Man-Eaters of Kumaon

Jim Corbett was born and raised in colonial India and worked as an official for a British railway in the subcontinent for twenty years. He was a keen outdoorsman and hunter but not a professional. Despite this, in 1907, when he was in his early thirties, he was asked to travel to Kumaon in northern India to kill a man-eating tiger. The tiger had originally come from Nepal, where it learned to hunt humans, but its depredations had grown so severe that it was driven out of the area and into India by a mass “beat,” with hundreds of beaters walking in line abreast through the forests and fields to flush the tiger and run it out.

This, Corbett’s first man-eater, was the Champawat tiger, and by the time he arrived in northern India, stalked, and shot it, the tiger had killed and eaten over four hundred people.

Man-Eaters of Kumaon, published in 1944, tells this and several other hair-raising stories spanning almost thirty years, but Corbett, in a sign of his priorities and character, begins the book with an explanation of why tigers become man-eaters. Tigers and leopards do not normally eat people, Corbett tells the reader. They avoid humans. If a tiger begins eating people it has been driven to do so because of age, injury, or disability—something that turns it from hunting its usual prey in its usual style to softer targets. If your picture of the man-eater is Disney’s svelte and powerful Shere Khan, as mine at least partly was, remember that the Shere Khan of Kipling’s book is lame in one leg.

The Champawat tiger, he discovers, was an ageing tigress with two broken canine teeth. Another had lost an eye to a porcupine and had dozens of quills in the muscles and pad of one of its forelegs. Another was an old, slow tigress with a cub to feed.

Corbett begins with that long note on what causes tigers and leopards to eat humans and the book only gets more interesting from there. Though never laying out in point-by-point detail what signs he’s looking for as he stalks a tiger and examines its tracks, one picks up a lot from each story. In addition to the drama of the hunt—near misses, near-fatal surprises, and the suspense of searching, planning, and lying in wait—each story is an education. The age, sex, and size of the tigers matter as well as the local environment and what the local people do. Many victims are snatched from fields where they’re cutting grass or harvesting wheat. Others are taken while gathering firewood or cutting down trees. Each story is different and each, even if they have the same outcome, follow surprising trajectories.

But it’s almost certainly the drama that will lead one to pick up a book like this, and Corbett delivers. In perhaps the most thrilling hunt Corbett stumbles upon the man-eater he’s hunting on a rocky forested hillside, half-turned, with only one hand on his rifle and the tiger lying mere feet away. His coolness, experience, and skill are what save him, though I don’t want to give away how.

I’ve already mentioned Corbett’s character, and that’s an important part of the story and what it is like to read Man-Eaters of Kumaon. Corbett is no Hollywood stereotype of the big game hunter. From the start, hunting the Champawat tiger in his early thirties, Corbett seeks no reward and asks the government to cancel bounties placed on the man-eater. He respects the locals, knows their languages and customs, and singles many of them out for their bravery under the circumstances. One especially vivid example is a woman who, while cutting grass with her sister, saw a tiger attack and drag her sister away. Rather than run, she pursued the tiger and attacked it with her sickle. It was too late for her sister, but Corbett admired her guts and made it a point to speak to her when he arrived and to show her the tiger’s carcass before he left.

Corbett is also no braggart. Though exceptionally skilled he freely admits to mistakes—including at least one that, he owns with open regret, allowed a tiger to escape and kill more people—and tells plenty of stories about missed or botched shots and errors of judgment. Even when he records the dimensions of his quarry after a successful hunt he notes that the figures are worthless as they cannot be corroborated. His self-effacing manner also allows the book to be funny on occasion, as in one episode in which he takes multiple shots at a tiger that leaves and returns several times with no apparent effect, only to discover that he has shot at multiple tigers and killed two.

Another important aspect of Corbett’s character, and one that makes the book especially refreshing to read, is his dispassionate account of the animals he hunts. Whether tigers, leopards, or—in one outlier chapter—fish, Corbett describes them without anthropomorphism. This attitude conveys a respect for the animals and a sympathy that stops well short of sentimentality. Once a tiger has taken to man-eating, it must be killed, but Corbett does not approach his job as a game and the only satisfaction he takes in it is ridding the people of Kumaon of a deadly menace.

And Corbett never loses sight of that menace. He never ignores or downplays the human toll of the tigers’ attacks and narrates the killing and eating of dozens of people with neither coldness nor showy emotionalism. Sons, daughters, sisters, wives, mothers, husbands, and fathers are killed, and Corbett makes it clear that these are serious and painful losses. The story of one man, a veteran of an Indian regiment in the British army whose only son is killed just after enlisting, is especially powerful.

Man-Eaters of Kumaon mostly focuses on the stories of big cats Corbett was commissioned to kill, but one chapter concerns a trophy hunt for a huge, magnificent male tiger known as the Bachelor of Powalgarh, another—mentioned above—is about fishing, and the final short chapter is about Corbett’s late-life interest in photographing and filming tigers. (Here’s a sample of his footage.) Never concerned about glory or trophies, Corbett was a conservationist who wanted the best for both man and animal. While never blaming humanity, he points out that many man-eaters were made by careless hunting—taking a shot at a tiger and not finishing it off or overhunting a tiger’s normal prey. Fittingly, India’s first national park was named after him and, thanks to conservation efforts, now has the densest population of wild tigers in the world.

“[H]aving lived most of my life in the jungle,” Corbett writes near the end, “I have not the ability to paint word-pictures.” On the contrary. Corbett’s stories are a testimony both to simple, strong, unaffected writing and to a life well-lived. I’m not sure where I first heard of Man-Eaters of Kumaon, but I’m glad I did. While I expected it to be interesting, to my great surprise it is one of the most interesting and dramatic books I’ve come across in years. I highly recommend it if you need something to shake up your reading.

Goldsworthy on narrative and understanding

Yesterday I started reading Adrian Goldsworthy’s latest, Athens and Sparta: The Rivalry that Shaped Ancient Greece. Here are two good passages from the prologue and introduction on Goldsworthy’s approach and the purpose behind history:

First, on presenting history as a narrative:

This is a narrative history because this is the best way to understand a period and also because it is how all people live their lives, however confusing each person’s personal story may feel. Events occur and follow each other, and a thematic approach all too easily forgets this, turning people into bland groups or categories rather than lots of individuals.

When I explain my lecture approach on the first day of classes each semester, I make a similar argument, which I’ve explained here before (see the last link below): If I were to ask a student How did you get here this morning? or How’s your favorite football team doing? they would reply with a cause-and-effect narrative. It’s fundamental to us and our understanding.

Speaking of which, second, on seeking to understand the past as the basic historical act:

History must begin with the effort to understand societies that no longer exist and complex events that happened long ago. Only after this is done to the best of our ability can lessons be learned, let alone judgements passed; this book will do little of the first and none of the second, for the task of understanding is big and important enough in itself.

Hear hear. And having established understanding—not acceptance or endorsement—as the purpose, Goldsworthy tackles the question of relevance from a refreshing angle:

Our aim is to glimpse the lives of human beings living in these societies and see how they behaved as individuals and groups, for this helps us better understand ourselves. While much may appear alien to us at first, for instance the ready acceptance of slavery, the frequency of war, the open and unashamed celebration of victory, and the satisfaction of destroying enemies, the Greeks, Persians, and others in this world were not fundamentally different from us. Indeed, even where attitudes and assumptions seem very different, it is often more a matter of degree than anything more profound, and much that we take for granted may be more recent and less fixed in our own societies than we are inclined to think.

Per CS Lewis, we also live in a period. And as an example of the “matter of degree,” when teaching the Romans I often tell my students not to be too quick to condemn them for enjoying gladiatorial combat since so many professional athletes today die for our entertainment—just offstage, once we’ve used them up.

Athens and Sparta is very good so far. Goldsworthy has positioned it as a prequel of sorts to his Philip and Alexander and the two together should make an excellent history of ancient Greece up to the Hellenistic Age. I certainly recommend the latter and I’ll probably recommend this as well.

Goldsworthy’s remarks put succinctly some of my own priorities and jibe well with the quotations on historical philosophy I collected and posted here earlier this summer. Check that out if you haven’t, and check out this post on Goldsworthy’s interview with Lloyd Llewellyn-Jones from May. And for another good meditation on the necessity of story in history, see this post quoting Wilfred McClay from several years ago.

Vincent Can’t Sleep

I ran across VIncent Can’t Sleep: Van Gogh Paints the Night Sky at the library two years ago and checked it out to read to my kids. It simply but movingly tells the story of Van Gogh’s lifetime struggle with insomnia, hints at his broader problems with mental health, and suggests the role these played in his unique work. I enjoyed it, the kids enjoyed it, and we returned it to the library.

Two things have happened since then that have deepened my appreciation of the book, though. First, shortly after first reading Vincent Can’t Sleep to the kids I read Russ Ramsey’s Rembrandt is in the Wind, which includes a chapter on Van Gogh and his difficulties, and the followup, Van Gogh Has a Broken Heart, which is very specifically about pain and hardship in the making of art. Both made me think more seriously about Van Gogh’s life and work and especially his suffering.

Second, as I’ve mentioned before, early this year I got plumb worn out. I was tired and depressed and—the worst of my symptoms—I couldn’t sleep. I’ve had trouble sleeping before and even worked it into one of my novels, but this year I had real insomnia.

I’m thankful to say I’m much better—and perhaps I can tell the whole story of this bad winter and spring someday—but revisiting Vincent Can’t Sleep this week I had a much deeper understanding of the story it tells and, as moved as I was the first time, it meant even more to me.

The author, Barb Rosenstock, begins with Vincent’s childhood in Zundert, where, in the attic room he shares with his devoted younger brother Theo, he often struggles to sleep. He wanders at night, once going on a long midnight walk that inadvertently takes him across the border into Belgium. The night sky comforts him in ways daytime human company cannot. The story follows him to boarding school and his first job in his uncle’s art gallery. He is lonely, creative, and volatile. Because he scares his uncle’s customers he tries his hand at other work before settling into the life of a drifting artist.

Art helps him confront his sleeplessness. In a beautiful illustration of an adult Vincent staring into the sky above his Café Terrace at Night in Arles, Rosenstock tells us that “He discovers that darkness is not plain black.”

On the next page, Vincent lies in bed, “shut tight in a hospital,” the monastery asylum where he was confined for a year. This could be the darkest moment of the story, and yet it is here that Vincent, inspired by the view from his window and his lifetime of looking at the night sky, paints his most famous painting. Completing it, he can finally—in the book’s beautiful final image—rest, absorbed into and at one with the night sky.

The story is good but the glory of the book, what makes the story work so powerfully, is the art by Harry Potter illustrator Mary GrandPré. She successfully evokes Van Gogh’s style throughout, recreating some of his most famous landscapes as part of the storybook settings and giving cameos to other Van Gogh paintings in the background. It’s a beautiful book on every level.

But it’s that final image, the restless man at peace, having created something from his unrest, that moves me so much now. At the worst moment of this spring I couldn’t write—I could think of nothing to write and couldn’t muster the will to try. Then, slowly, writing became the best way to handle what I was feeling. Even dashing off a blog post here—“all this nothing,” in the words of You’ve Got Mail, another melancholy story, that has meant more than “so many somethings”—eased my mind. There were many nights through the spring when what made me sleep best was not meds or valerian root tea or the tight control I began exercising over caffeine and screentime, but simply having written.

I am no Van Gogh, but Vincent Can’t Sleep, in its simple way, has helped me understand him and my own life better, and to even more deeply appreciate God’s gift of creativity and how it can heal. Darkness is not plain black.

“Disproving” Lord of the Flies

I’m not sure how many people would say William Golding’s Lord of the Flies is one of their “favorite” novels, but its persistence on school reading lists and its resulting popular familiarity has given it a lot of influence. It has also attracted criticism, especially from those who, in our sentimental age, find it too “depressing” or “pessimistic.” The deeper critics will sometimes invoke a Rousseauian image of man as “basically good” and condemn Golding for his refusal to acknowledge this. I don’t have much to say in response to this; whether you believe in original sin or not, if you can’t see the potential in yourself to succumb to Lord of the Flies-like pressures, Golding’s book is the medicine you need.

A popular recent line of critique I’ve seen—especially on social media—is that a real-life incident from shortly after the book’s publication “disproves” or shows it to be unrealistic. In 1965, six Tongan schoolboys ran away from their boarding school in a stolen boat and, after being stranded on a desert island, lived fifteen months. They cooperated in finding food and shelter, established orderly routines, and, when finally discovered by a passing Australian fisherman, were in good health and high spirits.

I first recall seeing this argument around the time this Guardian piece came out in May 2020 (rough timing for someone flogging a “hopeful” history of mankind), but it comes up in cycles on Substack. It is usually presented as decisive, a gotcha for Golding and all the doomers who like his novel or at least found it compelling food for thought.

This is a weak argument and a poor comparison. The situation of the Tongan castaways is only superficially similar to Golding’s scenario—basically the only parallels are the school-age boys on an uninhabited Pacific island. The scale and circumstances are fundamentally different.

Consider: in the real-life incident, six teenage boys from similar backgrounds who were already friends planned and voluntarily ran away from their school. They brought preexisting community and shared goals to the island with them. Both collaboration and negotiation occurred at the level of intimate friendship.

In Lord of the Flies, dozens of boys, only some of whom actually know each other, are thrown together by happenstance when their plane is brought down in an apparent nuclear war. Their ages vary much more, they come from different backgrounds—the class and regional difference evinced by Piggy’s pronunciation of asthma is a significant repeated joke—and the only bonds they share are either created deliberately after the crash, as in the friendship of Ralph and Piggy or the entire community itself, or small preexisting cliques, like Jack and his crew of choirboys. Loyalty to these groups has to be subordinated to the whole, competing interests debated and judged, and peace maintained between strangers and enemies.

Golding is quite clearly concerned with the artificiality of society, which, to rise above the level of a mere organic group of friends, must combine and coordinate multiple such groups. The island setting is both a spoof of Victorian Robinsonades, novels in which decent chaps effortlessly remake civilization on remote islands, and a jab at the Enlightenment “state of nature” idea that undergirded them—and modern optimistic critics of the novel.

There may be legitimate lines of criticism to explore regarding Lord of the Flies—although not regarding its craft or magnificent science-fiction atmosphere—or the philosophical assumptions and worldview Golding expresses in it, but this isn’t one. The real-life Tongan boys’ adventure, as fascinating and dramatic as it is, bears more similarity to Huckleberry Finn than Lord of the Flies.

Sandbrook and Syrett sing Buchan’s praises

I’ve greatly enjoyed The Rest is History’s spinoff show, The Book Club, and the fun but in-depth discussions of its hosts, Dominic Sandbrook and Tabby Syrett, ever since it launched with a great discussion of The Hobbit. I wrote about that here. I haven’t caught every episode, skipping some, like The Secret History, to avoid even the possibility of spoilers for books I hope to read soon, but the quality of their conversation has not diminished in the ten months since it began.

A few weeks ago they mentioned that The Thirty-Nine Steps was coming up in their schedule. This caught my attention for obvious reasons. I was excited to hear their discussion, but also a bit hesitant. Three years ago Sandbrook’s narrative of interwar Britain, in which he had used Buchan as a byword for anti-Semitic conspiracism, had provoked what has been a consistently popular post, “Was John Buchan an anti-Semite?”

I have no idea if anyone at The Rest is History has ever seen that post but thousands of other people with the same question have found it through Google. I also had it firsthand from a connection in the UK that someone with much more authority in the subject than I had talked to Sandbrook about the anti-Semitism accusation in person. Would this old slander come up on The Book Club? How would they address it? Would they clear Buchan’s name?

Yes. The episode dropped last night, and I’m thrilled to say it’s one of their best. Dominic and Tabby’s conversation about The Thirty-Nine Steps is wonderful and fair, noting its narrative strengths, especially its breathless pacing and beautiful nature writing, and its innovative model, emulated by everything from James Bond to Jason Bourne—one of the examples of the “high-tech pursuit” I used in my recent discussion of the same with Wade Stotts. They justifiably point out its few minor flaws, such as the rushed, last-page climactic action. (I well remember rereading the final paragraphs the first time I read it, trying to divine precisely what had happened.)

As usual, Dominic and Tabby also do a great job putting the book in its historical context, explaining what The Thirty-Nine Steps has in common with the detective story and invasion literature as well as the ways it diverged from these and what has kept it popular, exciting, and influential when ever since.

But their discussion of Buchan the man is also stellar, paying proper tribute to one of the rare genuinely good men among popular authors. It’s a great quick overview of his life up to the First World War, his amazingly varied career, his views on writing, war, and the Empire, and his personal virtues, not least his fairmindedness and generosity.

Crucially, Dominic acknowledges twice that he was wrong about Buchan and corrects the record on Buchan’s supposed anti-Semitism. He points out that Scudder, the ill-fated journalist whose death kicks off The Thirty-Nine Steps’ chase, turns out to be wrong about his Jewish conspiracy, that this was a great narrative trick Buchan pulls on the reader, as well as the fact that Buchan himself was a Zionist and friend to Jews at a time it wasn’t advantageous to be. (The more things change…)

As my wife pointed out, it’s refreshing to hear of someone correcting themselves and owning up to it. I’ve always liked Sandbrook anyway but this speaks especially well of him.

A great episode on a great book. Tabby mentioned her love of Witch Wood, another of my favorite Buchan novels. Maybe we’ll get an episode on that somewhere down the road. I’d love to hear that. In the meantime, definitely check out The Book Club—I’ve embedded this week’s episode in its YouTube format above—as well as the new Book Club Notes newsletter they announced at the end of the episode.

My one Lindsey Graham story

This is not a political post—at least not in the sense of partisan politics and policy debates. I have opinions about all that stuff, but for today: de mortuis nil nisi bonum.

One evening early on in our marriage, Sarah and I were walking down Main Street in downtown Greenville. As we crossed Broad Street in front of the Peace Center, two men in suits passed us in the crosswalk and headed uphill, talking and nodding as they went. I glanced at them and didn’t think anything of it, but after a few steps Sarah said, “Did you see that?”

“What?”

“That was Lindsey Graham.”

I realized that one of them had looked familiar. I looked back and watched Graham and the other man walk on, still talking. We had just walked past a United States senator.

Not much of a story, but the incident stuck with me. I’ve told it in class ever since to illustrate a specific point when I teach ancient Rome in Western Civ.

After explaining the expulsion of Rome’s Etruscan kings, the creation of the Republic, and something of the divide between patricians and plebs and patron-client relationships, I put a picture of a Roman consul entering a Senate meeting onscreen. It’s a Victorian engraving and despite including some good details it’s not well composed artistically, so the subject of the picture is not immediately apparent. I ask the class who the most important person in the picture is. They’ll often guess one or other of the senators because they’re seated. I then point out the consul, his signs of rank, and especially his retinue: clients, political allies, advisors, soldiers, slaves, even some bearded Gauls.

That’s when I tell my Lindsey Graham story. It would have been unthinkable in ancient Rome, even when the republic was strongest, to pass a man of that importance on the street without noticing, without seeing his gaggle of attendants and hangers on.

That little incident offers a useful contrast and helps build an understanding of Roman social life in my students’ imaginations. It’s also a good reminder—as much as I love the Romans—of what an American republic is supposed to be like. We have neither monarchy nor patricians and plebs, but as political culture and politicians themselves have become progressively more imperial, complete with retinues and armies of bodyguards—seriously, look at the vast apparatus used just to move the president, ostensibly a fellow citizen, by car—this ideal, however imperfect and never fully realized, is worth remembering. As long as a national politician can walk down the street more or less unnoticed, as even such Caesarian presidents as Jackson and Lincoln would and did, something of that republican culture still lives.

I suppose this did turn out to be a political post, though about politics at a more fundamental level.

As for Lindsey Graham himself, he was undoubtedly a devoted son of South Carolina. I was surprised to learn that, having been born in Central, where I spent some time during my Clemson years, he lived in Seneca, town of more than a dozen redlights. For all I know we could have sat in traffic near each other many times long before that crosswalk encounter. RIP

The Long Traverse

This year’s John Buchan June enters the homestretch with another curiosity. When I wrote about The Magic Walking Stick two weeks I go I was careful to note that it was Buchan’s only children’s book published during his lifetime. That’s because, at his untimely death in February 1940, in addition to having just completed his memoir Memory Hold-the-Door and his final novel, Sick Heart River, he was working on a new children’s book: The Long Traverse.

The young hero of this novel, Donald, is the son of a Canadian mining engineer. When the story begins, he has just left school on holiday and is excited to reach his family’s cabin in the forests of Quebec. His parents have given him permission to go a week early to prepare for their stay, which means a week of riding, hunting, fishing, playing in the woods and streams with his friends Simone and Aristide, local Indian children, and hearing stories from their uncle, Father Laflamme.

Donald is especially excited because he hates school. He resents his Latin lessons and finds history confusing and boring. He prefers the outdoors or, failing that, the movies.

When Father Laflamme learns about Donald’s lack of interest—especially his indifference to history—he discusses it with the family’s beloved Indian hunting and fishing guide, Negog. Descended from the priestly caste of the Cree, Negog thinks Donald should be open to learning from his ancestors and knows a secret method for commanding attention and teaching the stories of the past.

Every evening, after the day’s adventures, Negog ensures that Donald is near a body of water. As the sun sets, the fish rest, and the waters still to a mirror the cloudless golden sky, Donald experiences La Longue Traverse—visions of past events.

Day by day Donald meets the heroes of early Canadian history. He sees Jacques Cartier on his expedition to explore the St Lawrence River, Adam Dollard and his companions holding out against the Iroquois at the Battle of the Long Sault, voyageur Jean Cadieux and his last-stand against Indian attack, forgotten trappers, explorers, missionary priests, prospectors and miners, and ordinary people. My two favorite chapters concerned—unsurprisingly—the Norse exploration of the Canadian coast, in which Donald witness the long, hard expeditions of the fictitious Hallward, and a chapter set in the plains far from European settlement, where an Indian tribe, faced with enemies newly armed with the horse, trade for a yet deadlier weapon: the gun.

In The Long Traverse, Buchan combines the magic of his earlier children’s book with the story-made-of-stories setup of The Path of the King. Each story is engaging and exciting, and in the frame story that structures them Donald slowly learns more—and takes more and more pride and ownership—of his and his country’s past. Though he forgets the visions as soon as they end, the stories stay with him. In flash-forwards, his parents are astonished by the things he knows.

The subject matter is the stuff of adventure, but the true star of the book is the Canadian landscape. As with the best of his adventure fiction, Buchan conjures vivid settings and realistically describes them. The forested hills and lakes of Quebec are the most frequent locations, but the canyons and whitewater rapids of the Canadian Rockies, the endless plains, and the frozen coasts of Arctic islands also feature. Buchan describes all of this beautifully but does not leave out the unpleasant: heat, avalanche, dangerous rapids, and clouds of biting black flies. (The cover of the first edition, above, shows Donald sheltering by a lakeside fire built by Negog to keep the flies at bay.) The wildness and scale of the country, the hardships of daily life, and the hazards of travel—on foot, by horse, by canoe, by longship—demanded heroism of the people who lived there, and Buchan makes both feel real.

The Long Traverse ends suddenly after the story of a missionary priest’s eerie encounter with the Toonit, a population of relict prehistoric people not unlike the Picts of Buchan’s early short story “No-Man’s-Land.” Buchan was almost finished with the book when he died, and though the individual stories are wonderfully absorbing and readable—I read the book in two days—Donald’s story is left unresolved. A note by Buchan’s widow, Lady Tweedsmuir, explains the original conception and purpose of the book and a little of what Buchan left in outline at his death.

During his time as Governor-General of Canada Buchan came to love the country, not only its vast and varied landscapes but the peoples who lived there. (This comes across quite clearly in this 1937 New Years’ greeting.) He found its history fascinating, full of romance and figures worthy of emulation, and Canadian schools’ methods of teaching that history abominable. The textbooks, as he saw it, were more likely to kill than to encourage interest in the past. One sympathizes.

Donald is Buchan’s imaginary typical Canadian schoolboy, full of talent and potential but lacking direction and already let down by the schools. Negog and Father Laflamme sense that Donald is vulnerable, that, on the verge of manhood, his character is at a crucial moment in its growth, and that the cities and movies strive against the rootedness in the past that Donald and all of us need. Negog, as a Cree a figure of the past and as a Christian Canadian a figure of the present, puts him directly in touch with that past. Understanding one’s history, Buchan forcefully shows, is not only a duty but an important step in moral formation.

It is also interesting and fun. The stories Donald sees in The Long Traverse are all exciting, and Buchan envisioned them as a way to awaken the imaginations of young students. Thus awakened, they would be open to instruction. (It certainly worked on me; I learned a lot either reading or reading about the subjects of these stories.) He rightly understood that telling interesting stories about the people of past beats any state-approved textbook. The imagination must come first—a lesson still worth learning and remembering.

A historical philosophy quotation master list

History, a mosaic by Frederick Dielman, Members Room at the Library of Congress Thomas Jefferson Building

Since shortly after I started teaching I’ve begun every semester with three quotations meant to explain to my students what my approach to both learning and teaching history is and, by extension, what they should be looking for as we go. I’ve always used the same three but sometimes expand on a given point with another, related line from a slightly different angle. I’ve found this approach does a good job of setting expectations, and gives me a few key ideas I can call back to for the rest of the semester.

Taken together, these three quotations are the basis of my philosophy of history. Today is the halfway point in this summer semester, and as I reflected on these again I decided, in the commonplace book spirit of this blog, to share them here. I’m including some other quotations that I may only occasionally bring up in class but that inform my understanding of history on some deep level.

I intend to expand this post in the future as I remember more quotations that I’ve found useful or inspiring.

The big three: Bloch, Hartley, Cicero

Bloch: history is about people

Marc Bloch (1886-1944), in The Historian’s Craft, written in 1941-42 but published posthumously in 1949:

“The good historian resembles the legendary ogre. Where he senses human flesh, he knows there lies his prey.”

Alternate translation: “The good historian is like the giant of the fairy tale. He knows that wherever he catches the scent of human flesh, there is quarry lies.”

I include this line to explain that the focus of the course will be humanity—both individual people and their characters, strengths, and failings as well as anything broadly construed as human. That is, culture. Anything cultural is fair game: war, politics, literature, religion, economics, etc.

For the last few years I’ve explicitly set this in opposition to the kind of history emphasizing abstract “forces” or “trends,” whether the hoary economics-is-everything models of Marx and friends or of modish bestsellers like Sapiens, which attempts to contextualize all of humanity on a grand cosmic scale by presenting all of human history in the last few pages. That’s not history, I argue, but geology, astronomy, physics, and the other sciences (not to mention a ton of speculation). Real history involves humans and human choices.

Hartley: history is about difference

From LP Hartley’s (1895-1972) novel The Go-Between, published in 1953:

“The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there.”

I share this to set up the expectation that people in the past thought and behaved differently, and the example of a foreign country is extremely helpful in this regard. I’ll describe the stereotype of the “ugly American” abroad—loud, rude, judgmental, refusing to learn even a few phrases in the local language, expecting everyone to accommodate him, comparing everything unfavorably to the way we do it back home—and suggest to my students that we want to avoid doing the same on a trip into the past. Just like in a foreign country, I say, you’ll see things you don’t like or disagree with, but we’re only there to observe and try to understand.

Related: from Herbert Butterfield’s (1900-79) crucial 1931 study The Whig Interpretation of History, a line I’ve quoted here several times before:

“[T]he chief aim of the historian is the elucidation of the unlikenesses between past and present . . . It is not for him to stress and magnify the similarities between one age and another, and he is riding after a whole flock of misapprehensions if he goes to hunt for the present in the past.”

If I have time, I’ll often make an excursus on the two kinds of differences between ourselves and past people. The first is the obvious difference: a lot of medieval people thought and did things that seem straightforwardly strange and barbarous to us now. It’s easy to fixate on the strange and decide they are entirely unlike ourselves. But the second, more dangerous difference is the invisible kind, usually hidden by a superficial similarity: the Greeks had democracy, the Romans had a Senate! This one recognizable point can lull one into missing details like the prevalence of pederasty in ancient Greece, of gladiatorial combat in Rome, and of slavery in both. Be on the lookout for deep cultural differences especially where the past seems familiar.

Cicero: history is memory

I end the introduction to my approach as a student and teacher of history with my favorite Roman, Cicero, (106-43 BC) and this line in Orator ad M Brutum, section 120:

“Not to know what happened before you were born is to be a child forever. For what is the worth of a man’s life unless it is interwoven with the memory of ancient things from a greater age?”

Studying the past is a way to expand our understanding and wisdom beyond the brief window of time we’ll actually experience. With five kids, I can offer plenty of examples of childlike ignorance and how my kids have grown out of it partly through the stories Sarah and I have told them. (Cf Polybius below.) A simple point but one that always seems to work well.

I’ll often expand on this by paraphrasing the following from CS Lewis (1898-1963) in An Experiment in Criticism (1961):

“In reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself.”

Lewis is writing about literature but this line works just as well for history. And remember that history was traditionally—until the late 19th century, anyway—understood as a literary pursuit, an art.

I loathe the word empathy, but if I feel it would click with a given class I might invoke it here.

Others: approaches, priorities, and purpose

Butterfield: teaching and writing about history is a balancing act

Another from Butterfield’s Whig Interpretation of History:

“The historian is never more himself than when he is searching his mind for a general statement that shall in itself give the hint of its own underlying complexity.”

A small insight but an important one. This is one of the things that makes history an art, and the times I’ve enjoyed classroom lecture or discussion most are when I’m trying to strike precisely this balance—finding a way to say something generally true while suggesting complexity and exception. It’s a skill I admire enormously in the historians who have it.

Colonel Stonehill: history is what happened, not what didn’t

From the Coen brothers’ 2010 adaptation of Charles Portis’s True Grit, a line that they invented for the peevish, frustrated cotton factor and horse trader Col Stonehill:

“I do not entertain hypotheticals, the world as it is is vexing enough.”

I keep this one ready in my back pocket for alternate history questions. History, in my view, is far too complex to even begin to guess what might have happened had one or two variables been changed.

Related: from the late Australian political philosopher Kenneth Minogue’s (1930-2013) 2010 book The Servile Mind: How Democracy Erodes the Moral Life:

“The future is largely inscrutable; indeed we may count ourselves exceptionally fortunate if we acquire much of an understanding of the past”

A good single-sentence line not only on the impossibility of predicting the future but also the difficulty involved in studying the events that have actually happened.

Polybius and Dr Johnson: the purpose and responsibility of studying history

Two more. The first is a line I don’t think I’ve quoted in class but that I’ve reflected on for many years. From Polybius’s Histories, I.35:

“There are two roads to reformation for mankind—one through misfortunes of their own, the other through those of others: the former is the most unmistakable, the latter the less painful.”

The above pairs well with Cicero’s line on history as memory above.

Second, a quotation I included in the design of a poster I printed for my office door and classroom corkboards. In his Rasselas, Prince of Abissinia (1759), Samuel Johnson (1709-84) uses the poet-philosopher character Imlac to voice his ideas on the inevitability (“The truth is that no mind is much employed upon the present; recollection and anticipation fill up almost all our moments”) as well as the importance and value of studying history:

“If we act only for ourselves, to neglect the study of history is not prudent. If we are entrusted with the care of others, it is not just.”

Given all the other insights above—expanding one’s own memory, learning lessons the easy way, learning what to study and how and even how to teach others—the responsibility inherent in knowing the past is a good place to leave off.

A Lodge in the Wilderness

Last week I reviewed a unique entry in John Buchan’s bibliography—the only children’s book he published in his lifetime. This week John Buchan June continues with another unique item, this one more a curiosity than anything: part novel, part philosophical dialogue, part political treatise, the 1906 book A Lodge in the Wilderness.

The book first introduces us to eccentric multi-millionaire Francis Carey, who after making his fortune in various business and government concerns throughout the British Empire, has established himself in a lavish country house in Kenya called Musuru. Every summer Carey invites eighteen people—nine men and nine women—to join him at Musuru for dinners, hunting, and intellectual conversation about the pressing issues of the day. A Lodge in the Wilderness is an account of one of these events.

Buchan briefly describes all eighteen of Carey’s guests, including a Conservative lord, a big game hunter, an ex-soldier with long experience of the Empire, a journalist, a Jewish financier, and a representative of the intelligence service. The female characters are mostly the wives of influential men but show themselves politically well-connected and informed and, as both Buchan biographers Andrew Lownie and Ursula Buchan point out, their contributions to Carey’s conversations are taken seriously. Nevertheless, most of the characters are ciphers and, after a chapter or two, become hard to distinguish. They are, as Lownie puts it, “merely mouthpieces for the book’s ideas.”

The two that give the story personality are Hugh Somerville and Lady Flora Brune, apparently based on Buchan himself and Susie Grosvenor, whom he would marry a year after the book’s publication. Hugh and Lady Flora become friends and the first hints of a romance kindle between the two, and their flirtations and conversations, which serve as interstitial episodes between the long dinner-time discussions, provide the most story A Lodge in the Wilderness has to offer.

Over the course of a month or so, Carey treats his guests to lion hunts, tours of his beautiful and seemingly endless mountainside gardens, field trips to missions and other colonial points of interest, and many intensely academic discussions of Empire.

And that’s about all there is to it. Though A Lodge in the Wilderness makes concessions to the novelistic form, especially small episodes of excitement like Hugh’s near-miss during the lion hunt, nothing resolves. I was prepared for this in the philosophical dimension of the book—which can only raise questions and suggest ways forward, and to which I’ll return shortly—but it was disappointing that, having developed Hugh and Lady Flora’s young romance so successfully, they do not get any kind of last-chapter send-off suggesting what will become of their relationship. A rare loose end for Buchan.

This is a reminder that the entire purpose of the book is philosophical and political. Written in Buchan’s early thirties after his return from the Transvaal in South Africa, where he had served as private secretary to colonial governor Lord Milner, A Lodge in the Wilderness is a response to changing policy and cultural attitudes toward the Empire back home. Better attuned critics than I, especially those who were alive at the time, have seen in the book’s characters stand-ins for real-life political figures, not least Cecil Rhodes. Buchan’s goal in the book is to lay out and examine the problems facing the British Empire as it stood during the Edwardian period, charitably work through opposing ideas, and suggest an ideal to strive toward—an ideal both of form and function.

Among the topics of discussion are the political basis of the Empire, its potential future structure and the role subject peoples will play democratically, and even—perhaps most interestingly—the aesthetic effects of imperialism on British culture. All of this is examined in excruciating detail. I wrote above that A Lodge in the Wilderness is “part philosophical dialogue,” and Hugh even reads Plato in the garden at one point, but there is really very little back-and-forth at dinner. The characters mostly make speeches, sometimes reading long poems or newspaper articles aloud to the whole party, with occasional pushback from someone else and an eventual attempt at synthesis. (Hegel is invoked more than once, an infallible sign one is in danger of being bored.)

Buchan seems to have known that not everyone would enjoy this. Halfway through, Lady Flora tells Hugh, “I do so wish . . . that they wouldn't all talk in paragraphs.” One sympathizes, as well as appreciating the self-aware laugh.

Some recent readers, to judge by reviews on sites like Goodreads, take some of the characters’ viewpoints as Buchan’s own and object to what they see as promotion of eugenics or a lust for conquest. Buchan, charitable to a fault, allows his characters to have opinions he disagreed with in order to offer a better alternative. His own views are sometimes difficult to parse but a number of important points show through clearly.

The view of the Empire that Buchan presents is benevolent and idealistic but hard to understand in the specifics. Negatively, he explicitly rules out conquest for its own sake, the equation of largeness and territorial size with goodness, the suppression and subordination of subject peoples, and the exploitation of the Empire for profit. Violence in an empire is inevitable but not to be sought out, enjoyed, or glorified. He also makes it clear that any backwardness or primitivism among non-European peoples is due not to race but to culture and opportunity, and he cautions against both denigrating native peoples and exaggerating their primitiveness as unspoiled goodness. He is neither jingo nor Social Darwinist.

What Buchan envisions instead is an ennobling enterprise that will make high moral, spiritual, and even physical demands of the imperialists, who will set an example for the complacent bourgeoisie at home. (Buchan’s critique of the middle class as apathetic and compromised is surprisingly sharp.) The purpose of the Empire is the spread of improvement—technologically, economically, and morally—and the eventual advancement and participation of all the peoples within its reach.

This view is essentially globalist, undergirded by a whiggish view of history. What sets Britain’s apart from other imperial projects, he suggests, is its long accidental development of the rule of law and the importance accorded to liberty. Having come into world power without plan or direction, the Empire is Britain’s opportunity deliberately to spread the good of liberty through order. In a phrase of Chesterton’s—who, no imperialist, would probably disapprove of me using it—the Empire at its best would “make room for good things to run wild.”

All of this should suggest to you that A Lodge in the Wilderness is now almost entirely of historical significance. It’s the only Buchan book I’ve read that I’d call a slog. (It doesn’t help that the cheap paperback I read has numerous text-recognition errors and formatting problems. If you do check this book out, avoid the edition whose cover I used above.) A Lodge in the Wilderness is informative as the dream of empire held by one principled, hopeful, well-intentioned man, and interesting as a strange outlier among Buchan’s fiction, but it is unsatisfying as a novel and will be unrewarding for the casual reader. I’m glad I read it but I very much doubt that I will ever revisit it.

The pods bursting in air

Detail of A View of the Bombardment of Fort McHenry by John BOwer

I was returning from vacation when they dropped, but I’ve enjoyed catching up on The Rest is History’s series on national anthems so far. The episode on the “Deutschlandlied” was especially good, and though I enjoyed Holland and Sandbrook’s discussion of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” I do have two notes I have to get out of my system. (I almost titled this post “Key notes.”)

For context, they do a good job with the poem’s origin as an account of the unsuccessful British naval bombardment of Fort McHenry during the War of 1812. Eyewitness Francis Scott Key’s poem was published as a broadside ballad under the title “The Defence of Fort McHenry,” a title that might helpfully clue modern singers in to what’s going on in Key’s contorted verse but doesn’t catch the imagination quite like “The Star-Spangled Banner.”

Holland and Sandbrook, however, turn the bulk of the episode into yet another discussion of American slavery due to the presence, in Key’s seldom-remembered third verse, of the lines “No refuge could save the hireling and slave, / From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave.” This line has provoked its share of controversy (less, I’m guessing, than the words “the land of the free,” but that’s not our focus here), including the suggestion that the song “glorifies slavery.”

Sandbrook quotes a Key biographer who pointed out that the word hireling is a giveaway—the phrase “hireling and slave” refers to paid soldiers and mercenaries in the service of a tyrant. This is pretty obvious to anyone who knows the period and the importance of the citizen-soldier image to a newborn republic. In parsing the intent of the poet himself, Sandbrook notes that Key, a Marylander, was a slaveowner but also represented slaves in suits for freedom but also opposed abolitionism and also that the invading British in 1812 fielded a regiment of runaway slaves that Key may have been aware of. So he and Holland conclude that the contested line probably has at least some tangential but problematic connection to slavery-slavery, not simply the metaphorical slavery of British soldiers.

One thing neither host does is quote the entire third stanza:

And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion,
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave,
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave,
[Refrain]

This is clarifying. Read in its entirety, Key’s poem is a narrative, albeit a convoluted one. Where the first two stanzas narrate the worry and aftermath of the unsuccessful bombardment, the third sees the British in retreat and their unwanted presence expunged. Every line supports this reading. The fourth, which is the only other stanza the average person might know, wraps up the story with a reflection and peroration.

Sandbrook and Holland concede entirely too much to the argument that the third stanza is about literal slavery, for what I think are two reasons:

First, they seriously underrate not only the importance of the citizen-soldier image to Americans but also the contempt with which paid soldiers were held at the time and the suspicion of Americans toward professional armies. Remember that people haven’t always admired soldiers. Read the Anti-Federalists and their hostility toward a paid standing army in the employ of the President stands out as one of their most important objections to the Constitution. And the myth of Hessians as bloodthirsty warriors-for-hire, a myth important enough and provocative enough to be explicitly invoked in the Declaration of Independence, persists to this day. That aspect of the Revolution is still taught with a whiff of disdain for people who would hire themselves out as mercenaries, a disdain that survives in popular culture (as in The Crossing, a mostly good TV movie about Washington at Trenton).

Second, the excessive focus on Key’s personal and political opposition to abolitionism in the second half of the episode leads Holland and Sandbrook into the trap of assuming—or at least talking as if—only two positions were available on the issue: support for slavery and abolitionism. This is hard to keep in mind and even harder to get students to understand, but especially in the early decades of the 19th century, before the fringe positions of radical, John Brown-style abolitionism and James Henry Hammond-style support for slavery came to dominate the debate, there were lots of intermediate, moderate positions. Many of the Founders favored gradualist plans of slow emancipation, as did figures from Key’s generation like Henry Clay—also a slaveowner—and Key supported the colonization movement, which Sandbrook mentions but pooh-poohs. That’s a mistake. Colonization enjoyed widespread favor despite proving unworkable and being written out of the story by the radical abolitionists valorized in the present. Key’s opposition to abolitionists was opposition to extremism and public disorder, not the end of slavery itself.

Again, a good and mostly enjoyable episode, but skewed in its coverage by a couple crucial points where Holland and Sandbrook’s usual nuance is missing. Perhaps, per Alan Jacobs, another anti-American blindspot? Or is it just that Brits will necessarily have to work harder to get into the would-be Roman republican mindset of this era?