On this day in 1789, the royal family of France was captured as the French Revolution reached a bloody high tide. As we've seen from earlier passages from Edmund Burke's "Revolution in France," he was no fan of the events of 1789.
As a classic conservative, order was his watchword and change was not something to be entered into lightly. Burke believed that liberty was a fine thing, but only "liberty connected with order." He also believed that if a political system had lasted a long time, it must be good based upon the simple fact that it had lasted a long time. Thus, there is no need to change.
Thus. the French Revolution violated every one of Burke's cherished ideas. He was horrified over the loss of traditions and the end of the veneration of royalty. But did the world come apart when the veneration of kings and queens was cast aside? Did the loss of what Burke called "the spirit of nobility and religion" lead to a "poverty of conception, a coarseness and a vulgarity?"
Looking back over the two centuries since the French Revolution, the answer is most assuredly no.
Like all defenders of the status quo, those that benefit from the way things are tend to be the loudest defenders. To Burke, a member of the class he saw threatened by the revolution, democracy was suspect, the people were ignorant rabble that could not be trusted and only the reinforcement of the ancient ways could ensure true liberty. For those not among Burke's elect, revolution sounds like a good idea.
What happened in France was undeniably bloody, it was that way because power concedes nothing without force, and monarchy rarely steps aside peacefully. The release of long-suppressed resentments often can get out of control.
As someone who doesn't believe in infallibility of nobility and religion as organizing principles for a society, I disagree with Burke. His belief that everything respectable was destroyed in the French Revolution is simply the lament of someone who didn't recognize that the world was changing and the ground was shifting under his feet. What happened in France, as well as in the United States, was the triumph of reason over superstition, of the triumph of liberty deriving from people and not from the whim of kings.
Democracy is better than monarchy. Burke, I think, never really understood this.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
October 5: Amateur Athlete in Old Athens (Vol. 28, pp. 51-61)
English author and scholar John Henry Newman's "The Idea of a University," was written in the mid-1800s to set down his theory about education. College life in the Athens of old was a rough lot, but students put up with bad food and worse lodging to "imbibe the invisible atmosphere of genius. ... It was what the student gazed on, what he heard, what he caught by the magic of sympathy, not what he read, which was the education furnished by Athens."
To Newman, education wasn't just about books or being cloistered in a hall to study. The Athenian students got as much education from going to the theater to see Sophocles' plays, or to the Agora to hear Demosthenes, or even catching a glimpse of Plato at work, as they did in the classroom.
"Philosophy lives out of doors," writes Newman, and certainly being in an atmosphere where genius was seemingly all around you is the essence of education. The Athens of that era was "a brotherhood and a citizenship of the mind. The mind came first, and was the foundation of the academic polity; but it soon brought along with it, and gathered round itself, the gifts of fortune and the prizes of life."
Education first began as a gathering of minds, and the gathering of minds in ancient Athens seem to feed upon itself and grow exponentially. Learning was an honorable thing and one put up with all sorts of hardships to partake of genius. In the end, it is not the books or the buildings or any of the other trappings of the modern university that makes it a place of learning. It's the ideas and the interplay between students and teachers that make it so.
To Newman, education wasn't just about books or being cloistered in a hall to study. The Athenian students got as much education from going to the theater to see Sophocles' plays, or to the Agora to hear Demosthenes, or even catching a glimpse of Plato at work, as they did in the classroom.
"Philosophy lives out of doors," writes Newman, and certainly being in an atmosphere where genius was seemingly all around you is the essence of education. The Athens of that era was "a brotherhood and a citizenship of the mind. The mind came first, and was the foundation of the academic polity; but it soon brought along with it, and gathered round itself, the gifts of fortune and the prizes of life."
Education first began as a gathering of minds, and the gathering of minds in ancient Athens seem to feed upon itself and grow exponentially. Learning was an honorable thing and one put up with all sorts of hardships to partake of genius. In the end, it is not the books or the buildings or any of the other trappings of the modern university that makes it a place of learning. It's the ideas and the interplay between students and teachers that make it so.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
October 4: His Mouth Full of Pebbles (Vol. 12, pp. 196-205)
Demosthenes versus Cicero. Plutarch knew that this was a fruitless comparison since, in his view, they were similar in "their passion for distinction and their love of liberty and civil life, and their want of courage in dangers and war...there could hardly be found two other orators, who from small and obscure beginnings, became so great and mighty."
But Plutarch writes that Demosthenes was a lousy public speaker at the start of his public life and "was derided for his strange and uncouth style, which was cumbered with long sentences and tortured with formal arguments to a most harsh and disagreeable excess."
Demonsthenes was so discouraged by the reaction to his oratory, that he gave up public speaking. While his ideas were sound, his presentation was wanting. Plutarch writes that it took the advice of the actor Satyrus to convince Demosthenes that it was "as good as nothing for a man to exercise himself in declamating, if he neglected enunciation and delivery."
So he spend a lot of time "woodshedding," in the jazz vernacular, practicing in private and working on his speaking style. He worked so hard on his delivery that his contemporaries, according to Plutarch, wrote him off as "a person of no great natural genius, but one who owed all the power and ability he had in speaking to labor and industry."
The ability to speak extemporaneously was prized by the ancients, so Demosthenes' style — apparently a blend of lots of prior preparation combined with off-the-cuff speaking — was derided by his rivals. Pytheas said his arguments "smelled of the lamp," but Demosthenes' reply was that "it is true, indeed, Pytheas, that your lamp and my lamp are not conscious of the same things."
His belief that the argument is more important than the style in which it is presented is certainly important, but, as Plutarch writes, while Demosthenes had the substance, it wasn't until he found a style he was comfortable with that he became an orator of the first rank.
But Plutarch writes that Demosthenes was a lousy public speaker at the start of his public life and "was derided for his strange and uncouth style, which was cumbered with long sentences and tortured with formal arguments to a most harsh and disagreeable excess."
Demonsthenes was so discouraged by the reaction to his oratory, that he gave up public speaking. While his ideas were sound, his presentation was wanting. Plutarch writes that it took the advice of the actor Satyrus to convince Demosthenes that it was "as good as nothing for a man to exercise himself in declamating, if he neglected enunciation and delivery."
So he spend a lot of time "woodshedding," in the jazz vernacular, practicing in private and working on his speaking style. He worked so hard on his delivery that his contemporaries, according to Plutarch, wrote him off as "a person of no great natural genius, but one who owed all the power and ability he had in speaking to labor and industry."
The ability to speak extemporaneously was prized by the ancients, so Demosthenes' style — apparently a blend of lots of prior preparation combined with off-the-cuff speaking — was derided by his rivals. Pytheas said his arguments "smelled of the lamp," but Demosthenes' reply was that "it is true, indeed, Pytheas, that your lamp and my lamp are not conscious of the same things."
His belief that the argument is more important than the style in which it is presented is certainly important, but, as Plutarch writes, while Demosthenes had the substance, it wasn't until he found a style he was comfortable with that he became an orator of the first rank.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
October 3: Good Enough for Chaucer (Vol. 40, pp. 11-26)
The prologue to "The Canterbury Tales" is today's reading, and it is like literary spinach. I never really liked poetry, but Chaucer is as impenetrable now as he was in high school. Even with the copious footnotes to translate some of his words, it's still gibberish.
The Readers Guide lauds Chaucer as a groundbreaking poet, since he was among the first to write in English when English was considered "a vulgar tongue, fit only for servants and working people." Polite society in England in the 14th century conversed in French.
Scottish dialect was what Chaucer used, and to 21st century eyes, he might as well have written in Babylonian for his poetry bears only a passing resemblance to modern English.
The Readers Guide lauds Chaucer as a groundbreaking poet, since he was among the first to write in English when English was considered "a vulgar tongue, fit only for servants and working people." Polite society in England in the 14th century conversed in French.
Scottish dialect was what Chaucer used, and to 21st century eyes, he might as well have written in Babylonian for his poetry bears only a passing resemblance to modern English.
Friday, October 2, 2009
October 2: Veteran Tells of Indian War (Vol. 29, pp. 107-111)
As you've noticed from other entries, I'm not a fan of Darwin's "Voyage of the Beagle." If ever there was a passage that showed the sensibilities of the time it was written, it is today's passage -- a disjointed account of slaughter and genocide between the Spainiards and the indigenous people of South America.
Darwin writes that "everyone here is convinced that this is the most just war, because it is against barbarians," and tells of how the men and women were killed and the children saved for slavery. This is just?
Darwin returned to England on this day in 1836, during the apogee of the British Empire. Genocide wasn't a concern then, since "civilized" men could kill others with impunity -- particularly those with darker skin. Who are the real barbarians here?
Darwin writes that "everyone here is convinced that this is the most just war, because it is against barbarians," and tells of how the men and women were killed and the children saved for slavery. This is just?
Darwin returned to England on this day in 1836, during the apogee of the British Empire. Genocide wasn't a concern then, since "civilized" men could kill others with impunity -- particularly those with darker skin. Who are the real barbarians here?
Thursday, October 1, 2009
October 1: Third Quarter Update
If you've stuck around this long, congratulations. Only three more months to go.
If you're just wandering in, I'm doing this blog to celebrate the centennial of The Harvard Classics. It is a day-by-day reading of "The Five Foot Shelf," based on the reading guide that's included in the 1930 edition. The guide picks a 15-minute reading for each day of the year, which I list in the title of each post. The volume and page numbers are based on the print edition, so those of you who are following along with the online edition at http://www.bartleby.com/hc might have a hard time finding the selections.
I give a brief comment on each reading (really brief, if I'm not into the piece of the day). I'm not an English literature major, just a journalist and writer who tastes run more toward non-fiction and my biases are on display for all to see. Your mileage may vary.
If you're just wandering in, I'm doing this blog to celebrate the centennial of The Harvard Classics. It is a day-by-day reading of "The Five Foot Shelf," based on the reading guide that's included in the 1930 edition. The guide picks a 15-minute reading for each day of the year, which I list in the title of each post. The volume and page numbers are based on the print edition, so those of you who are following along with the online edition at http://www.bartleby.com/hc might have a hard time finding the selections.
I give a brief comment on each reading (really brief, if I'm not into the piece of the day). I'm not an English literature major, just a journalist and writer who tastes run more toward non-fiction and my biases are on display for all to see. Your mileage may vary.
October 1: Princes Today and Yesterday (Vol. 36, pp. 36-44)
Machiavelli's "The Prince" remains a textbook for leadership after five centuries because he knew what a leader needed to be successful.
He writes a leader who "is strong enough, if occasion demands, to stand alone" and "has a strong city, and who does not make himself hated, can not be attacked, or should he be so, his assailant will come badly off."
That strength comes from inspiring loyalty from one's subordinates and treating them the way you wish to be treated. For this to happen, a leader "must lay solid foundations, since otherwise he will be inevitably destroyed."
For a nation, he says the main foundation is "good laws and good arms," but that one "cannot have the former without the latter, and where you have the latter, one is likely to have the former."
Machiavelli also addresses the use of mercenaries in this passage. He firmly believes that a nation that depends on its own people to defend itself will always be successful, while a nation that relies on mercenaries will "have nothing but loss."
The word "Machiavellian" has become shorthand for evil, cunning and unscupulous behavior, but in this selection, Machiavelli comes off as someone making good sense by making the almost too obvious conclusion that leaders must have the loyalty of their underlings and that justice and fair play is the best way to achieve this. Treat them badly and make decisions not in their best interests, and a leader is doomed to fail.
The person who has to be bribed or coerced into obedience is not likely to be a person who can be counted on when the going gets tough. Every human ultimately acts out of self-interest, but loyalty usually comes from a belief that the leader you put your faith in is someone who is worthy of trust, makes sound decisions, is consistent and fair, possesses the skills to succeed and strives to instill them in his subordinates.
Machiavelli understood this. Cunning is useful at times, but it is no substitute for the principles of sound leadership.
He writes a leader who "is strong enough, if occasion demands, to stand alone" and "has a strong city, and who does not make himself hated, can not be attacked, or should he be so, his assailant will come badly off."
That strength comes from inspiring loyalty from one's subordinates and treating them the way you wish to be treated. For this to happen, a leader "must lay solid foundations, since otherwise he will be inevitably destroyed."
For a nation, he says the main foundation is "good laws and good arms," but that one "cannot have the former without the latter, and where you have the latter, one is likely to have the former."
Machiavelli also addresses the use of mercenaries in this passage. He firmly believes that a nation that depends on its own people to defend itself will always be successful, while a nation that relies on mercenaries will "have nothing but loss."
The word "Machiavellian" has become shorthand for evil, cunning and unscupulous behavior, but in this selection, Machiavelli comes off as someone making good sense by making the almost too obvious conclusion that leaders must have the loyalty of their underlings and that justice and fair play is the best way to achieve this. Treat them badly and make decisions not in their best interests, and a leader is doomed to fail.
The person who has to be bribed or coerced into obedience is not likely to be a person who can be counted on when the going gets tough. Every human ultimately acts out of self-interest, but loyalty usually comes from a belief that the leader you put your faith in is someone who is worthy of trust, makes sound decisions, is consistent and fair, possesses the skills to succeed and strives to instill them in his subordinates.
Machiavelli understood this. Cunning is useful at times, but it is no substitute for the principles of sound leadership.
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