Creating Better Heraldry

My adopted city of Charlottesville, Virginia has a lame seal:

However, it turns out it has company.  Albemarle County, in which the city is located, also has a lame seal:

The University of Virginia, the most outstanding cultural institution in town, has a logo, not a seal or a coat of arms:

And even the Commonwealth of Virginia has a rather mediocre flag, ranked quite poorly on the North American Vexillological Association's survey:

So I'm on a quest to produce a better coat of arms for the City of Charlottesville.  There's plenty of source material, starting with the arms of the woman for whom Charlottesville is named, Charlotte of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, queen consort of King George III:

There are also the arms of the Earls of Albemarle, for whom the county is named:

Those looking for additional inspiration my consider the arms of Sir Walter Raleigh, founder of the colony (which are incorporated into the flag of the city which bears his name and appear on this historic map, though with sable instead of argent):

And also the old arms of the colony, derived from the British arms of the day, but also incorporating the cross of St. George:

Now, surely, dear readers, this is enough material to produce a classy seal or coat of arms which does not look like it was designed by an elementary school class.  I've got a few ideas, which I hope to post soon.  In the meantime, please share yours!

Nicolás Gómez Dávila

What the reactionary says never interests anybody.
Neither at the time he says it, because it seems absurd, nor after a few years, because it seems obvious.

Today marks the hundredth anniversary of the birth of Nicolás Gómez Dávila, a thinker almost universally unknown even in his native Colombia. He never did anything to attract attention to himself. He did not even lead a particularly eventful life. He was born in Bogotá to a wealthy family that moved to Paris when he was young, and stayed in Europe until he was 23. He then returned to Bogotá, where he married, accumulated 30,000 books, and hosted discussion groups with friends on Sunday afternoons in his library. His family’s wealth meant that he had to work only briefly. Otherwise, his life was a life of leisure. As the late Italian philosopher Franco Volpi summarized Gómez’s biography, “he was born, he wrote, he died.”

The only reason he is at all known today, nineteen years after his death, is that he composed five volumes of aphorisms which he called “Scholia on the Margin of an Implicit Text” (Escolios a un Texto Implícito), which he published in tiny printing runs primarily for his friends. Shortly before his death, and in the next two decades, his fame spread slowly to Europe, and his works have been translated into German, French, Italian, and Polish, though sadly not into English yet. In these scholia he addresses the whole range of human thought; aphorisms about ethics and politics are printed next to reflections on aesthetics and literature, God and the devil next to history, technology, metaphysics, and love. Gómez’s writings display a breadth of erudition attainable by only the most gifted of scholars, a depth of thought reserved for only the most original thinkers, and a capacity for expression matched by only the most talented prose stylists.

What holds all Gómez’s disparate observations together is the persona he assumed: the reactionary. From the outset, then, it is clear that Gómez is a political thinker, and a deeply unfashionable one at that. But for him being a reactionary does not mean idealizing the past, indulging nostalgia, or restoring the old regime. “Being a reactionary is not about believing in certain solutions, but about having an acute sense of the complexity of the problems.” Yet, the reactionary label he adopted was not totally deceiving: true to the heritage of the original European reactionaries, Gómez resisted the onslaught of democracy and opposed the noxious ideas of modernity.

In order to truly understand Gómez’s critique of modernity, however, one must first grasp that the heart of his message is not political, but religious. Gómez’s key insight is that democracy is “an anthropotheist religion.” Modern man has made himself into his own god by denying the most foundational truth of all: “to depend on God is the being’s being.” Denying our dependence on the Creator, however, led directly to the 20th century’s dystopias. “The proclamation of our autonomy is the founding charter of hell.” “Hell is any place from which God is absent.” Modern man, though, has tried to eliminate the feeling of alienation by resorting to revolution, technology, and immorality. But all these solutions only make the problem worse, as history has shown.

All this makes Gómez sound like an Old Testament prophet pronouncing God’s judgment on a stubborn and sinful people. It is certainly true that he chastises modern man for his lack of faith. Many of his aphorisms can be read as an extended reflection on the first commandment of the Decalogue. Yet there is much more to the Escolios than condemnation of unbelief. Gómez certainly did not expect to exercise a wide influence; at most he hoped to be instrumental in bringing about a few individual conversions. And for him one of the most important ways to bring someone to acknowledge his dependence was to encourage a reverence for beauty. Beauty, according to Gómez’s axiology and epistemology, is a value whose existence depends on nothing in us and which we can never deserve. Beauty is like a light that blinds us at first, but later we see the world in a new way because of it; even a great artist cannot completely control the beauty that inheres in his work of art through his techniques. Beauty is a grace.

As Gómez explained in one of his few short essays, “The Authentic Reactionary,” the reactionary searches history and his own life for values like beauty. For instance, in many aphorisms he speaks of the beauty of a smile. In other aphorisms he discusses all aspects of love. His passion for literature is a search for the values that artists make perceptible to readers.

Perhaps most importantly for a reactionary in a world surrounded by enemies, however, Gómez teaches us to cultivate the virtue of hope. “The reactionary escapes the slavery of history because he pursues in the human wilderness the trace of divine footsteps.” Gómez exhorts us not to seek a solution to man’s problems in history, but rather to live those problems “at a higher level.” Yet he also reminds us that “Christianity does not teach that the problem is solved, but that the prayer is answered.” In the end, he offers us the consolation that “in history it is wise to hope for miracles and absurd to trust in plans.” This may seem like meager consolation to some, but for Gómez it was the most extravagant promise imaginable: “The Christian knows that he can claim nothing, but can hope for everything.”

This brief sketch fails to do justice to the richness and complexity of Gómez’s Escolios. But, any reader whose interest has been piqued should look at a website I started as a testimony to an author whom I have not stopped reading since I discovered him seven years ago. It contains English translations of around 3,000 aphorisms and other material related to Nicolás Gómez Dávila: Don Colacho’s Aphorisms.

The Case of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev is undoubtedly a murderer.  Barring an extremely improbable and convoluted revelation, he and his now-deceased brother Tamerlan are clearly responsible for the bombing in Boston which left three dead and scores wounded, as well as the subsequent murder of an MIT police officer.  The case against Dzhokhar Tsarnaev appears to be solid, and the punishment he will receive is likely to be severe, and justly so.

It curious, and troubling, then to see the legal contortions which have begun to surround this case.  The Justice Department's decided to invoke the so-called "public safety exception" and forego reading Mr. Tsarnaev - a US citizen- his Miranda rights or permitting an attorney to be present at his initial questioning until three days after his detention has garnered considerable media attention.  Some people, such as Adam Goodman, writing in The Atlantic, argue that the formal reading of the Miranda rights is not necessary, and he is probably correct.  But while this might justify some hasty questioning in the moments after arrest, it does not explain the intentional delay of this practice by several days.  Moreover, the claim that Miranda refers specifically to the admissibility of statements in court, and not to statements per se, defies common sense: information gained without one's attorney present may subsequently be used to shape questions even when he or she is.  I am no lawyer, but it would not surprise me for a judge to throw out not only statements given before the reading of rights, but some portion of those given afterward as well.

Moreover, the public safety exception exists to, well, protect public safety.  If police believe a live bomb has been planted somewhere, threatening lives, they may question a suspect on the spot.  In the first hours after Mr. Tsarnaev's detention this may have been a concern, but the practicality of this argument rapidly fades with time.  If after, say, 24 hours no bombs have exploded and none have been found, is there really a plausible concern about a pressing threat to public safety.

Today Mr. Tsarnaev was charged with the use of a weapon of mass destruction.  This is absurd.  The bombs he and his brother employed were simple in construction and did not involve nuclear, chemical, or biological weapons.  They were deadly, with all the attendant pain and sorrow that term rightly implies.  They were not, however, on a "massive" scale.  Pretending they were is an insult to intelligence and to those who have truly suffered from such devices.

Then there are the likes of Sen. Lindsey Graham, who claimed that Mr. Tsarnaev should be tried as an enemy combatant in a military tribunal.  The trial by jury has been the legal method of choice since the Fourth Lateran Council (AD 1215).  While Mr. Tsarnaev is of foreign birth, he is now a US citizen, and no evidence has come forward that he acted at the behest of a foreign power or entity.  Moreover, military tribunals are used for those who commit war crimes; while attacking innocent non-combatants qualifies as such, the very convening of such a tribunal would legitimize the notion that a state of war existed between the US and whatever entity the Tsarnaevs purport to represent, a claim they might care to make, but I do not. The administration was wise to overlook this line of approach.

Why have the Justice Department, Sen. Graham, and so many others, been at pains to warp this case?  The obvious answer is desire for an admixture of justice and vengeance.  The first is justifiable, the later understandable.  But let us consider, briefly, the alternative.  What if Mr. Tsarnaev were read his rights, with an attorney present, and charged with four counts of murder and at least 178 counts of attempted murder?  Is there any doubt that the evidence, presented in due process in a court of law, would not secure a conviction on enough of those charges to lock Mr. Tsarnaev away for the rest of his life several times over?  Why degrade the legal tradition of which we are so rightly proud with bizarre definitions and exceptions?

Perhaps Mr. Tsarnaev's fate is the rub; perhaps leaders from Sen. Graham to President Obama would like to see him executed, even at the cost of judicial procedure.  The Catholic Church teaches that the state justly holds the power to kill; the death of the elder Tsarnaev brother, though unfortunate, was within the legitimate functioning of the state for the preservation of society.  But, so far as I can see, there is no pressing concern that Dzhokhar Tsarnaev will escape from confinement and strike again.  Bloodless means should be sufficient to restrain him, and I hope he remains so restrained until the day his Maker calls him.

State Tartans

I've written before about issues of heritage, suggesting that our cuisine embodies our jumbled backgrounds as Americans, and arguing that - within certain bounds - we can choose our heritage, as I choose to identify with certain elements of Scottish history and certain British regiments.

Recently I stumbled upon a series of cultural artifacts which recalled this question of Americans, their sense of heritage, and the extent to which they can choose it.

A great many states have official tartans, and several more have unofficial ones.  My instinct for all manner of pomp, symbolism, and history is immediately attracted to such things.  But it also begs some questions: must one be of Scottish - or at least some permutation of Celtic - ancestry to wear a tartan?  Should a state have a substantial Scottish-American population before adopting such a tartan?  And when does one actually use such a tartan?  While I hold nothing against those men who wear kilts, I do not, and aside from the flannel shirts I wear on Saturdays, there aren't many opportunities for tartans.  (Or are there?  Do correct me, dear readers.  Perhaps a tartan flatcap?)

Below are a few state tartans of interest to our family, with blurbs stolen from the Scottish Registry of Tartans.

Commissioned by a joint committee of Arizona State's Scottish societies, this tartan was designed by Dr Phil Smith and proclaimed by Governor Symington in December 1995. Colours: green is for the forest that covers half the state; brown for the desert; azure for copper, white for silver; yellow for gold; red for the Native Americans and the red, white and green stripes for the Mexican population.

The unofficial Mississippi tartan has dark green for the never-ending forests of Pine and evergreen leaves of the Magnolia, light green for the lustrous leaves of the Great Southern Oaks, dark blue for the waters of the Mississippi River and the many lakes within the state, red for the color of the state flag and for the blood shed in Mississippi's past, white for the sands of the Gulf Coast and the cotton fields, and yellow for the heart of the Magnolia, the state flower.

The official state tartan of Louisiana was designed by Joe McD.Campbell in 2001. For use by all those with Louisiana affiliations. Blue for the sky, lakes, bayous, rivers and waterways, green for agriculture and forests, white for rice, sugar cane, cotton and the magnolias, black for petroleum and natural resources.

Designed by June Prescott McRoberts (1922-1999), proprietor of the 'Thistles & Bluebonnets' store in Salado, Texas. The tartan was adopted as the Sequicentennial Tartan and was officially adopted as the Texas State Tartan on 25th May 1989. The colors of the Texas Bluebonnet district tartan owe their selection to the bluebonnet flower, a member of the lupin family, which is widespread in many parts of Texas. The flower changes color with the passing of time, the 'brim' becoming flecked with wine red.

The Virginia Quadricentennial Tartan is the official state tartan of the Commonwealth of Virginia. It was designed in 2003 by David McGill and in 2005, during preparations for Jamestown 2007, which celebrated the 400th anniversary of the founding of the Colony of Virginia, it was selected as Virginia's tartan because the colors reflected those of the American dogwood, the Virginia state flower and tree.

The Paintings of James Tissot

Thanks to the Financial Times I discovered the works of James Tissot (1836-1902).  This Franco-British artist came from a background of textiles and ships, both of which feature in his works.  His painting verges on the impressionistic, but remains a tad too literalist to bear that label.

Tissot was born into a devout Catholic family, drifted away from the faith and into a liaison with an Irish divorcee, and eventually underwent a re-conversion to the religion of his youth.  His paintings display a vitality one might easily associate with either romantic liaison or sacramental reality, depending upon the circumstances.

Like so many of his contemporaries - from the Belgian Jan August Hendrik, Baron Leys (1815-1869) to the Anglo-Dutch Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema (1836-1912) and the Turkish Osman Hamdi Bey (1842-1910) - Tissot tends to paint small groups of people in scenes which tell a story and take place in a setting which is itself a kind of secondary subject.  But unlike Leys or Alma-Tadema, who painted extensively from history, Tissot focused on contemporary scenes, except late in his life when Biblical themes predominated.

I'll not go so far as to claim that Tissot is a genius, an artist for the ages.  His works are charming, though probably not sublime.  Still, I am glad for having stumbled upon them.

Today's images come from the ever-ready Wikipedia.

St. Patrick's Day

Since St. Patrick's Day this year falls on a Sunday in Lent, we'll celebrate a day early. This year's topic is lilting.

Lilting is a way of singing dance tunes. Because dance tunes move so quickly, a lilter sings nonsense syllables, such as "diddle-dum," to keep the rhythm. Lilting had a couple functions. Often musicians used it as a way to learn tunes; when they were busy working they could lilt the tunes to themselves. In poor rural areas, though, where it was sometimes hard to come by the money for musical instruments or by skilled musicians, the only way to provide music for a dance was to lilt the tunes. And to overcome the noise of couples dancing on a hard floor, multiple lilters would sing together. The video below gives you an idea of how that sounds.

 

 Sometimes lilting is used as the refrain of a song, usually to add a humorous element. For instance, in the song that follows, Kevin Burke of the Bothy Band uses lilting to imitate the tune that was played by the piper who is the subject of his story.

 

Lilting has some close relatives in Scotland. In the Hebrides, speakers of Scots Gaelic have what they call puirt a beul, or "mouth music." These are also dance tunes, but instead of nonsense syllables, the singers use very simple words. The lyrics are very simple and often rather incoherent; of course, their function is generally just to keep a beat. Here is an example from Karen Matheson of the group Capercaillie:
 

Finally, the Scots Gaelic tradition also has a number of waulking songs, which set the rhythm for beating tweed to soften it. The final song is called Dheanainn Súgradh, as performed by Clannad (the relatives of Enya), in the original guise is an electric folk band (you have to wait for the solos on electric guitar and jazz flute), before they helped invent New Age.

 

The Enduring Interest of Germany

In his previous post, Aaron touches on one of the most fundamental points in our discussion: modern German history is a compression of all of modern Western history. But, there is one point I must add which makes German history even richer than its dramatic events already are by themselves: Germans not only made history, but they have also written history.

On the one hand, Germans have excelled at researching the minutiae of history. Although textual criticism had been around for some time (the Renaissance, for example, witnessed an upsurge in interest), it really took off in 19th-century Germany, particularly in the field of Biblical studies. But classical philology of all sorts in the 19th-century was dominated by Germans; the texts we use for reading the ancient Greek and Latin authors are in large part the texts we have inherited from German philologists. Without their painstaking scholarship, we would lack basic knowledge about many basic aspects of the ancient world. Of course, this focus on the minutiae of ancient texts, as necessary as it may be to produce an accurate text, led to a kind of scientific myopia in the German academy. Professors did not necessarily read ancient authors for their inherent interest or historical importance, but rather so they could resolve technical questions of text criticism. As a result, German professors were caricatured as pedants writing preposterously impenetrable prose both at home (e.g., Heine’s dream professor in Die Harzreise) and abroad (e.g., Carlyle’s Teufelsdröckh and Henry Adams in Democracy).

But, there are other voices in the 19th-century German academic tradition. For instance, Nietzsche, whose essay on the Use and Abuse of History we have cited before, rebelled against this academic tradition by focusing on the literary and philosophical problems posed by the Greek authors he was ready. The Birth of Tragedy was an audacious essay for a young professor to write—instead of writing a technically correct but boring essay for specialists, he dared to reinterpret the Greek spirit. On a more theoretical level, Wilhelm Dilthey initiated much of German philosophy’s interest in hermeneutics.

Outside of the academy (at least partly so), German Romanticism brought a sense of history—and a sense of historical loss—to the common people. The work of Clemens Brentanto and Achim von Arnim in compiling the folk songs contained in Des Knaben Wunderhorn, or the Grimm Brothers’ collection of folk tales—following Herder’s and Goethe’s lead—highlighted to the German people that their medieval past was still alive, yet in danger of being lost. Indeed, German Romanticism is one of the reasons for the widespread neo-medievalism throughout 19th-century Europe.

Most importantly, Germans have loved to theorize about history more than any other nation, and they have loved to apply their grand theories to the writing of history. They are the ones who taught us how to theorize about history at all. Some of the first great historians of the modern era came from the German lands, such as Leopold von Ranke and Jacob Burckhardt (who was Swiss but studied in Germany). No matter what one’s opinion of Hegel is, no one can deny that his focus on history led us to look at historical processes and their “world-historical” meaning more carefully.

But the mention of Hegel inevitably leads to the dark side of German theorizing. Germany is the heartland of modern ideology. Marxism and Nazism in particular inflicted immense suffering on the 20th century. In Germany, ideology was more than just the occupation of a small coterie of fanatical professors and revolutionaries; it spread to the educated classes as a whole. Eric Voegelin, in one of his autobiographical notes, recalls how the students he taught in Munich in the 1950’s, were usually much better academically prepared for university students than the Americans he had met in the 1940’s (e.g., they read more languages), but they were also far more ideological than American students; because they were already exposed to competing theories of history, they could not keep an open mind when studying history.

Yet, in the end, Voegelin, who reacted against the German tradition, was in so many ways the finest product of that very tradition. He was an immensely learned man in many fields, who did not shrink from dirtying his hands with detailed textual criticism, but was also intimately familiar with philosophy throughout the ages. He combined the love of minutiae with the love of theory.

The enduring interest of Germany for the modern American, then, lies not necessarily in the lessons its recent history can teach us. Dictatorships of the masses are a danger even in America. But, Germany has not only given us exciting history to learn about and extremely relevant history to learn from, but it has also given us the lenses through which to view history.