emigrated hither from Swanzey [Swansea] in Plymouth (now Massachusetts) government, about the year 1687; and had kept a separate society, for 23 years, on account of differences in opinion relative to predestination; singing psalms; laying on of hands, etc.: the uniter was Rev. Valentine Wightman, of Groton in Connecticut: the terms of union were, bearance and forbearance.

In 1714, eight Presbyterians joined this church: the occasion was a[s] follows: Mr. Wightman was invited to preach at Fairfield; but forgetting his situation, he talked away as if he had been in a baptist pulpit.

Clearly the name struck a bell, and indeed, that's our Valentine Wightman: Porter's 6th great-grandfather through his father's side; my 7th great-grandfather through my father's grandfather Willis Johnson Langdon, whose ancestors married into the Wightman line. Willis' wife, my great-grandmother, was Mary Lucy (Nellie) Wood. The Woods and the Davises of my family during that era were Baptists and Seventh-Day Baptists in that area of New Jersey, and it's likely that Mary Lucy Wood's ancestors heard Valentine Wightman preach on one of his visits. One hundred and thirty-four years after Valentine's death in 1747, their lines met when Willis and Nellie married. Ninety-four years after that, they met again when Porter and I were wed.