Thursday, December 27, 2018

Walt Whitman Rips Into Politicians

Walt Whitman had equal loathing for politicians of North and South, and blamed both for the horrors of the Civil War. This is just the beginning of his tirade, which he suggests is only part of the story and is worth "conning" now and in the future. I think it describes the slime mold of the U.S. Congress today quite well ... I add a link to the complete Whitman piece.

       ORIGINS OF ATTEMPTED SECESSION

Not the whole matter, but some side facts worth conning to-day and any day.

I consider the war of attempted secession, 1860-'65, not as a struggle of two distinct and separate peoples, but a conflict (often happening, and very fierce) between the passions and paradoxes of one and the same identity—perhaps the only terms on which that identity could really become fused, homogeneous and lasting. The origin and conditions out of which it arose, are full of lessons, full of warnings yet to the Republic—and always will be. The underlying and principal of those origins are yet singularly ignored. The Northern States were really just as responsible for that war, (in its precedents, foundations, instigations,) as the South. Let me try to give my view. From the age of 21 to 40, (1840-'60,) I was interested in the political movements of the land, not so much as a participant, but as an observer, and a regular voter at the elections. I think I was conversant with the springs of action, and their workings, not only in New York city and Brooklyn, but understood them in the whole country, as I had made leisurely tours through all the middle States, and partially through the western and southern, and down to New Orleans, in which city I resided for some time. (I was there at the close of the Mexican war—saw and talk'd with General Taylor, and the other generals and officers, who were feted and detain'd several days on their return victorious from that expedition.)


Of course many and very contradictory things, specialties, developments, constitutional views, &c., went to make up the origin of the war—but the most significant general fact can be best indicated and stated as follows: For twenty-five years previous to the outbreak, the controling "Democratic" nominating conventions of our Republic—starting from their primaries in wards or districts, and so expanding to counties, powerful cities, States, and to the great Presidential nominating conventions—were getting to represent and be composed of more and more putrid and dangerous materials. Let me give a schedule, or list, of one of these representative conventions for a long time before, and inclusive of, that which nominated Buchanan. (Remember they had come to be the fountains and tissues of the American body politic, forming, as it were, the whole blood, legislation, office-holding, &c.) One of these conventions, from 1840 to '60, exhibited a spectacle such as could never be seen except in our own age and in these States. The members who composed it were, seven-eighths of them, the meanest kind of bawling and blowing office-holders, office-seekers, pimps, malignants, conspirators, murderers, fancy-men, custom-house clerks, contractors, kept-editors, spaniels well-train'd to carry and fetch, jobbers, infidels, disunionists, terrorists, mail-riflers, slave-catchers, pushers of slavery, creatures of the President, creatures of would-be Presidents, spies, bribers, compromisers, lobbyers, sponges, ruin'd sports, expell'd gamblers, policy-backers, monte-dealers, duellists, carriers of conceal'd weapons, deaf men, pimpled men, scarr'd inside with vile disease, gaudy outside with gold chains made from the people's money and harlots' money twisted together; crawling, serpentine men, the lousy combings and born freedom-sellers of the earth. And whence came they? From back-yards and bar-rooms; from out of the custom-houses, marshals' offices, post-offices, and gambling-hells; from the President's house, the jail, the station-house; from unnamed by-places, where devilish disunion was hatch'd at midnight; from political hearses, and from the coffins inside, and from the shrouds inside of the coffins; from the tumors and abscesses of the land; from the skeletons and skulls in the vaults of the federal almshouses; and from the running sores of the great cities. Such, I say, form'd, or absolutely controll'd the forming of, the entire personnel, the atmosphere, nutriment and chyle, of our municipal, State, and National politics—substantially permeating, handling, deciding, and wielding everything—legislation, nominations, elections, "public sentiment," &c.—while the great masses of the people, farmers, mechanics, and traders, were helpless in their gripe. These conditions were mostly prevalent in the north and west, and especially in New York and Philadelphia cities; and the southern leaders, (bad enough, but of a far higher order,) struck hands and affiliated with, and used them. Is it strange that a thunder-storm follow'd such morbid and stifling cloud-strata?

Read Whitman's Prose at Project Gutenberg   

Tuesday, December 25, 2018

The Day They Fired Walt Whitman


On the 30th of June last, this true American man and author [Walt Whitman] was
dismissed, under circumstances of peculiar wrong, from a clerkship he
had held for six months in the Department of the Interior. His dismissal
was the act of the Hon. James Harlan, the Secretary of the Department,
formerly a Methodist clergyman, and President of a Western college.

Upon the interrogation of an eminent officer of the Government, at whose
instance the appointment had, under a former Secretary, been made, Mr.
Harlan averred that Walt Whitman had been in no way remiss in the
discharge of his duties, but that, on the contrary, so far as he could
learn, his conduct had been most exemplary. Indeed, during the few
months of his tenure of office, he had been promoted. The sole and only
cause of his dismissal, Mr. Harlan said, was that he had written the
book of poetry entitled Leaves of Grass. This book Mr. Harlan
characterized as “full of indecent passages.” The author, he said, was
“a very bad man,” a “Free-Lover.” Argument being had upon these
propositions, Mr. Harlan was, as regards the book, utterly unable to
maintain his assertions; and, as regards the author, was forced to own
that his opinion of him had been changed. Nevertheless, after this
substantial admission of his injustice, he absolutely refused to revoke
his action. Of course, under no circumstances would Walt Whitman, the
proudest man that lives, have consented to again enter into office under
Mr. Harlan: but the demand for his reinstatement was as honorable to the
gentleman who made it, as the refusal to accede to it was discreditable
to the Secretary.

The closing feature of this transaction, and one which was a direct
consequence of Mr. Harlan’s course, was its remission to the scurrilous,
and in some instances libellous, comment of a portion of the press. To
sum up, an author, solely and only for the publication, ten years ago,
of an honest book, which no intelligent and candid person can regard as
hurtful to morality, was expelled from office by the Secretary, and held
up to public contumely by the newspapers. It remains only to be added
here, that the Hon. James Harlan is the gentleman who, upon assuming the
control of the Department, published a manifesto, announcing that it was
thenceforth to be governed upon the principles of Christian
civilization.
— William Douglas O'Connor, The Good Gray Poet: A Vindication. 1866

Photo of Walt Whitman by Matthew Brady, Wikimedia Commons.



Monday, December 3, 2018

Knecht Ruprecht, or The Bad Boy's Christmas

by Brett Rutherford


Don’t even think of calling your
mother or father.
They can't hear you.
No one can help you now.
I came through the chimney
in the form of a crow.

You are my first this Christmas.
You are a very special boy, you know.
You have been bad,
bad every day,
dreamt every night
of the next day’s evil.
It takes a lot of knack
to give others misery
for three hundred and sixty
consecutive days!
How many boys have you beaten,
how many small animals killed?
Half the pets in this town
have scars from meeting you.

Am I Santa Claus? Cack, ack, ack!
Do I look like Santa, you little shit?
Look at my bare-bone skull,
my eyes like black jelly,
my tattered shroud.
My name is Ruprecht,
Knecht Ruprecht.
I am Santa’s cousin! Cack, ack, ack!

Do stop squirming and listen —
(of course I am hurting you!)
I have a lot of visits to make.
My coffin is moored to your chimney.
My vultures are freezing their beaks off.

But as I said, you are special.
You are my number one boy.
When you grow up,
you are going to be a noxious skinhead,
maybe a famous assassin.
Your teachers are already afraid of you.
In a year or two you will discover girls,
a whole new dimension of cruelty and pleasure.

Now let us get down to business.
Let me get my bag here.
Presents? Presents! Cack, ack, ack!
See these things? They are old,
old as the Inquisition,
make dental instruments look like toys.

No, nothing much, no permanent harm.
I shall take a few of your teeth,
and then I shall put them back.
This is going to hurt. There —
the clamp is in place.
Let's see now — where may I plug in
those electrodes?

Oh, now, do not whimper and pray to God!
As if you ever believed in God! Cack, ack, ack!
I know every tender place in a boy’s body.
There, that’s fine! My, look at the blood!
Look at the blood! Look at the blood!

You’ll be good from now on? That’s a laugh.
Am I doing this to teach you a lesson?
I am the Punisher. I do this
because I enjoy it! I am just like you!

There is nothing you can do!
I can make a moment of pain seem like a year!
No one will ever believe you!

Worse yet, you cannot change.
Tomorrow you will be more hateful than ever.
The world will wish you had never been born.

Well now, our time is up. Sorry for the mess.
Tell your mother you had a nosebleed.

Your father is giving you a hunting knife
for which I am sure you will have a thousand uses.

Just let me lick those tears from your cheeks.
I do love the taste of children's tears.

My, it is late! Time to fly! Cack, ack, ack!

I shall be back next Christmas Eve!

— Revised October 2019

_______

Knecht Ruprecht, from German folklore, is St. Nicholas' evil twin, who punishes bad children.