GOP Veepstakes and Pope’s Dunciad

By Robin Bates | Published: July 14, 2024
J.D. Vance and Donald Trump

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Monday

As many predicted, Donald Trump is treating his vice-presidential pick like an episode on The Apprentice, with the additional advantage (for him) as having candidates grovel before him a little longer. What comes to my mind is the degree to which the dunces in Alexander Pope’s famous mock epic are willing to degrade themselves to get what they want.

Before turning to Pope, here’s what one of our own satirists–New Yorker’s Andy Borowitz—has to say about Trump’s veepstakes:

Now in the final stages of choosing a running mate, Donald J. Trump is screening potential picks for any troubling signs of self-esteem, a campaign staffer confirmed on Tuesday. 

“In terms of a total lack of self-worth, Mike Pence set the bar pretty high,” the staffer said. “If he had been willing to violate the Constitution he would’ve been a keeper.”

Borowitz comes up with two examples. J.D. Vance first:

According to the staffer, Sen. J.D. Vance of Ohio made a fatal error in a recent grilling session when he accidentally used the word “I” in Trump’s presence. 

“That indicated that he might have an identity of his own apart from Trump,” the staffer said. “Sadly, I think J.D.’s toast.”

And now Marco Rubio:

As the field narrows, Sen. Marco Rubio of Florida appears to be leading in the self-debasement sweepstakes. 

“Trump insulted Rubio relentlessly in 2016 by calling him ‘Little Marco,’ and yet the senator is still desperate to be chosen,” the staffer says. “If he has even a shred of dignity, he’s done an amazing of job hiding it.”

The Dunciad was Pope’s takedown of the trash writers of his day. Parodying the epic games in The Aeneid, there are two self-abasing contests in particular that fit our situation. [Warning: Scatological humor ahead.]

The goddess Dulness creates a phantom poet who, because he appears rich and noble, is particularly sought after by the unscrupulous booksellers of the day, particularly Bernard Lintot and Edmund Curl. Both are willing to wade through piss and excrement to obtain the prize. Like the original scene in the Aeneid, one contestant slips, giving temporary advantage to the other. In this case, Curl slips in the contents of the chamber pot that his own chambermaid has emptied in front of Lintot’s bookstore (“fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid”):

Full in the middle way there stood a lake,
Which Curl’s Corinna chanc’d that morn to make,
(Such was her wont, at early down to drop
Her evening cates before his neighbor’s shop,)
Here fortun’d Curl to slide; loud shout the band,
And Bernard! Bernard! rings thro’ all the Strand. 
Obscene with filth the miscreant lies bewrayed
Fallen in the plash his wickedness had laid…

Rather than the filth and abasement slowing him down, however, it gives him extra force. It’s like the way that the Veep applicants seem to get special energy from Trump’s humiliations:

 Renew’d by ordure’s sympathetic force,
As oil’d with magic juices for the course,
Vigorous he rises; from the effluvia strong
Imbibes new life, and scours and stinks along;
Repasses Lintot, vindicates the race,
Nor heeds the brown dishonors of his face.

The second contest fits our purposes even better because it involves political hacks. Whoever can dive the deepest into London’s sewer system (Fleet Ditch, formerly the Fleet River) will get the sought-after prize. In this case, the prize is added publicity, achieved through bound magazines, along with a pound of lead. Once again, the goddess Dulness is presiding over the contest and addresses the contestants:

                         [All descend]
To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams
Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames,
The king of dikes! than whom no sluice of mud
With deeper sable blots the silver flood.
“Here strip, my children! here at once leap in,
Here prove who best can dash through thick and thin,
And who the most in love of dirt excel,
Or dark dexterity of groping well.
Who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around
The stream, be his the weekly journals bound…”

We get differing descriptions of the different dives into the muck. I haven’t paid so much attention to how the various Veep-candidates have been abasing themselves to match them up with the different dunces. Perhaps the first is like Vance, who after gaining a certain amount of fame through his book and then his business acumen, in that he climbs high in order to sink low. Here’s how Pope describes this dunce:

 [He] climb’d a stranded lighter’s height,
Shot to the black abyss, and plunged downright.
The senior’s judgment all the crowd admire,
Who but to sink the deeper, rose the higher.   

Another, one William Arnall, is particularly active in the dirty crab dance, which is to climb by going downward and advancing by going backward. Which brings Marco Rubio to mind:

 Not so bold Arnall; with a weight of skull,
Furious he dives, precipitately dull.
Whirlpools and storms his circling arm invest,
With all the might of gravitation bless’d.
No crab more active in the dirty dance,
Downward to climb, and backward to advance.
He brings up half the bottom on his head,
And loudly claims the journals and the lead.

Yet another contestant returns to sing the praises of swimming in, well, liquid shit, describing how brown sea nymphs have catered to him. Feel free to imagine here V-P aspirant and South Carolina senator Tim Scott, who perhaps surpasses everyone in talking about the seductive pleasures of Donald Trump. Hylas in the passage was a youth in Greek myth who was kidnapped and ravished by water nymphs:

First he relates, how sinking to the chin,
Smit with his mien, the mud-nymphs suck’d him in:
How young Lutetia, softer than the down,
Nigrina black, and Merdamante brown,
Vied for his love in jetty bowers below,
As Hylas fair was ravish’d long ago.

I’ve written in the past about how Winston Smith in 1984 learned to love Big Brother, all the more so because he was abused by him. I’m wondering if some similar psychology is at play with these Trump sycophants. Having once opposed Trump—and all have—perhaps they find a new kind of pleasure and release in surrendering to him completely.

The prize goes to him “who flings most filth, and wide pollutes around.” Of these finalists we can justly say, “No crabs more active in the dirty dance.”

Previous post on GOP Veepstakes
Who Is to Be Trump’s V-P? Lady Bracknell Knows

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Salomé: Material Girl in a Material World

By Robin Bates | Published: July 12, 2024
Andrea Salorio, Salomé and the Head of John the Baptist

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Sunday

Today’s Gospel reading is the salacious story of Salomé, which has fascinated such artists as Gustave Flaubert, Oscar Wilde, Aubrey Beardsley, Richard Strauss, and countless painters. While I’ve long been an Oscar Wilde enthusiast, I read his one-act play for the first time yesterday and am still processing it.

First, for those who need a reminder, here’s the story as Mark tells it:

For Herod himself had sent men who arrested John, bound him, and put him in prison on account of Herodias, his brother Philip’s wife, because Herod had married her. For John had been telling Herod, “It is not lawful for you to have your brother’s wife.” And Herodias had a grudge against him, and wanted to kill him. But she could not, for Herod feared John, knowing that he was a righteous and holy man, and he protected him. When he heard him, he was greatly perplexed; and yet he liked to listen to him. But an opportunity came when Herod on his birthday gave a banquet for his courtiers and officers and for the leaders of Galilee. When his daughter Herodias [a.k.a. Salomé] came in and danced, she pleased Herod and his guests; and the king said to the girl, “Ask me for whatever you wish, and I will give it.” And he solemnly swore to her, “Whatever you ask me, I will give you, even half of my kingdom.” She went out and said to her mother, “What should I ask for?” She replied, “The head of John the baptizer.” Immediately she rushed back to the king and requested, “I want you to give me at once the head of John the Baptist on a platter.” The king was deeply grieved; yet out of regard for his oaths and for the guests, he did not want to refuse her. Immediately the king sent a soldier of the guard with orders to bring John’s head. He went and beheaded him in the prison, brought his head on a platter, and gave it to the girl. Then the girl gave it to her mother. When his disciples heard about it, they came and took his body, and laid it in a tomb.

In Wilde’s version it’s not Herodias the wife calling the shots but Salomé. Wilde has her fall in love with John out of what appears to be a spiritual hunger. As a material girl living in a material world, she is experiencing a terrifying lack. Either there are no gods (“The Romans have driven them out,” one character observes) or religion has become static and legalistic. Her father, meanwhile, is lecherous and her mother vengeful. No wonder she seeks out the imprisoned John the Baptist (a.k.a. Jokanaan):

How sweet the air is here! I can breathe here! Within there are Jews from Jerusalem who are tearing each other in pieces over their foolish ceremonies, and barbarians who drink and drink, and spill their wine on the pavement, and Greeks from Smyrna with painted eyes and painted cheeks, and frizzed hair curled in twisted coils, and silent, subtle Egyptians, with long nails of jade and russett cloaks, and Romans brutal and coarse, with their uncouth jargon. Ah! how I loathe the Romans! They are rough and common, and they give themselves the airs of noble lords.

Although the imprisoned John is foul and in rags, Salomé finds a deep beauty in him:

How wasted he is! He is like a thin ivory statue. He is like an image of silver. I am sure he is chaste as the moon is. He is like a moonbeam, like a shaft of silver. His flesh must be cool like ivory. I would look closer at him.

As a pampered princess, where she goes wrong is in thinking that what she longs for must be possessed. Her desire to kiss John becomes an obsession:

Salomé: It is thy mouth that I desire, Jokanaan. Thy mouth is like a band of scarlet on a tower of ivory. It is like a pomegranate cut with a knife of ivory. The pomegranate-flowers that blossom in the gardens of Tyre, and are redder than roses, are not so red. The red blasts of trumpets that herald the approach of kings, and make afraid the enemy, are not so red. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of those who tread the wine in the wine-press. Thy mouth is redder than the feet of the doves who haunt the temples and are fed by the priests. It is redder than the feet of him who cometh from a forest where he hath slain a lion, and seen gilded tigers. Thy mouth is like a branch of coral that fishers have found in the twilight of the sea, the coral that they keep for the kings!… It is like the vermilion that the Moabites find in the mines of Moab, the vermilion that the kings take from them. It is like the bow of the King of the Persians, that is painted with vermilion, and is tipped with coral. There is nothing in the world so red as thy mouth…. Let me kiss thy mouth.

Jokanaan: Never! daughter of Babylon! Daughter of Sodom! Never.

Salomé: I will kiss thy mouth, Jokanaan. I will kiss thy mouth.

Her young and handsome Syrian guard, who is in love with her, is so appalled at her preference that he kills himself. And she, when balked of her desire, chooses the only way she can think of to get what she wants:

Herod: What would you have them bring thee in a silver charger? Tell me. Whatsoever it may be, they shall give it you. My treasures belong to thee. What is it, Salomé?

Salomé [rising]: I ask of you the head of Jokanaan.

When Herod offers her anything else, from precious jewels to half his kingdom, she is resolute. After all, she has come to learn just how empty wealth and power are. Sadly, she does not realize that what she desires cannot be possessed. And this in spite of the fact that John has told her where she needs to look:

Salomé: Speak again! Speak again, Jokanaan, and tell me what I must do.

Jokanaan: Daughter of Sodom, come not near me! But cover thy face with a veil, and scatter ashes upon thine head, and get thee to the desert and seek out the Son of Man.

Salomé: Who is he, the Son of Man? Is he as beautiful as thou art, Jokanaan?

And later:

Salomé: Let me kiss thy mouth.

Jokanaan: Daughter of adultery, there is but one who can save thee, it is He of whom I spake. Go seek Him. He is in a boat on the sea of Galilee, and He talketh with His disciples. Kneel down on the shore of the sea, and call unto Him by His name. When He cometh to thee (and to all who call on Him He cometh), bow thyself at His feet and ask of Him the remission of thy sins.

Salomé’s tragedy is that she doesn’t follow John’s advice but, blinded by her material understanding of the world, destroys the only man who tells her about a way out. In the end, she is ordered killed by her horrified and uncomprehending father.

Previous posts on Salomé
Carol Anne Duffy: Salomé the Morning After
Anne Killigrew: Salomé, a Female Revenge Fantasy
Tim Winton: This House Is Filling with Light

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Politics Got You Down? Read Rasselas
By Robin Bates | Published: July 11, 2024
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Friday
Uncertainty about the 2024 election is driving Democrats mad at the moment. Why does the race continue so close, we wonder, given that Joe Biden has created a stellar economy while Donald Trump attempted a coup and is now—with his threats of retribution and Project 2025—promising a fascist takedown of American democracy if reelected? While the situation is worrisome, however, worrying ourselves sick over the matter is not going to change things.
When I find myself consumed by despair over this state of affairs, I sometimes think of Samuel Johnson’s astronomer in his philosophic novel Rasselas. Rasselas is on a journey to discover the secret of happiness and thinks he has found it in a learned scientist who has given over his life to studying the heavens. This man spends as much time charting interstellar space as political junkies spend surfing the internet, a comparison I make because similar results ensue. First, here’s Rasselas’s mentor Imlac reporting on the astronomer:  
I have just left the observatory of one of the most learned astronomers in the world, who has spent forty years in unwearied attention to the motion and appearances of the celestial bodies, and has drawn out his soul in endless calculations.
And now here’s the result, which Imlac discovers after noticing the astronomer’s depression and pressing him on it. The astronomer reveals that he does not possess the key to happiness after all:
Hear, Imlac, what thou wilt not without difficulty credit.  I have possessed for five years the regulation of the weather and the distribution of the seasons.  The sun has listened to my dictates, and passed from tropic to tropic by my direction; the clouds at my call have poured their waters, and the Nile has overflowed at my command.  I have restrained the rage of the dog-star, and mitigated the fervors of the crab.  The winds alone, of all the elemental powers, have hitherto refused my authority, and multitudes have perished by equinoctial tempests which I found myself unable to prohibit or restrain.  I have administered this great office with exact justice, and made to the different nations of the earth an impartial dividend of rain and sunshine.  What must have been the misery of half the globe if I had limited the clouds to particular regions, or confined the sun to either side of the equator?
Just like many who follow the ups and downs of politics, the astronomer doesn’t differentiate between worrying about cataclysmic events and thinking he has control over them. And while he acknowledges he can’t prove his power, he trusts his vibes:
I…shall not attempt to gain credit by disputation.  It is sufficient that I feel this power that I have long possessed, and every day exerted it.
After describing the encounter, Imlac warns the Rasselas party,
He who has nothing external that can divert him must find pleasure in his own thoughts, and must conceive himself what he is not; for who is pleased with what he is?  He then expatiates in boundless futurity, and culls from all imaginable conditions that which for the present moment he should most desire…and confers upon his pride unattainable dominion.  
The problem is particularly acute, Imlac says, for those who have a strong sense of responsibility and who feel guilty for not doing more:
“No disease of the imagination,” answered Imlac, “is so difficult of cure as that which is complicated with the dread of guilt; fancy and conscience then act interchangeably upon us, and so often shift their places, that the illusions of one are not distinguished from the dictates of the other….[W]hen melancholy notions take the form of duty, they lay hold on the faculties without opposition, because we are afraid to exclude or banish them.
Those who take their citizenship duties seriously may find conscience mixing with fantasies of power—we all have them—and consequently finding themselves plunged into melancholy or depression.
So what is to be done? Part of the problem is solitude, so Rasselas and his party pull the astronomer out of his observatory and get him to join them in a variety of activities, which include conversing with their lovely handmaiden Pekulah. In other words, they offer him perspective and a sense of proportion. Once they do, he comes to realize that he is doesn’t carry the whole weight of the world on his shoulders. As Imlac sums it up,
Open your heart to the influence of the light, which from time to time breaks in upon you; when scruples importune you, which you in your lucid moments know to be vain, do not stand to parley, but fly to business or to Pekuah; and keep this thought always prevalent, that you are only one atom of the mass of humanity, and have neither such virtue nor vice as that you should be singled out for supernatural favors or afflictions.
For concerned citizens, flying to business can include contacting members of Congress, writing postcards, knocking on doors, donating, and of course voting while flying to Pekuah may involve romantic outings, partying with friends, exercising, and so on. The key is stepping away from that black hole that is the political internet.
This remedy works with the astronomer, who reflects,
I now see how fatally I betrayed my quiet, by suffering chimeras to prey upon me in secret…I hope that time and variety will dissipate the gloom that has so long surrounded me, and the latter part of my days will be spent in peace.
To which Imlac replies, “Your learning and virtue may justly give you hopes.”
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What the Shell Tells Us about Biden
By Robin Bates | Published: July 10, 2024
Charles Victor Thirion, Listening to the Seashell
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Wednesday
Although I know there are many Democrats who believe that Joe Biden should step down and let someone else (there’s disagreement as to whom) take his place, I remain convinced that staying with him is the Democrats’ best chance to retain the presidency. Some of my belief comes from Chris Bouzy, election analyst and founder of the Twitter-alternative Spoutible, who time and again has demonstrated remarkable predictive powers. Bouzy thinks the Democrats will win convincingly—the presidency and both chambers of Congress—if Biden stays and that they will lose the presidency and Senate both if he steps aside.
Bouzy, of course, is not omniscient and could be wrong so I’m not dismissing the fears of Biden doubters. But I take a different tack in today’s post and share a thought that is allowing me to sleep a little easier. It’s based on a James Stephens poem that came to mind as I was strolling on a South Carolina beach with my five-year-old grandson Ocean. Ocean has become obsessed with collecting shells:
The Shell
By James Stephens

AND then I pressed the shell
Close to my ear
And listened well,
And straightway like a bell
Came low and clear        
The slow, sad murmur of the distant seas,
Whipped by an icy breeze
Upon a shore
Wind-swept and desolate.
It was a sunless strand that never bore  
The footprint of a man,
Nor felt the weight
Since time began
Of any human quality or stir
Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.  
And in the hush of waters was the sound
Of pebbles rolling round,
Forever rolling with a hollow sound.
And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go
Swish to and fro
Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.
There was no day,
Nor ever came a night
Setting the stars alight
To wonder at the moon:  
Was twilight only and long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.
And waves that journeyed blind—
And then I loosed my ear … O, it was sweet
To hear a cart go jolting down the street.
 “A shore wind-swept and desolate,” “long, cold tentacles of slimy grey,” “waves that journeyed blind”—those are all images that would apply to a second Trump presidency.
I can also imagine enough voters thinking the same way. Uncle Joe is our comfortable cart. He may not arouse intense passions—he doesn’t conjure up what the Romantics called “the dark sublime”—but he’s familiar and safe. For all Trump’s effort to tar him with “Biden Crime Family” and other projected accusations, Biden simply jolts along. It’s how he routed his Democratic opponents in the 2020 primaries, how he beat an incumbent president later that year, and how he could well be reelected this year.
Americans may grumble a lot. But when their lives are going fairly comfortably—as they are—they are not prone to vote in disruptive change. Trump foes and Trump fans alike see him as a chaos agent, and more Americans than not are averse to chaos. This will become clearer as the election nears.
To be sure, Biden may indeed choose, or be pressured, to step down. But so far, Joltin’ Joe has not yet left and gone away.
 
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When at the Beach, Nature Takes Over
By Robin Bates | Published: July 9, 2024
Potthast, Children at the Beach
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Wednesday
We’re currently at North Myrtle Beach with my two sons, their wives, and their five children. A William Meredith beach poem, therefore, is perfect for the occasion. Familiar as he is with New England winters, Meredith feels impelled to contrast the sand with snow and notes, in winter, “the mind is in charge of things.” In the summer, by contrast, nature appears to take over:
He tries to remember snow, his season.
The mind is in charge of things then.
Summer is for animals, the ocean is erotic,
all that openness and swaying.
As he lies in the sun on the beach, the still mindful speaker notes, at first, that the Yale-educated nanny (or babysitter) uses grammatically incorrect language as she addresses her charges:
Why doesn’t the girl who takes care
of the children, a Yale girl without flaw,
know the difference between lay and lie?
By the end of the poem, however, he has surrendered to nature and given up the need to exert any kind of control, including grammatical control:
It is just as well, [the children] have all been changed
into small shrill marginal animals,
he would not want to understand them again
until after Labor Day.  He just lays there.
Here’s the poem:
Rhode Island
By William Merideth

Here at the seashore they use the clouds over & over
again, like the rented animals in Aïda.
In the late morning the land breeze
turns and now the extras are driving
all the white elephants the other way.
What language are the children shouting in?
He is lying on the beach listening.

The sand knocks like glass, struck by bare heels.
He tries to remember snow noise.
Would powder snow ping like that?
But you don’t lie with your ear to powder snow.
Why doesn’t the girl who takes care
of the children, a Yale girl without flaw,
know the difference between lay and lie?

He tries to remember snow, his season.
The mind is in charge of things then.
Summer is for animals, the ocean is erotic,
all that openness and swaying.
No matter how often you make love
in August you’re always aware of genitalia,
your own and the half-naked others’.
Even with the gracefulest bathers
you’re aware of their kinship with porpoises,
mammals disporting themselves in a blue element,
smelling slightly of fish.  Porpoise Hazard
watches himself awhile, like a blue movie.

In the other hemisphere now people
are standing up, at work at their easels.
There they think about love at night
when they take off their serious clothes
and go to bed sandlessly, under blankets.

Today the children, his own among them,
are apparently shouting fluently in Portuguese,
using the colonial dialect of Brazil.
It is just as well, they have all been changed
into small shrill marginal animals,
he would not want to understand them again
until after Labor Day.  He just lays there.
There will be time—after Labor Day—to return to our easels. For the moment, just go with the flow. And since understanding is no longer a priority, the children can speak any language they choose.


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Still Relevant? Whittier’s Suffering Quakers
By Robin Bates | Published: July 8, 2024
Illus. from Whittier’s “How the Women Went from Dover”
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Tuesday
For the second day in a row I report on a timely article that grounds itself in an obscure 19th century poem. Thom Hartmann of Substack’s Hartmann Report cites John Greenleaf Whittier’s “How the Women Went from Dover” to highlight the GOP’s plans for American women should it regain the presidency. The plans are as chilling as the poem.
Hartmann points out that the Heritage Foundation’s “Project 2025,” along with rulings and opinions by Trump-appointed Federal District Judge Michael Kacsmaryk and rightwing Supreme Court justices, all point to attempts to reestablish control over women. As he puts it, they “have some very specific plans for nationally resetting the legal status of half the American population, and they’re using religion and ‘sin’ to justify their bizarre imposition of 18th century values”:
They explicitly want to reverse the status of women’s legal, workplace, marital, and social equality and return to a time when biblical law dictated that men ran everything from the household to business to governance and law.
Among ideas that have been mentioned are enforcing the Comstock Act, which was originally passed to prohibit shipping conveying obscene matter, crime-inciting matter, or certain abortion-related matters through the U.S. system. While generally considered defunct, it’s still on the books and Alito and Thomas on the Supreme Court have mentioned it approvingly. Through it, Hartmann says, Republicans “will be able to ban the shipment of anything, from drugs to surgical devices, that can be used to produce an abortion. This could even end most hospital-based abortions by essentially outlawing the equipment needed to perform them.”
Also in the Right’s targets is no fault divorce, which has been a boon to women in abusive marriages. And the drug mifepristone, used in early abortions. And abortions generally, of course. As Hartmann bitterly notes,
Like people who love the death penalty (and in two states now state legislators have called for the death penalty for women who get abortions), they want to be able to torture them and watch them suffer; they want them to experience humiliation, and feel mortification for their sin of rejecting a pregnancy initiated by a man who was ordained by their god to be their master and the head of their household.
In the eyes of Trump judge Kacsmaryk, “so-called marriage equality” has put America “on a road to potential tyranny” and reflects a “complete abuse of rule of law principles.” Elsewhere, Hartmann notes, the judge has complained that the sexual revolution
ushered in a world where an individual is “an autonomous blob of Silly Putty unconstrained by nature or biology” and where “marriage, sexuality, gender identity and even the unborn child must yield to the erotic desires of liberated adults.”
And then there’s Ohio Sen. J.D. Vance, perhaps the GOP’s next vice-presidential candidate, making the case that women would be happier if they were more willing to tolerate domestic violence:
One of the great tricks that I think the sexual revolution pulled on the American populace [is the idea that] these marriages were fundamentally, you know, they were maybe even violent, but certainly they were unhappy, and so getting rid of them and making it easier for people to shift spouses like they change their underwear, that’s going to make people happier in the long term.
All of which leads Hartmann to conclude, as he transitions to Whittier’s poem, that “torturing women for religious reasons is nothing new for American theological zealots.”
“How the Women Went from Dover” is based on a real life incident in 1662 in which three Quakers—Anne Coleman, Mary Tomkins, and Alice Ambrose—so enraged Dover’s Congregational Church that the minister and the church elder lobbied the crown magistrate to have them punished. The three women were stripped naked, tied to the back of a horse-drawn cart by their wrists, and then dragged through town while receiving ten lashes each. Whittier writes:
The tale is one of an evil time,
When souls were fettered and thought was crime,
And heresy’s whisper above its breath
Meant shameful scouring and bonds and death!

Bared to the waist, for the north wind’s grip
And keener sting of the constable’s whip,
The blood that followed each hissing blow
Froze as it sprinkled the winter snow.
Apparently it wasn’t enough for the women to be whipped in Dover so the reverend got the punishment extended to 11 nearby towns, spread over a distance of 80 miles of snow-covered roads. The next whipping occurred in Hampton:
Once more the torturing whip was swung,
Once more keen lashes the bare flesh stung.
“Oh, spare! they are bleeding!” a little maid cried,
And covered her face the sight to hide.
After that, however, the horror of the spectacle caused a general revolt as local authorities refused to carry out the order.
With shame in his eye and wrath on his lip
The Salisbury constable dropped his whip.
“This warrant means murder foul and red;
Cursed is he who serves it,” he said.

“Show me the order, and meanwhile strike
A blow at your peril!” said Justice Pike.
Of all the rulers the land possessed,
Wisest and boldest was he and best.

He scoffed at witchcraft; the priest he met
As man meets man; his feet he set
Beyond his dark age, standing upright,
Soul-free, with his face to the morning light.
Looking back at the incident, Whittier reflects,
The tale is one of an evil time,
When souls were fettered and thought was crime,
And heresy’s whisper above its breath
Meant shameful scourging and bonds and death!
Then he reassures today’s women that, if their lives are better, it’s because of women such as these:
How much thy beautiful life may owe
To her faith and courage thou canst not know,
Nor how from the paths of thy calm retreat
She smoothed the thorns with her bleeding feet.
One can only pray that the thorns have been smoothed. Put the GOP back in power and who knows where we’ll end up? When Justice Alito defended the Supreme Court’s decision to reverse Roe v. Wade, he cited a witch-hanging judge from the 18th century, but why settle for turning the clock back to the 1700s when you could turn it back to the 1600s?
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Trump’s Judges, Pale Riders
By Robin Bates | Published: July 7, 2024
Gustave Doré, Death on a Pale Horse
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Monday
We’ve been so focused on Donald Trump’s coup attempt and his attacks on our election system that we’ve mostly missed a coup that has already made substantial progress. According to Asha Rangappa of the Substack blog Freedom Academy, our Trumpian Supreme Court has begun to (1) pave the way for Trump’s return to the presidency and (2) has revealed how it will support that presidency if Trump prevails. In making her case, the senior lecturer at Yale University’s Jackson Institute for Global Affairs makes powerful use of a Percy Shelley poem.
Shelley’s “Masque of Anarchy” was written in response to the so-called Peterloo Massacre, where calvary charged a demonstration of 60,000 people peacefully protesting high food prices and lack of freedom. Of those 18 died and nearly 700 were severely injured by saber cuts and trampling. Rangappa quotes the following two verses:
Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a scepter shone;
On his brow this mark I saw –
‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’
I won’t go into the intricacies of just how much the Supreme Court is proving itself to be in Trump’s corner, but Rangappa focuses on the Court’s ruling that presidents are immune from prosecution if they engage in official conduct and that, in determining whether the conduct is official or unofficial, courts may not inquire into the President’s motives. As Rangappa points out,
This is an astonishing statement, because it effectively means that it does not matter if a President uses the official levers of power with corrupt intent, for personal gain, or as retribution. In other words, the Court engages a sleight of hand where a critical distinction between lawful and unlawful conduct — the heart of criminal law, which rests on whether a person acted with a specific state of mind, or mens rea — ceases to exist when it comes to the President. Once this distinction is erased, the office of the presidency is basically a get out of jail free card, enabling the President to do pretty much anything that could plausibly be characterized as “official.”
 And who, in the end, would distinguish between whether an act is official or unofficial? Why, Trump’s Supreme Court. In their eyes, the Justice Department’s current prosecutions of Trump are “sham” (thus Trump needs immunity), but Trump, if reelected, would not be prohibited from coming up with “official” reasons for his own Justice Department to prosecute his enemies. As Rashagappa observes, the court “believes in a unitary [all powerful] executive, but only when a Republican is president.”
 Shelley’s angry poem shows that judges and the executive authorities are working hand in glove, and to these he adds the church. Given how fundamentalist Christian are getting what they want from both Trump and this Supreme Court, the poem is even more relevant.
Shelley was in Italy when the Peterloo massacre occurred and so wrote,
As I lay asleep in Italy,
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
First he calls out Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh, the repressive government minister largely associated with the Peterloo crackdown:
I met Murder on the way–
He had a mask like Castlereagh–
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him.

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew…
Next there’s the judiciary:
Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by them.
And then the church, with a side glance at Home Secretary Lord Sidmouth:
Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
All of which culminates in the image of Anarchy riding in that Rangappa cites. And when Anarchy rides in on his white horse, he is embraced by many of the same types who are embracing Trump—which is to say, lawyers (the Federalist Society, responsible for stacking the Supreme Court) and priests (fundamentalist preachers):
For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
`Thou art God, and Law, and King.

We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’

Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering — `Thou art Law and God.’ —

Then all cried with one accord,
`Thou art King, and God, and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!’
Shelley does manage to end his poem on an optimistic note. The Peterloo massacre was so horrific, he says, that those in power will be ashamed. Furthermore, they will lose the support of potential allies—members of the military who fought against Napoleon—who “will turn to those who would be free, “Ashamed of such base company.” Finally, the massacre will wake up and inspire those who have slumbered:
`And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.

`And these words shall then become
Like Oppression’s thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again — again — again–

`Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number–
Shake your chains to earth like dew                   
Which in sleep had fallen on you–
Ye are many — they are few.’
Awaking to stop our own judges means voting in a Democratic president and a Democratic Congress since only by doing so can the rogue judiciary be stopped. And if judicial plotting is not enough to get you to the polls, check out the Heritage Foundation’s “Project 2025,” MAGA’s fascist plans should Trump regain the White House. 
Plans which his Supreme Court appears to see as its mission to bring to fruition.
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This Altar the Earth Herself Has Given
By Robin Bates | Published: July 6, 2024
Note: If you wish to receive, via e-mail, (1) my weekly newsletter or (2) daily copies of these posts, write to me at rrbates1951@gmail.com. Comments may also be sent to this address. I promise not to share your e-mail with anyone. To unsubscribe, write here as well.
Sunday
Our church vestry, of which I am the senior warden, recently was confronted with a small but interesting challenge. Years ago our old church altar, constructed in 1911, was replaced and now occupies a prominent place in the old rectory, sometimes serving as a buffet, sometimes as a place upon which flowers and ornamental lamps sit. It has various hand carvings by a prominent local woodworker, and one of the descendants of this woodworker’s apprentice—the apprentice having herself contributed carvings to the altar’s side panels—would like the altar for herself. The issue of ownership has led to Vestry discussions resembling those to be found in Jan Karon’s Mitford series, about a quaint little Episcopalian parish in rural North Carolina.
I don’t know how we’ll decide—the altar, while no longer functioning in its original capacity, was after all a gift to the church—but the request has gotten us to take a closer look at it. I mention it here because it reminds me of a wonderful Malcolm Guite sonnet about his own church’s old wooden altar. While ours isn’t  centuries old, many of Guite’s observations still apply. Here it is:
This Table
The centuries have settled on this table
Deepened the grain beneath a clean white cloth
Which bears afresh our changing elements.
Year after year of prayer, in hope and trouble,
Were poured out here and blessed and broken, both
In aching absence and in absent presence.
This table too the earth herself has given
And human hands have made. Where candle-flame
At corners burns and turns the air to light
The oak once held its branches up to heaven,
Blessing the elements which it became,
Rooting the dew and rain, branching the light.
Because another tree can bear, unbearable,
For us, the weight of Love, so can this table
The other tree Guite mentions is the cross, which bore weight of Love. So did our old altar, which year after year bore the bread of heaven and the cup of salvation. As the “changing elements” were “poured out here and blessed and broken,” churchgoers experienced both God’s aching absence and God’s absent presence.
I love how Guite tracks back to when the altar was an oak tree, which reminds me of the old medieval poem “Dream of the Rood.” It’s as though that tree also was blessing the elements—the dew and the rain—and becoming one with them. As Jesus becomes one with us through the eucharist, “branching the light.”
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The Beowulfian Case for Keeping Biden
By Robin Bates | Published: July 4, 2024
Andimayer, Beowulf against the Dragon
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Friday
It so happens that Beowulf directly deals with the Joe Biden dilemma currently facing Democrats. The 8th century Anglo-Saxon poem also offers us a very workable solution.
Before laying it out, however, allow me to take a detour through Allen Ginsberg’s “Howl” and one of Aesop’s fables, which also weigh in on the question of whether Biden should keep running or step down. Philadelphia Inquirer columnist Will Bunch recently applied Ginsberg’s most famous poem to what he sees as a pile-on by media and liberal columnists. “Over the course of a remarkable weekend,” he wrote,
I saw the best minds of my boomer generation destroyed by madness — newspaper columnists and other big shots convinced they were cosplayers in a real-world episode of The West Wing, saving America by giving chief of staff Leo McGarry the best words to convince an ailing President Bartlet that it’s time to step down.
Ginsberg’s famous poem, which deals with the drug-addled beat generation, begins,
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night…
I don’t know that Bunch’s characterization is entirely fair. A number of these columnists, who I have come to rely on over the years, simply want what is best for America and are terrified—as am I—of a Trump return. When I read and weigh the different arguments, however, I pay attention to what they are proposing as alternatives and to how well they understand the process of running for president. Too often, what I see puts me in mind of Aesop’s fable about the mice and the cat:
Long ago, the mice had a general council to consider what measures they could take to outwit their common enemy, the Cat. Some said this, and some said that; but at last a young mouse got up and said he had a proposal to make, which he thought would meet the case. “You will all agree,” said he, “that our chief danger consists in the sly and treacherous manner in which the enemy approaches us. Now, if we could receive some signal of her approach, we could easily escape from her. I venture, therefore, to propose that a small bell be procured, and attached by a ribbon round the neck of the Cat. By this means we should always know when she was about, and could easily retire while she was in the neighborhood.”
This proposal met with general applause, until an old mouse got up and said: “That is all very well, but who is to bell the Cat?” The mice looked at one another and nobody spoke. Then the old mouse said:
“It is easy to propose impossible remedies.”
With the possible exception of choosing Kamala Harris, which might address the complex money, organizational, and legal hurdles involved in swapping out a candidate, I haven’t encountered any plausible scenarios of how this particular cat would be belled—which is to say, scenarios that are less risky than staying with the president. Both Biden and Trump have lost a step but only one of them is a fascist and a threat to democracy.
On to Beowulf, which deals with the problem of dragons. Now, dragons in the poem are symbolic of kings who have become ineffective. But there are different kinds of ineffective kings. The worst are like Heremod, who is contrasted with the good king Sigemund, who slays dragons. Trump is our Heremod, a king who becomes increasingly paranoid and vindictive as he grows older:
His rise in the world brought little joy
to the Danish people, only death and destruction.
He vented his rage on men he caroused with,
killed his own comrades, a pariah king
who cut himself off from his own kind,
even though Almighty God had made him
eminent and powerful and marked him from the start
for a happy life. But a change happened,
he grew bloodthirsty, gave no more rings 
to honor the Danes. He suffered in the end
for having plagued his people for so long:
his life lost happiness.
Other kings, rather than lash out, simply sink into passive depression, like Hrethel, who crawls into bed after losing a son and never gets up again. There’s also the Last Veteran, who having seen all around him die retreats into a funeral barrow, which becomes a dragon’s lair. (Which is to say, as I read the incident, that he becomes a human dragon.)
And then there is Beowulf in his last days, who is far superior to Heremod (because he is generous) and Hrethel and the Last Veteran (because he doesn’t sink into depression). Nevertheless, he still has a dragon dimension.
 Beowulf has had a spectacularly successful 50-year reign, but when dragonhood begins to descend, he makes what some consider to have been Biden’s mistake. Instead of passing the kingdom along to a successor, he insists on remaining king, thinking that only he can defeat the foe. Biden, some of his critics have charged, thinks that only he can defeat Trump, while Beowulf thinks the same about the dragon. As he instructs his warriors,
Men at arms, remain here on the barrow, 
safe in your armor, to see which one of us
is better in the end at bearing wounds
in a deadly fray. This fight is not yours,
nor is it up to any man except me
to measure his strength against the monster
or to prove his worth. I shall win the gold
by my courage, or else mortal combat,
doom of battle, will bear your lord away.  
One reason for Beowulf’s confidence, and for Biden’s, is his past record. And yes, there is some hubris involved. Thinking that one can defeat the dragon by oneself is itself a dragon trait:
Beowulf spoke, made a formal boast
for the last time: “I risked my life 
often when I was young. Now I am old,
but as king of the people I shall pursue this fight
for the glory of winning, if the evil one will only
abandon his earth-fort and face me in the open.”
I promised you a workable solution for our current situation and here it is. I start with the premise that Biden is not suffering from dementia and that he’s doing an adequate job running the country. (In fact, more than adequate compared to his predecessor.) As I don’t hear anyone credible saying differently—and as replacing comes with risks no less than keeping—then I think all Democrats should be giving him a full-throated endorsement, regardless of any private reservations. Indeed, we are hearing such endorsements from such people as Transportation Secretary Pete Buttigieg, California Governor Gavin Newsome, and Vice-President Harris, all names that one hears as possible replacements.
What does such an endorsement look like? In the poem, Wiglaf overlooks Beowulf’s egotism and comes to his aid. His words are not untinged with criticism—their leader should never have undertaken this task alone—but that is all irrelevant now. Wiglaf’s words to his fellows are inspiring and could function as a call to wavering Democrats:
                                           And now, although
he wanted this challenge to be one he’d face
by himself alone—the shepherd of our land,
a man unequalled in the quest for glory
and a name for daring—now the day has come
when this lord we serve needs sound men
to give him their support. Let us go to him,
help our leader through the hot flame 
and dread of the fire. As God is my witness,
I would rather my body were robed in the same
burning blaze as my gold-giver’s body
than go back home bearing arms.
That is unthinkable, unless we have first
slain the foe and defended the life
of the prince of the Weather-Geats. I well know
the things he has done for us deserve better.
Should he alone be left exposed
to fall in battle? We must bond together, 
shield and helmet, mail-shirt and sword.
Then he wades into “the dangerous reek,” telling his leader,
 Go on, dear Beowulf, do everything
you said you would when you were still young
and vowed you would never let your name and fame
be dimmed while you lived. Your deeds are famous,
so stay resolute, my lord, defend your life now 
with the whole of your strength. I shall stand by you.
Here’s what awaits Geat society—and America–if followers fail to do everything in their power to support their leader:
So it is goodbye now to all you know and love
on your home ground, the open-handedness,
the giving of war-swords. Every one of you
with freeholds of land, our whole nation,
will be dispossessed, once princes from beyond
get tidings of how you turned and fled 
and disgraced yourselves. A warrior will sooner
die than live a life of shame.
And here’s what awaits Beowulf’s society—and what awaits Democrats—if their leader is successful:
[Wiglaf] saw beyond the seat
a treasure-trove of astonishing richness, 
wall-hangings that were a wonder to behold,
glittering gold spread across the ground, 
the old dawn-scorching serpent’s den
packed with goblets and vessels from the past…

And he saw too a standard, entirely of gold,
hanging high over the hoard,
a masterpiece of filigree; it glowed with light 
so he could make out the ground at his feet
and inspect the valuables.
Make no mistake, there will be no liberated treasure, no flowering of freedom, if the Republicans win. The last two GOP administrations, with their billionaire tax cuts and their botched responses to world crises, were disasters, unlike the last three Democratic administrations. Everything we hold dear about our country will be dragged through the mud, and worse, if Trump prevails.
And there’s a further lesson to be learned from Wiglaf, which starts with a contrast. Anglo-Saxon society in the 8th century was more heavily dependent upon a king than we are. Whether society thrived or whether everyone ended up dead or enslaved could all come down to the leadership of one man. But we’re not like that. We have Wiglafs running the major departments and agencies, Wiglafs in positions of authority in all 50 states, Wiglafs making sure that people get their Social Security checks and their Medicare payments and their essential services, Wiglafs scattered throughout the voting public. In other words, Biden isn’t governing all by himself. He has chosen good people to work under him, and his policies and leadership have, so far, led to significant improvements, not to mention electoral victories all around the country.
So if Biden needs to go to bed by 8 am, if he needs the aid of a teleprompter to communicate, if he walks more haltingly and talks a little slower and debates less sharply than he once did, big deal. The proof is in the pudding and the pudding is a record of good governance. And it’s not like his opponent is any healthier or more articulate or more on top of the issues than he is. In fact, his opponent is proving himself more unhinged and dangerous every time he gets up to speak.
Trump is an isolated Heremod while Biden is an aged Beowulf willing to allow Wiglafs to help him accomplish the nation’s mission. Keep that image in mind before, like Beowulf’s other followers, you run for the woods.
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