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 Paradise Lost,
Paradise Regained
The True Meaning of Democracy

Arthur D. Robbins

This bound copy consists of corrected page proofs. It is not for sale or
other distribution and is to be used for review purposes only.

ISBN-13: 978-0-9676127-6-8
ISBN-10: 0-9676127-6-4
Binding: Hard cover, Smythe sewn
Press Date: June 1, 2012
Publication Date: August 15, 2012
Trim Size: 6” x 9”
Backmatter: Endnotes, Bibliography, and Index
Price: $34.95 USA / $39.95 Canada
First Printing: 5,000 copies
Distribution: Baker and Taylor
 Paradise Lost,
Par adise R egained

The True Meaning

of Democracy

Arthur D. Robbins

ac ro p o l is b o o k s
New York
Copyright 2012 by Arthur D. Robbins
Acropolis Books
P.O. Box 2629
New York, NY 10009
www.acropolis-newyork.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording
or any information storage and retrieval system without written permission from
the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication

Robbins, Arthur D.
Paradise lost, paradise regained : the true meaning
of democracy / by Arthur D. Robbins.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
LCCN 2011940038
ISBN-13: 978-0-9676127-6-8
ISBN-10: 0-9676127-6-4

1. Democracy. 2. Political science--Philosophy--

History. I. Title.

JC423.R63 2012 321.8

QBI11-600203

Interior design, Kate Nichols

Jacket design, Erika Fusari
Jacket image, Eve by Albrecht Dürer, courtesy of Museo del Prado, Madrid

This book is composed in 10.3 Sabon

Printed in the United States of America on permanent and durable acid-free paper

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 For the children everywhere—
May they inherit a world that is free, just, and joyous
A lie can go half way around the world,
before the truth even gets its boots on.
—Mark Twain
 Contents
k

Preface ix
Acknowledgments xi

Introduction: The Specter of Government 1

Part I: Paradise L ost

Democracy in Historical Context
1 What Is History and Why Does It Matter? 13
2 False Friends 27
3 Ancient Athens: Wellspring of Democracy 43
4 Government and Character: Lessons from Athens 59
5 The Roman Republic: Oligarchy with a Hint of Democracy 75
6 Experiments in Government: The Italian City-States 83

Part II: D emocracy in A merica

Opportunity Missed
7 Early Voices in America 97
8 Democracy Denied 115
9 America’s Early Oligarchy 133
10 Alexander Hamilton and the British Connection 147
viii con t en ts

11 Democracy Affirmed:
The People of Pennsylvania Write a Constitution 161
12 The Struggle Continues: Democracy vs. Republicanism 173
13 Democracy Defined 181
14 American Government: The Shaping of American Character 195
15 Democracy as Myth 213

Part III: The Q uest for U nbridled P ower

Democracy Crushed
16 The Battlefield after the Battle 229
17 Power Concealed 251
18 Power Revealed: Napoleon in Myth and Reality 265
19 Darkness Visible: Hidden Power Comes to Light 281
20 The Pathology of Power 299
21 The Pathology of Political Disengagement 311

Part IV: Paradise R egained

Democracy in the Modern Age
22 Empowerment and the Process of Change 325
23 The Democratic Process 339
24 Democratizing the Oligarchy 357
25 The Executive 373
26 Diversity in the East 387
27 Democracy Come True 405

Conclusion: The Citizen-State 427

Endnotes 437
Bibliography 451
Index 461
 Pr eface
k

S ome time ago, I read a book by Kenneth M. Dolbeare entitled

Political Change in the United States: A Framework of Analysis
(1974). At the end of the book, Dolbeare suggests to the reader
that he design a new form of government. This new government, a gov-
ernment that never existed before, would suit the whims and fancies of
the reader. Dolbeare imposed no constraints, no guides to work with.
This was a most unusual proposition, at once both intimidating and
empowering. How could one possibly presume to create a new govern-
ment, if only in the imagination? On the other hand, wouldn’t it be a
wonderfully liberating experience to engage in such an exercise? New
possibilities would open up. One would begin to see the current govern-
ment through different eyes. The future would seem brighter, seen in the
light of this new government.
Well, I took up Dolbeare’s challenge. I did exactly as he suggested.
I borrowed from Aristotle his use of the word “virtue” and proceeded
to create a new form of government. For Aristotle, “virtue” meant the
excellence of a thing. The virtue of a knife is its sharpness; the virtue
of a workhorse is its ability to pull heavy loads. If I wanted to create a
democracy, what would be its virtue? As I understood the word “democ-
racy” then, and still do, the virtue of democracy as a form of government
is its inclusion of the maximum number of citizens in the deliberative
and legislative processes.
This then became my goal—to design a government that had this
virtue. It would be a government that included hundreds of thousands
or maybe even millions of citizens, not as passive observers but as actual
governors. There would be no other considerations. I would not worry
whether or not my new government was feasible or even desirable. I
would not include any other constraints. I would simply proceed with
my new government, heedless and free of any second-guessing.
For the past twenty years or so, I have been living with this imagi-
x PR EFACE

nary government in my head. It has cast a warm glow of anticipation

and optimism as I have lived out the harsh realities of how government
has indeed been behaving in current reality. Though I took no steps to
realize the new government I had created, it nonetheless existed for me
as an alternate reality to the government that did exist.* I offer Paradise
Lost, Paradise Regained: The True Meaning of Democracy in the hope
that those who read it will join me in my journey to the land of imagi-
nary government, where new possibilities exist as realities.

Rockport, Massachusetts
June 15, 2011

* The reader will learn something about this imagined government in Chapter 27,
“Democracy Come True.”
 Acknowledgments
k

R alph Nader took time off from his busy schedule to read
this book while it was still in manuscript form. He then spent
three hours on the phone with me, offering detailed criticisms
and suggestions. His moral support and editorial guidance have been
invaluable.
I provided the raw material. Lynne Frost has shaped it. Her dedi-
cation to her craft, her attention to detail, her invaluable suggestions,
many of which required yet more hard work from me, have made this a
book that both of us can be proud of.
I personally value the interior design of a book. It welcomes me with
its gentle grace or it alienates me with its hasty application and aesthetic
indifference. I offer my warmest gratitude to Kate Nichols for her sensitive,
lyrical design. I could spend hours just looking at the table of contents.
You can’t tell a book by its cover, or so they say. I will be quite con-
tent if this book is only half as good as its cover. Erika Fusari has done
an excellent job of taking Albrecht Dürer’s magnificent painting and cre-
ating such an engaging cover. Thank you, Albrecht. Thank you, Erika.
Devesh Shah has been most enthusiastic in his appreciation and sup-
port for this project. It was he who referred to this book as “a democ-
racy thriller,” words I can’t get out of my head. Devesh, thank you so
much for everything.
S.H. is dedicated to creating a better world for all of us. Her passion
and determination are catching. Thank you, Sandy, for never giving up.
Thank you, Deborah, for being my first reader and for being patient
with me through difficult times. I promise to try and smile.
 Introduction k
The Specter of Government

What in me is dark,
Illumine; what is low, raise and support.*

M ention the word “government” in a conversation with

a friend and you will probably get a roll of the eyes, perhaps
a heavy-lidded look of contempt. Most likely your friend has
never given much thought to the issue and has no wish to. “Govern-
ment?” he might say, “war and taxes.” He might have taken a course
on government and found it incomprehensible or boring. If he were to
try to focus on the concept he would have a sense of something big,
overpowering, distant, potentially menacing. And there the conversation
would end. It is my goal to create a different kind of conversation, one
in which government as a concept, as a fundamental factor in everyone’s
existence, becomes alive with possibilities.

New Eyes
We go away on vacation. We return home rested with “new eyes.” We
look at a favorite painting that has been hanging on the wall for years,
so long that it had become wallpaper. Now it stands out with the fresh-
ness and immediacy that initially drew us to it. It is my hope that Par-
adise Lost, Paradise Regained: The True Meaning of Democracy will
provide the reader with a new perspective, that it will serve as a catalyst
and will supply the energy necessary for a reexamination of what we
have, for too long, taken for granted about our government.
The new insight we seek is not to be found in the daily news. We need
something akin to a philosophical understanding, a level of abstraction

* John Milton (1608–1674) was an English poet best known for his epic poem “Paradise
Lost.” The quotations that begin each chapter are borrowed from this masterpiece. Milton
has given some of his best lines to Satan, lines that I have redirected to fit the content of my
chapters. I hope Satan won’t mind.
2 I n t roduc t ion

that permits us to escape the effect of day-to-day occurrences. Once

we have come to understand the purpose and function of government
in general, we will be equipped to study a particular government and
to measure its accomplishments against our understanding of what it is
that government in general should be expected to achieve.
Government is a means for organizing ourselves into a cohesive unit
with an identity. In the past the unit was the tribe. Presently it is the nation-
state. But the functions have not changed. We expect our government to
protect us, to provide for justice, and to make it easier for us to take care
of the basic necessities in life, such as food, shelter, and some kind of
useful work. Government also has another function, too frequently over-
looked—that of providing us with the opportunity for participation, for
an expansion of our intellect and sense of self as we partake in the process
of making choices that affect our collective destiny.
Our current form of government is so much an ingrained part of our
lives that we often forget there are alternatives. “The government we
have is the government we should have, obviously.” I think most people
feel that way about their government, regardless of where they live. Yet
it is instructive to look elsewhere and to see how similar problems are
being solved under different forms of government. Maybe there are dif-
ferent answers, better answers.
Reading history serves the same purpose. We can look into the past
and see that not all government is the same and that different societies
choose different solutions to the same problems. Ancient Athens and
the Roman Republic were contemporary societies faced with similar
problems: grain supply, land use, indebtedness. Yet they chose signifi-
cantly different solutions. The Italian city-states developed as small-
scale separate and independent societies with an experimental approach
to governance while simultaneously, to the north, large-scale autocratic
empires were in the making.
I believe all history is selective. This book is no exception. I have cer-
tain biases, and they will be reflected in the selection of materials and
the way in which they are presented. I will be choosing examples that
illustrate my point.
So, what are some of my biases? I am in favor of political democracy.
I am opposed to war. I believe that democracy as a form of government
is a powerful integrating force that respects individual differences and
encourages individual self-development while winning the allegiance of
all to the common good. It creates unity in diversity. I believe that war
is destructive of human and natural resources, and that it disrespects
the ecosystem upon which we all depend. I believe that one can have
war or one can have democracy, but one cannot have both.
I am going to present democracy in a positive light. I will be search-
ing for hints of it anywhere I can find them, for my purpose is to make
democracy comprehensible as a form of government. I will be argu-
 T he S pecte r of G ove r nment 3

ing that, broadly speaking, government shapes character, that different

governments produce different kinds of citizens, and that democracy
produces a more enlightened citizenry than other forms of government.†

T he narrative will unfold in four stages. Part I—“Paradise Lost:

Democracy in Historical Context”—is a chronological investiga-
tion of democracy, starting in Athens and ending with the democratic
experiments in the Italian city-states. Ancient Athens, by its example,
provides us with the true meaning of the word “democracy”—govern-
ment by the governed. The Italian city-states offer an unusual oppor-
tunity to study government in evolution. Though none of them were
political democracies by inclusion, some of them came close. Especially
instructive is the variety of formulas used to establish fairness and
honesty in the selection of those who would govern. It is uplifting to
see how government can have a positive effect on its citizenry and act
responsibly in its attempt to provide for their needs.
In Part II—“Democracy in America: Opportunity Missed”—we will
take a look at the critical years between 1776 (the signing of the Dec-
laration of Independence) and 1788 (ratification of the Constitution).
We will examine in some detail the evolution and ultimate demise of
the Pennsylvania state constitution of 1776. In the course of our quest
for the true meaning of the word “democracy,” we will learn that this
meaning has been perverted over the centuries and that what most
of us consider to be democracy is in fact oligarchy. Some of the most
interesting and original thinking on the subject of democracy can be
found in the writings of the Anti-Federalists, those who were opposed
to the signing of the Constitution. They understood the true meaning
of democracy, and they recognized the risk involved in trusting govern-
ment to those who lust for power.
In Part III—“The Quest for Unbridled Power: Democracy
Crushed”—we will explore the contradiction between war and democ-
racy by visiting periods of history when violent forces have crushed
emergent self-governance. Warriors such as Alexander of Macedon,
Genghis Khan, and Napoleon—iconic figures in world history—each
trampled upon democratic movements in their march to power.
In addition to the highly visible actions of the warriors, we will
scrutinize the machinations of invisible oligarchs operating behind the
scenes to gain control of government in the service of special interests
and in opposition to the needs of the broader populace. Special atten-
tion will be directed at bankers and speculators who, as a group, need a
strong central, anti-democratic government as a means of gaining con-
trol of the flow of money and establishing financial policy favorable to

† Of course, government is not the only factor in play. The distribution of wealth, social
structure, and religion are other powerful shaping forces. But my focus here will be on
government alone.
4 I n t roduc t ion

their interests. These forces have been operating against the interests
of democratic government for the past five hundred years, going all the
way back to the reigns of Charles V and his son Philip II of Spain, and
perhaps even farther.
Too often we see history as some distant, impersonal force that shapes
events in a way that seems mysterious and beyond human control. How-
ever, one can argue just the opposite, that the unfolding of history is the
work of particular individuals who lust for power. Who are they? What
is their emotional makeup? Are those who seek power and abuse it like
us? Or do they form a class apart? What about us, history’s bystand-
ers—does it matter if we are in the mix or out? We think our own choice
as to whether or not we participate in government is a matter of indiffer-
ence to our personal well-being. We might be mistaken.
Part IV—“Paradise Regained: Democracy in the Modern Age”—
addresses government in its contemporary context, including consider-
ation of the concept of change itself. I will offer some practical thoughts on
how governmental institutions can be modified to make them more demo-
cratic. We will be visiting countries in Europe, Latin America, and Asia
to examine some experiments in government in contemporary society.
We will linger awhile in India. Though India is a constitutional oligarchy,
there are democratic elements to be found in the structure and processes
of its government, especially when compared with Western governments.
Our study of democracy concludes with a consideration of what it
might be like to live in a true democracy. Economically, politically, eco-
logically, and sociologically, world society is in a state of transforma-
tion. Governments currently in place are not designed to meet emerging
needs. Devising a form of government that is less highly centralized and
that is more responsive to the common good is becoming imperative. If
such a government is to achieve its desired ends, it will, in its formation,
include all of us.

Ancient Athens and Modern India

Ancient Athens is the fullest realization of democracy known to Western
civilization. We call it a democracy for two reasons. One, all elements
in society, from the poorest and most humble to the wealthiest and
most exalted, participated in the affairs of government on equal foot-
ing. Two, Athenians governed on their own behalf. They didn’t choose
others to speak for them. They spoke for themselves. Between 30,000
and 60,000 Athenian citizens charted their own course. On a given day,
as many as 6,000 people would attend a meeting of the assembly. If
one wants to get a sense of a how democracy functions, ancient Athens
provides an excellent example.
As a collective, did Athenians always act rationally and with con-
cern for human welfare? Not always, but most of the time. In ancient
 T he S pecte r of G ove r nment 5

Athens there were slaves with no political rights. Women were denied
access to the political process. Obviously, these institutionalized preju-
dices were exclusionary and undemocratic. Yet Athens was a democ-
racy nonetheless. It would have been a more perfect democracy had
slaves and women been included.
India is ripe for democracy for two fundamental reasons: its religion
and its social structure. Democracy thrives on diversity and strong local
communities. Hinduism as a religion is democratic in its lack of a strong
centralizing, controlling force and in its emphasis on individual forms of
belief and worship. Until relatively recently, the backbone of Indian soci-
ety was the small local village, a self-contained economic and social entity.
Such diversity and localization are ideal conditions for the growth of
democracy. Homogenization and centralization lead to totalitarianism.‡
Although we will be studying government in its historical context,
my primary goal is to shed light on current, existing forms of gov-
ernment and to provide a framework for a critical analysis of their
effectiveness. It is my assumption that there are many who are not com-
pletely happy with the government they have but firmly believe that any
alternative is both inconceivable and undesirable. Like many a bad mar-
riage, the relationship between the citizen and his government endures
not out of love, or necessarily even respect, but out of habit. The energy
necessary to envision an alternative, to believe in it, and to work toward
it has been dissipated in exchange for the security and familiarity of a
long-standing relationship.
The first step in changing a relationship requires examining it from
a new angle, looking below the surface. This may be the hardest part
of all, to see things differently, perhaps more accurately. The effects of
habit—the erosion of hope and energy—undermine our intellect and
independence of judgment. We learn to believe that which serves to jus-
tify our continued allegiance to a relationship that has gradually lost its
meaning and legitimacy. Things have changed progressively, by accre-
tion. But we are so accustomed to what we “see” that we don’t recog-
nize the change. We see what used to be.

Inverted Totalitarianism
Most Americans assume that they live in a democracy. They might see
some disturbing trends they consider to be anti-democratic in nature,
but they regard them as temporary, as surface phenomena that do
not alter the form of government at its core. In Democracy Incorpo-
rated: Managed Democracy and the Specter of Inverted Totalitarian-

‡ By no means is India a perfect society. There is corruption and there is sectarian vio-
lence. But I will not be discussing those facets of Indian culture. They are not my subject
matter and they do not affect the aspects of Indian civilization that are favorable to the
emergence of democracy.
6 I n t roduc t ion

ism (2008), Sheldon S. Wolin offers a radically different perspective.

He invokes the legacies of Hitler, Mussolini, and Stalin. These were
men who used their personality and intellect to shape and dominate
their countries. No aspect of life—civic, artistic, intellectual, religious,
familial, or political—escaped their control. That control was total and
crushing. Absolute, unquestioning submission was expected. Masses
were organized and activated in support of the government. None of
this is the case in the United States, of course, and yet …
Wolin coined the term “inverted totalitarianism” to describe a form
of government that in many ways achieves the goals of totalitarianism
but by different, gentler means. Inverted totalitarianism is “driven by
abstract totalizing powers, not by personal rule.”1§ The leader is not the
architect of the system. He is its product. He fulfills a pre-assigned role.
The system succeeds not by activating the masses but by doing just
the opposite, “encouraging political disengagement.”2 “Democracy”
is encouraged, touted, both domestically and overseas. To use Wolin’s
terminology, it is “managed democracy,” “a political form in which
governments are legitimated by elections that they have learned to con-
trol,”3 a form of government that attempts to keep alive the appearance
of democracy while simultaneously defeating democracy’s primary pur-
pose, self-government.
In managed democracy “free politics” are encouraged. Thus the
populace is placated and pacified. Believing that in fact they have the
government they want, people are lulled into a state of passivity and
acquiescence, leaving the controlling powers to operate as they see fit
to advance their particular interests. Democratic myths persist in the
absence of true democratic practice.
Therefore, rather than dismantling the preexisting political system, as
the twentieth-century totalitarians did, their modern-day brothers actu-
ally defend and support the system. Their “genius lies in wielding total
power without appearing to.”4 What was once a citizenry has become an
“electorate,” the populace divided against itself in groups of competing
interests whose opinions on circumscribed issues are constructed and
manipulated to produce a desired outcome that is fed back into the hop-
per, resulting in the necessary pronouncements at election time.
Fear of violence is, for the most part (depending on race and ethnic-
ity), absent in America’s inverted totalitarianism. Yet fear is nonethe-
less employed as a means of control. It is a more subtle kind of fear,
more insidious and more intractable. It is a fear that lingers indefinitely,
though it is never fully identified as fear itself. Currently fear has two
sources, one obvious, one less so.

§ Specific literature citations for quoted material appear in the Endnotes section at the
back of the book. Additional comments related to the text discussion are presented as
footnotes. Full publication details for all books and other works mentioned in the text and
notes are provided in the Bibliography.
 T he S pecte r of G ove r nment 7

We are safe at home, we are told, but only if we succeed in protect-

ing ourselves from the terrorists who want to take away our form of
government, our lifestyle, even our lives. Terrorists are everywhere and
nowhere, all the time. Because they are hidden, lacking in scruples, and
tricky, we can never feel safe. We must depend on our government to
protect us. We must surrender all control, even rights guaranteed by the
Constitution, in the hope that our leaders will keep us safe.
In addition, there is a more deep-seated fear, a nagging fear, that is
harder to combat—the fear generated by economic uncertainty—which
constantly reminds us that our livelihood and everything we own could
be taken from us and we could be left sleeping in tents, as many are in
the state of California. Trillions of dollars were handed over to Wall
Street speculators. Jobs are being outsourced to China. Unemployment
is unchecked. Budgets are being cut at the Federal and local levels.
What feels like a recession, perhaps even a depression, persists, and
government seems to be doing very little to remedy the situation, largely
because the uncertainty it creates generates the compliance the govern-
ment seeks. “Unlike the Nazis,” says Wolin, “the [George W. Bush]
administration has done little to allay the recession’s effects and much
that exploits the accompanying insecurities.”5
One could argue that the sidelining of the citizenry and the assump-
tion of power by an all-powerful central government, unaccountable to
its electorate, represents a radical departure from precedent and from
the intentions of the founders. A closer look, however, reveals some-
thing quite different. Prior to ratification of the U.S. Constitution, there
was open debate about its meaning, its benefits, and its liabilities. In
the Federalist Papers, James Madison and Alexander Hamilton took
up the cause of the Constitution. There was intense opposition to its
adoption,¶ and it never would have been ratified had it not been forced
through by means of intimidation and deception.
Madison had made explicit his rejection of democracy and his wish
to create a strong central government that marginalizes the citizenry.
He would limit representation, create large electoral districts, and
locate the government away from the local constituency.** Hamilton had
openly advocated monarchy and hoped to mount a standing army, with
himself at its head. He planned to march through the South and then
on to establish American control in Latin America. The word “empire”
was invoked no fewer than three times in the Federalist Papers.††

¶ Like the Federalist Papers, many of the expressions of opposition took the form of pub-
lished letters and essays. The Anti-Federalist: Writings by the Opponents of the Constitu-
tion (edited by Herbert J. Storing) is an excellent collection of these writings.
** In Chapter 2, “False Friends,” Madison’s views on democracy are discussed in some detail.
†† It is also worth noting that the same financial interests that have taken control in recent
years also fought for ratification of the Constitution, by which means they stood make
considerable gains on their speculative investments.
8 I n t roduc t ion

Civic Education
Americans have long looked upon their Constitution and their found-
ers with pride and admiration. To discover that much of this is myth,
to discover an alternate reality at odds with the one we have grown to
accept as given, is a most disturbing experience. Yet if we are willing
to take the journey we will end up on solid ground once again. We will
feel empowered and optimistic about our future.
What is required is a massive reorientation of our society concerning
governance. We are operating under a cloud of ambiguity, confusion,
and lethargy. There is a general lack of appreciation of the degree to
which government impinges upon our lives. We miss opportunities for
self-governance because we don’t know they exist.
We need to be reeducated and revived. This seems a daunting task.
Yet several examples from the recent past demonstrate that such a large-
scale reorientation is possible.
Not so long ago it was routine to go to a bar, drink too much, and
drive home intoxicated, too frequently causing an accident, sometimes
with loss of life. But the educational and lobbying efforts of MADD
(Mothers Against Drunk Driving) have changed the attitude toward
drinking and driving. There are legal consequences for driving while
under the influence. Most of us now understand that driving while
intoxicated is a bad idea. We have been educated.
The same applies to smoking. Smoking was once an integral part of
social life for the vast majority of the population. No one ever thought
that enjoying a cigarette could be harmful to himself or the person
standing next to him. In recent years, however, the attitude toward
smoking has changed radically. There are still many smokers, though
their numbers are considerably reduced. Those of us who don’t smoke
are no longer at risk from the harmful effects of the next person’s ciga-
rette smoke. As a society we have been enlightened.
A similar process is under way concerning the food we eat. We are
being educated as to the harmful effects of feeding cows corn instead of
grass. We are growing worried about the effects of chemical fertilizers
and chemical additives. We read labels with greater awareness and con-
cern for the content of what we eat. There is a large-scale movement to
eat food that is healthful and locally grown.
We are in the midst of addressing the most critical issue any society
has yet had to face: global warming. Glaciers are melting. Temperatures
are rising. Weather is becoming more severe and unpredictable. Rising
sea levels could cause certain island societies to disappear altogether.
Climate change will have widespread detrimental effects on animal and
plant life. The entire ecosystem is in jeopardy. As recently as ten years
ago, the general public knew little if anything about any of this. Now just
about everyone is conversant on the subject to a greater or lesser degree.
It is now more important than ever to become educated on the subject
 T he S pecte r of G ove r nment 9

of government, for only government can organize and direct the collec-
tive action necessary for addressing the issues that threaten our planet.
To orient ourselves with regard to government we need to ask some
very simple questions, such as the following: What kind of government
do we live under—a monarchy, an oligarchy, or a democracy? Is that
government designed to serve the common good (e.g., the ecosystem)?
Are there structural changes that could be made in the current govern-
ment that would make it better able to fulfill its fundamental purpose?
What are the different kinds of solutions to the problems of government
that have been arrived at in the past and in other parts of the world?
These and other questions will be addressed as this book unfolds.
If, by the end of our journey together, you find yourself thinking more
critically and imaginatively about the nature of government and its pur-
pose—perhaps even coming up with a few ideas of your own about
what could be tried to create a government that better serves the com-
mon good—then I will have achieved my goal in writing Paradise Lost,
Paradise Regained: The True Meaning of Democracy.
 PA RT I

Paradise Lost
k
Democracy in
Historical Context
 1 k
What Is History and
Why Does It Matter?

War wearied hath perform’d what war can do,

And to disorder’d rage let loose the reins.

W e are about to begin our journey. We will be traveling

across countries and continents, across centuries. Democ-
racy has its friends, its enemies. It has false friends. We shall
meet them all. We undertake this journey with the purpose of under-
standing democracy in its historical context, to isolate the conditions
that favor its emergence and those that threaten its survival.
Our guides will be historians. Many of them are trustworthy; some
of them are not. Thus, we will need to be vigilant and at times skeptical.
For though we think of history as being something objective, fixed, and
absolute, it is, in reality, something else.
One could say that history is everything that has ever happened, going
back in time as far as one can go—every heartbeat, every ripple in every
pond, every lover’s sigh, every transmigration of every electron—from
the Big Bang that created the universe to the economic crisis of 2008 that
might undo it. In other words, history thus construed is without limit.
It becomes immediately obvious that conceiving of history in these
terms is meaningless and ungraspable. We can’t relive it. We can’t learn
anything from it. It is just there. If we are to make sense of this infinite
stream of facts and events, we need to shape it. This is where the histo-
rian comes in. What a historian does is to cut a slice in time somewhere,
pick a certain subject or theme, and then use the facts to paint a picture.
There are many more facts than he can ever use. He must select what he
includes. If we say that it is the job of the historian to both delight and
instruct, then the ultimate rendering must be shaped in such a way that
it will be of interest and have meaning and value to the reader.
We go to history to learn and understand. We want to learn where
14 pa r a dise lost

we came from so we can better understand where we might be heading.

We want to learn how cultures and civilizations function so we can bet-
ter understand what works and what doesn’t work in our own society.
Was democracy a good thing? Where did it succeed? Where did it fail?
What were the strengths and weaknesses of a particular culture, and
how did democracy fit into the picture? We read history to find out.*
What we learn is determined in part by the values we espouse and by
the values and prejudices of the historian. What we learn will determine
our ability to plot the future. Our reading of history will leave us feeling
empowered or disempowered.
One or two things become clear: (1) Though the facts and events that
make up the historical narrative exist independently of and prior to the
writing of history, history itself—the narrative the historian creates—
does not exist in any a priori sense. It does not predate the moment of
its writing. (2) History is what historians say it is, and what they say it is
will always be biased, by definition. That is, the way in which historians
select and reject certain facts and events, the way in which this mate-
rial is organized, affects how we perceive and respond to the narrative.
Adjectives that are applied here and not there create a certain impression,
favorable or unfavorable. In other words, history is a creative enterprise.†
History has a rhetorical function. It is trying to win us to a certain
position. It reflects the values, beliefs, and prejudices of the historian. Is
war a good thing or not? Is individual life a sacred matter? Was Alexander
Hamilton a gentleman or a scoundrel? Was Socrates an innocent victim
of Athenian “mobocracy,” or was he a threat to the survival of Athenian
democracy?‡ Are warriors noble, or are they self-serving egotists? We read
history to find the answers to these questions. The answers we get will
inevitably be shaped by the world outlook of those who provide them.
Modern “objective” history—history as a “scientific” academic
discipline—is a relatively recent invention. The first Departments of
History were established at the University of Berlin in 1810 and at the
Sorbonne in 1812. The third quarter of the nineteenth century gave
birth to academic journals in Germany, France, Italy, and England.
And it is the academic imprimatur, the claim to scientific objectivity,
that cows us into unthinkingly believing what we read without taking
into account the message that is being delivered.
The academic historian seeks to achieve a position of apparent neu-
trality with regard to the material he is discussing. He avoids discussion

* The Swiss historian J. C. L. Simonde de Sismondi said that history should be “explored
… for instructions in the government of mankind.” Quoted in Daniel Waley, The Italian
City-Republics, p. 174.
† According to Friedrich Hegel, “It is incumbent upon him [the historian] to bring before
our imaginative vision this motley content of events and characters, to create anew and to
make vivid the same to our intelligence with his own genius.” Quoted in Hayden White,
Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth Century Europe, p. 107.
‡ See I. F. Stone, The Trial of Socrates.
 W hat I s H istory and W hy D oes I t M atte r? 15

of cause and effect, because that would entail taking sides. He has a
tendency to depersonalize the historical narrative by taking individual
human action out of the formula. He is more comfortable with abstrac-
tions and concepts. As a consequence, events just seem to happen, by
themselves, in a manner that defies analysis and understanding.
Alexis de Tocqueville made the point that the way in which history is
construed by the historian affects how we readers of history feel about
our collective destiny. History founded in abstraction makes us feel
powerless. History that identifies human action as its wellspring leaves
us with a feeling of empowerment. “Historians who live in democratic
ages [read U.S. oligarchy in the 1830s] then, not only deny that the few
have any power of acting upon the destiny of a people, but deprive the
people themselves of the power of modifying their own condition, and
they subject them either to an inflexible Providence or to some blind
necessity.” He adds, “In perusing the historical volumes [of our age] …
it would seem that man is utterly powerless over himself and all around
him. The historians of antiquity taught how to command; those of our
time teach how to obey.”1
Today we hear that globalization is the source of our misery. We are led
to believe that concepts can act. We are made to feel powerless. Sentences
like the following, found in just about all histories, have the same effect:

In the early 1700s, the Russian Empire took the offensive against Poland
using military force and bribery.
France’s invasion of Russia in 1812 was a turning point in the Napole-
onic Wars.

Taken literally, such statements are mystifying. They create a white haze
of ambiguity and mental distance. The statements are incomprehensible
because they are nonrational. After all, what is the Russian Empire?
Is it an amorphous form outlined on a map? Is it a certain physical
land mass? Is it the people taken collectively? A form on a map cannot
invade another country, nor can a land mass, nor could the entirety of
the Russian population. If we substitute Peter the Great for “the Rus-
sian Empire” and Napoleon for “France,” we enter the realm of ratio-
nal discourse. Once our attention is directed to a particular individual
and the actions he took, we can start thinking rationally about these
events and their meaning for society. We can wonder what Peter was
up to. Was he acting for personal reasons of power and glory, or did
he have the best interests of his country at heart? Was violence the only
solution? Should one man be given so much power?
Thus, in reading history, often we need to clear away the haze of ambigu-
ity by translating abstractions into concrete realities, remembering that only
live human beings can act and bring about change, for better or for worse.
Historians can go to the other extreme as well—hero worship. Rather
than eliminate the human element from the equation, they may exalt a par-
16 pa r a dise lost

ticular individual in a manner that is biased and misleading, while simul-

taneously claiming their own neutrality and objectivity. The effect on us
readers is the same as depersonalization. We feel powerless when faced with
these larger-than-life figures who have destroyed civilizations and taken
millions of lives.§ We are led to believe that the actions taken by these men
were glorious and hence desirable, that the good they achieved by their vio-
lence outweighs the harm. Thus, there is nothing to be done to stop such
excesses, nor should we want to stop them. These men are to be admired
and accepted on their own terms. They should not be judged. Once again
we are disempowered in our attempts to make sense out of history by apply-
ing our own judgment to the subject matter as a means of sorting things out
and drawing conclusions about what is desirable and possible.
Ultimately, in reading history, we are searching for answers to some
very basic questions. Is there a plan? Is it all inevitable? Is there a mean-
ing? Is it possible for us to take charge of our collective destiny and set
it in a particular direction? But before we can begin to address these
fundamental questions, we must consider a question about the very
enterprise of reporting history: Is there a way of organizing history as
written that will help us grasp its deeper meaning?
For an answer to this final question, we can turn to writers like
Hegel and Marx. And to enhance our understanding of these writers,
let us first briefly consider the thoughts of Hayden White, a historian
who has examined the writing of history from a literary standpoint.
In Metahistory: The Historical Imagination in Nineteenth Century
Europe (1973), White organized historical writing by the shape and
tone of its narrative. According to White’s schema, the historian can
retreat into cynicism (the satirical mode). He can ally himself with the
hero who rises above the fray (the romantic mode). He can step back
in philosophic detachment and analyze the forces at play (the comic
mode). Or he can experience the tragedy and try to elucidate a means
of understanding it that will lead us to a brighter day (the tragic mode).

The Comic Mode

Friedrich Hegel¶ was a philosopher of history, rather than a historian. He
was perhaps the first, in the Western world, to think about universal his-
tory—the development of civilization around the world and across time.**
Hegel studied, analyzed, and critiqued the writings of historians. His
struggle to come to terms with the misery that man has wrought is enlight-

§ In chapters that follow, I will discuss Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, and Napoleon.
¶ Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel (1770–1831) was one of the major German philosophers of
the nineteenth century. He was one of the first to attempt to arrive at a comprehensive under-
standing of change, and he had a profound influence on Karl Marx. With Johann Gottlieb Fichte
and Friedrich Wilhelm Joseph Schelling, Hegel was one of the creators of German idealism.
** For an earlier and equally impressive study of universal history, see Arab philosopher
Ibn Khaldun’s (1332–1406) Prolegomena.
 W hat I s H istory and W hy D oes I t M atte r? 17

ening, as are his insights into what history is and how it redeems itself.
In the course of his writings, Hegel seems to have passed through all
four modes mentioned by White and ended up in the comic mode. He
shifted from irony and defeat to romantic optimism via Christianity and
the triumph of good over evil. Seeing the tragic in the rise and decline of
each individual civilization, he then found comic resolution by taking uni-
versal cultural history—as opposed to history in its discrete parts—as his
subject matter. At this level of abstraction, he was able to find progress.
History, as Hegel saw it, was “made” by individual men, some of
whom were heroes, some of whom were ordinary men, some of whom
were criminals. The great men or heroes are those who show themselves
to be “in cooperation with the common end which underlies the ideal
notion of the conditions which confront them” but are in conflict with
the existing social order.†† The ordinary men are those “who fail to rise
in stature to the demands made on their energy.” The criminals, the
depraved, are those who are content “to give free rein to an individual
force which is … foreign to all such common ends.”2
Hegel was deeply saddened by the moral decay he saw across the vari-
ous civilizations he studied, but was heartened by the fact that in declin-
ing and disappearing, these civilizations could be seen as a totality whose
meaning for history could be gleaned only once they had completed their
historical trajectory. Looking at ancient civilizations—Rome, Greece, Per-
sia, India—that had run through their cycle of existence, he could see the
formal whole as having passed through four phases: (1) birth and early
growth, (2) maturity, (3) old age, and (4) dissolution and death.
These earlier civilizations were doomed to dissolve because in each
civilization there was an internal contradiction that prevented it from
living out the ideal of the notion that was the premise of its existence.
The demise of the civilization resolves the contradiction by creating a
synthesis, which is the basis for the next civilization.
The progress that Hegel found was not in the concrete world of “sin
and suffering”3 but in the abstract world of intellect. One can see that
there is intellectual progress in the degree to which a given civilization
gains cognizance of itself as a collective whole with a purpose. This
self-awareness is expressed in the writings of its poets, playwrights,
and philosophers, but most especially in the writings of its historians.
It is the historians who, in their writing of history, convey or fail to
convey a self-conscious awareness of historical occurrence as part of
some meaningful whole.
Using this criterion, Hegel organized and ordered civilizations from
less to more self-conscious. Where there is savagery, there is no sense of

†† For example, Caesar, in his efforts to fulfill his own image of his importance in the
world, and in conflict with the existing social forces, completely reconstituted Roman soci-
ety, leading it in a direction that Hegel would have characterized as the ideal notion of
Roman civilization, that is, its imperial destiny.
18 pa r a dise lost

history. There is endless present. There is no sense that the culture taken
as a whole is any different from nature. The Orient, which Hegel saw
as exemplifying the “childhood” of history, represents progress over
savagery. Man has differentiated himself from nature but has instead,
in ancient China (a theocratic despotism), merged with the sovereign.
There is still no real sense of history. Individuals have no self-conscious-
ness of personality or of rights. Cultures operate in a cyclical process.
India, a theocratic aristocracy, represents progress over China. The polit-
ical body, no longer monolithic, is broken up into parts, leading to political
tension and awareness of difference. Persia represents progress over India in
that, while still allowing for differences, the culture supplies an overarching
spiritual unity. In Egypt there is a separation of spirit and matter, leading
the way to the emergence of the individual in Greece. Thus, each civilization
prepares the way for a higher level of development in the next.
The ethical life of the Greek polis allows for expression of personal indi-
viduality. However, the relationship of the individual to the state is not self-
conscious. It is unreflective and based on obedience to custom and tradition,
according to Hegel. This is the period of “adolescence.” In ancient Rome,
individual personality is recognized in the granting of formal rights, leading
to a degree of personal self-awareness on the part of the individual, who
feels separate and endowed. But freedom is limited. The state becomes an
abstraction whose demands must be met by individual Romans. There is a
tension between the principles of individuality and universality (the state),
leading to political despotism and insurgency against it. This stage (ancient
Rome) in the history of civilization gives expression to “manhood.”‡‡
The Germanic realm was composed of Germany and the Nordic peo-
ples, the major European nations (France, Italy, and Spain), and England.
Here the principle of subjective freedom comes to the fore. This involves a
gradual development that begins with the rise of Christianity and its spir-
itual reconciliation of inner and outer life and culminates in the appear-
ance of the modern nation-state. Civilization has reached “old age.”
For Hegel, the modern nation-state can be said to manifest a “per-
sonality” with self-consciousness of its inherent nature and goals. It is
able to act rationally in accordance with its self-awareness. The mod-
ern nation-state is a “spiritual individual,” the true historical individual,
because of the level of realization of self-consciousness that it actualizes.
The development of the perfected nation-state is the end or goal of his-
tory because it provides an optimal level of realization of self-conscious-
ness, a more comprehensive level of realization of freedom than mere
natural individuals, or other forms of human organization, can produce.
The history of civilization in the broad sense can be seen as a spiral that
starts from a low point in the infancy of civilization, rising as it passes through

‡‡ These sketches in no way do justice to Hegel’s thinking. The goal here is to under-
stand his outlook in the most general way and to see how it might have merit.
 W hat I s H istory and W hy D oes I t M atte r? 19

each new stage of maturity, ever growing and assimilating as it moves to each
higher level of advancement, and then sinking into death. Exactly where is
all this leading? Is there a final resting point? Hegel might argue there will be
a resting point when and if there is a universal perception of the ideal notion
of civilization, which is then realized in actual living. There are no internal
contradictions. Universal civilization is conceived as being at one with itself.
There is a unity of consciousness and being. History is over.
By envisioning history in broad global terms, across time, Hegel
enables us to grasp civilization in its entirety as a first step in under-
standing its evolution. If civilization is to remedy itself, it must first
become cognizant of itself as an object of thought and analysis. This
is what Hegel has done. I think he is mistaken, however, in making
universal self-consciousness his final destination. He has escaped into a
world of subjectivity. In so doing he has left the world of living beings.
He has marginalized issues of the common good and social justice, as
well as issues of war and peace. His celebrating the nation-state—espe-
cially the German nation-state—is an expression of a personal prefer-
ence. This belief in the nation-state is neither a universal truth nor a
universally shared value. The subjection of the individual to, and the
individual’s absorption by, the nation-state is the formula for fascism.
Individual existence disappears as a value.
But, in addition and perhaps more importantly, I think Hegel failed to
properly apply his own theory. If he had applied it consistently, he might
have come up with a different end point. This becomes clear in his treat-
ment of ancient Athens in comparison with ancient Rome. Many would
argue, by making reference to Athenian culture—its historians, philoso-
phers, playwrights, orators, and statesmen (such as Pericles)—that Athens
was many times ahead of Rome in its consciousness of itself. How can one
possibly argue that Rome, having produced very little in the way of theatre,
literature, philosophy, or history, is more mature than Athens? I believe
one cannot, yet Hegel must if he is to reach his end point of the modern
nation-state as the goal of historical development. He must ignore the pos-
sibility that it was democracy in Athens—a citizen-state—that produced
such a high level of self-awareness, a degree of historical self-consciousness
that probably has not been achieved since. To accurately appraise Athens
would entail, as well, consideration of the notion that it is government
itself that is a chief factor in determining societal development.

The Romantic Mode

Hegel took culture and its evolution as his subject matter and ended up
in the clouds. Karl Marx§§ did just the opposite. With both feet planted

§§ Karl Heinrich Marx (1818–1883), German philosopher, political economist, historian, and
political theorist, is the author of The Communist Manifesto (with Friedrich Engels, 1848)
and Das Kapital (1867).
20 pa r a dise lost

firmly on solid ground he attempted, like Hegel, to come up with a

broad understanding of universal history. As his subject matter, he
chose the mode of production that characterizes a particular society.
Marx saw civilization as having passed through four phases: (1)
primitive communist, (2) slave, (3) feudal, and (4) capitalist. He hypoth-
esized an early civilization (primitive communist) in which man is at
one with nature and cooperates with his fellow man in producing what
he needs to live. All of this changes when division of labor appears, an
occurrence Marx attributed to physical differences between men and
women, between the strong and the weak. With this division there is
alienation of man from nature, from his fellow man, and from himself.
Once labor is divided, “each man has a particular, exclusive sphere of
activity, which is forced upon him and from which he cannot escape. He is a
hunter, a fisherman, a shepherd, or a critical critic, and he must remain so if
he does not want to lose his livelihood.”4 People are torn between being whole
men and the necessity of functioning as specialized instruments of produc-
tion. The social force that produces this schism is perceived as natural and
hence ineluctable, generating a feeling of powerlessness and quiet despair.
The division of labor results in a class conflict that endures over
time and produces the events we call history. This is what Marx meant
when he spoke of “the materialist conception of history,” history being
determined by the modes of production, which in turn generate class
conflict. From the serfs of the Middle Ages come the burghers of the
earliest towns, and from the burghers come the earliest elements of the
bourgeoisie. As population expands, needs grow. The feudal system is
replaced by a system of manufacturing. Division of labor among guilds
is replaced by division of labor within the guild.
The relationships of production—slave–master, nobleman-serf, bour-
geoisie–proletariat—are the foundation or base of society. Everything
else is superstructure: religion, government, law, ideology, art, literature,
history, social consciousness. The superstructure is determined by the
base. Our government, our religion, our self-expression as a culture, and
our social consciousness are all consequences of the mode of production.
The relationship between base and superstructure is a one-way rela-
tionship. The base determines the superstructure and never the other way
round. When the mode of production changes, there will be a change in the
superstructure. Changes in the mode of production occur when there is a
change in material conditions. Soil erosion, the introduction of a new form
of technology, increase or decrease in population—these are all material
conditions that bring about a change in the mode of production and hence
the relationships of production, which in turn affect the superstructure.
In the South of the early United States, conditions were favorable for
the growth of cotton and tobacco. Wealthy landowners imported slaves to
do the work. In New England, the land was difficult. There developed a
mercantile class devoted to trade and banking. In each case arose a super-
 W hat I s H istory and W hy D oes I t M atte r? 21

structure—religion, government, and a level of social consciousness—that

corresponded to and was determined by the mode of production.
Marx did his writing as capitalism was developing into the dominant
form of production, pitting the captains of industry against the working
class. He believed that the proletariat—including disaffected members of
the bourgeoisie—would ultimately prevail and set up a new society based
on a new mode of production in which the proletariat would rule. But this
could not occur until the proletariat had become conscious of itself as a
class, a class with a destiny and the will to realize it. Here Marx borrowed
from Hegel the concept of consciousness and its dialectical evolution.
Marx introduced cause-effect analysis into the study of universal his-
tory. A change in the material conditions of production causes a change in
the mode of production, which causes a change in the relations of produc-
tion, which causes a change in social consciousness, and so forth. Although
this is a mechanistic, deterministic outlook on how society evolves, Marx
nonetheless believed that by understanding the mechanics of social exis-
tence one would be in a position to take action and bring about change.
Hegel, who showed little concern for the material conditions of human
existence, was unable to explain what creates the change in conscious-
ness that he described. Marx saw the evolving social consciousness as an
instrument in man’s liberation from the conditions of his oppression.
Marx’s description of capitalism, its evolution, and its effects on those
who live through it is as valid today as when it was written 150 years ago:
the profit motive, the need for new markets, the need for cheap labor,
the movement toward monopoly, the psychological alienation and physi-
cal isolation of one man from the next, and the alienation of man from
nature. Marx’s wish to understand the source of man’s suffering and to
remedy it was a noble one. By applying cause-effect analysis to universal
history, Marx held out the possibility of fundamental change. And he
saw the importance of development in consciousness as a prelude to that
change. Yet, as with Hegel, there are some internal contradictions.
Marx’s chief concept is the division of labor, leading to exploitation
and class struggle. Division of labor comes about because of biological
differences between man and woman: one is stronger than the other.
This kind of argument poses a problem, however. Marx has framed his
general theory of history in terms of society. His concepts are sociologi-
cal or societal. To have his primary causal factor rooted in biology is
reductionistic. He is employing one conceptual framework, biology, to
explain phenomena in another more abstract conceptual framework,
that of sociology or economics. For his theory to be valid he would have
to explain division of labor in sociological or economic terms.
Further, is it always the case that where there is division of labor,
there is dominance and exploitation? If so, why? These are questions
for which Marx has no answer. It is Marx’s position that the proletariat
will be the savior of mankind. Once this class becomes conscious of
22 pa r a dise lost

itself as an instrument of change and accumulates the necessary fore-

sight and will to act, it will take charge, rule in its own name, and
transform the base of society from a capitalist to a communist mode of
production. Pre-history will come to an end. History will begin.
However, Marx believed that there is one-way causality between
base and superstructure. This, it seems to me, would preclude the super-
structure (i.e., social consciousness) from being a causal agent in bring-
ing about change at the base. If he were to allow social consciousness
to have this kind of effectiveness, then he would open up the possibility
that other elements in the superstructure might affect the base as well.
It is Marx’s position that the mode of production (the base) deter-
mines the form of the superstructure (i.e., government). Is it conceivable
that the opposite is true—that the form of government determines the
mode of production?
One could argue that monarchy/tyranny, where all of the power is
concentrated in one person, produces a slave/serf economy and that oli-
garchy, where there are several potentially conflicting sources of power,
produces capitalism. What kind of economy might a democracy pro-
duce? One can imagine certain general characteristics. If national gov-
ernment were directed by a multitude of local councils, power would be
dispersed, in all likelihood favoring the development of small businesses,
small farms, and small-scale industry that would be responsive to local
demands. Oligarchy, by virtue of its centralized power, favors the ever-
increasing concentration of wealth. In a democracy, where power is dis-
persed, there would be a more equal distribution of wealth, a greater
degree of social justice, and more attention to the common good.
Marx offers some guidance in understanding universal history, but
I believe he falls victim to a certain kind of reasoning that serves to
mystify and confuse, rather than enlighten. He speaks of capitalism as
being the source of man’s misery. He speaks of class conflict as being
the material cause behind the unfolding of history. “Capitalism” and
“class conflict” are concepts, abstractions. Concepts can’t act. They
can’t cause things to happen. Only people can. The fog is lifted once
one begins to understand history as being composed of the acts of con-
sequence undertaken by specific human beings.
In contrasting the writings of Hegel and Marx, one gets the sense that
deciding on the content of history determines a great deal about one’s
understanding of the course of societal development. Hegel decided that
a society’s consciousness of itself is the content of history, leading him
to draw certain conclusions about the overall meaning and direction of
history. Marx chose the mode of production as his content and was led
in a radically different direction. What then should one choose as one’s
content if the goal is to stay rooted in concrete reality and arrive at an
understanding of history that is empowering to those of us who read
history with the goal of bringing about change for the better?
 W hat I s H istory and W hy D oes I t M atte r? 23

Tolstoy’s Battlefield
Leo Tolstoy¶¶ was a member of the Russian aristocracy. Leading a
rather aimless existence in his early adulthood, in 1857 he left Russia
and had his first encounter with European culture and politics. During
his 1857 visit to Paris, Tolstoy witnessed a public execution, a traumatic
experience that would mark the rest of his life. He expressed feelings of
revulsion toward the state for its acts of violence and exploitation, and
became an ardent advocate of social progress based in simple human
values, the enemy of violent solutions of any kind.
Tolstoy’s War and Peace is thought to be one of the greatest novels
ever written, but the author saw his book more as a work of history
than a work of fiction. One of his primary interests was to investigate
the causes of the Decembrist revolt,*** and the result was a massive
novel with 580 characters, many historical, others fictional. War and
Peace tells the story of five aristocratic families and the entanglements
of their personal lives with the history of 1805–1813, principally Napo-
leon’s invasion of Russia in 1812. The story moves from family life to
the headquarters of Napoleon, from the court of Alexander I of Russia
to the battlefields of Austerlitz and Borodino.
Count Pyotr Kirillovich Bezukhov, Pierre, is the central character
and often a voice for Tolstoy’s own beliefs and struggles. Pierre decides
to leave Moscow and go to watch the Battle of Borodino from a vantage
point next to a Russian artillery crew. There he experiences firsthand
the death and destruction of war. The battle becomes a hideous slaugh-
ter for both armies and ends in a standoff. This is Tolstoy’s commen-
tary on the gratuitous viciousness of war.
Tolstoy wrote two epilogues to the novel in which he discussed his the-
ory of history. He began the second epilogue as follows: “The subject of
history is the life of peoples and of humanity.”5 The fundamental question
to answer is “What force moves nations?”6 The modern historian might
respond “powerful men,” like Napoleon. But, for Tolstoy, that was not
good enough, because by what means could it occur that vast numbers
of people would do Napoleon’s bidding? What is the causal connection
between Napoleon’s issuing a command and the movements of an army
of half a million men? In the past, one could make the connection via the
guiding hand of the Deity. In the absence of such an overarching force,
historians are at a loss to explain cause and effect. Tolstoy went on to get

¶¶ Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910) was a Russian writer and novelist, and his Anna Karenina (1877)
and War and Peace (1869) are considered to be among the great pieces of fiction in any era.
*** When Czar Alexander died in November 1825, it was assumed that his brother Con-
stantine would succeed him. However, Constantine removed himself from the line of suc-
cession and his younger brother Nicholas assumed the throne. On December 14, 1825, in
an action that came to be known as the Decembrist revolt, Russian army officers leading
about 3,000 soldiers refused to declare allegiance to the new czar. Their goal, instead, was
to establish a form of constitutional monarchy, along European lines. With the support of
9,000 troops who remained loyal to him, Nicholas I quickly suppressed the revolt.
 Another Random Document on
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had worn for the first time the day before, was wet and muddy, and I
pitched it into the river.
Dr. Grinstead, now living in Washington City, was placed in charge of
the boat.
The Confederates had retreated toward Corinth, Miss., but there was
still firing in the distance. Early in the day I went up the steep bank
and out on the battle-field.
The wounded had been gathered up as far as I could see, but many
of the dead were still lying where they fell.
Not far from the landing there were some tents. In one of these tents
a son of Sam Houston, of Texas, lay on the ground with others, the
gray and the blue lying together. Young Houston was severely
wounded in the thigh. I talked with him kindly of his grand, loyal
father, and ministered to him as best I could. I saw him many times
afterwards, the last time a prisoner at Camp Douglass, near
Chicago. If this by any possibility passes under his notice, and he
has not forgotten my treatment of him when he was a wounded
prisoner, I will be glad to hear from him. I went toward a house on
the right, but before I reached it I saw two men coming, carrying a
wounded soldier.
They had made a seat by clasping their hands, and his arms were
thrown about their necks. I went forward to meet them.
“Oh, set me down by that tree! I can go no farther,” he cried.
They carried him as tenderly as they could, and placed him between
the great roots of a very large tree. His breast was bare, and the
blood was slowly oozing out of a wound in his lungs.
“I am dying,” he said, “can’t somebody pray?” Both men were
weeping. If he was not a brother, he was a friend; I answered
promptly, “I can pray.” I knelt there on the damp ground, and taking
one of his hands in my own, I asked in simple words the heavenly
Father to forgive and bless. He responded to each petition. I kept on
praying till he said, “The way is light now, I do not fear.” There was a
little gasp, a shiver, and all was still. As I knelt there I closed his eyes
and said,—
“He is dead.”
“Yes,” they answered with a sob.
“He is dead, and this is all we can do. We will report the case, and
have the grave marked.” And we turned away and left him there. An
hour afterwards I returned that way. It was a most impressive sight to
see a dead man sitting there so calmly and peacefully, with eyes
closed, dead and cold. When I passed that way again, they had
taken him away.
The country can never pay those who went out and heroically
defended the flag. Such scenes as these bring gray hairs before
their time to those who looked on. What must it have been to those
in the midst of the fight?
 JOHNNIE CLEM.
The Drummer Boy of Shiloh and the Boy Hero
of Chickamauga, Chattanooga.

JOHNNIE CLEM, who lived at Newark, Ohio, was perhaps the

youngest and smallest recruit in the Union Army. The army historian,
Lossing, says that he was probably the youngest person who ever
bore arms in battle.
He was born at Newark, Ohio, Aug. 13, 1851, and his full name was
John Winton Clem. He was of German-French descent, and the
family spell the name Klem, and not Clem. His sister Lizzie, who is
now Mrs. Adams, and lives on the Granville road near Newark, gives
the following statement to a visitor:—
It being Sunday, May 24, 1861, and the rebellion in progress,
Johnnie said at dinner table,—
“Father, I’d like mighty well to be a drummer boy. Can’t I go into the
Union army?”
“Tut! my boy, what nonsense! You are not ten years old,” was the
father’s reply; and he thought no more about it. When he
disappeared, he had no thought that he had gone into the service.
That afternoon Johnnie took charge of his sister Lizzie, seven years
old, and his little brother Lewis, five years old, and took them to the
Sunday-school room, and left them there.
As Johnnie did not return, the father and step-mother were greatly
distressed, fearing he had gone to the canal and gone in for a swim,
for he was an expert swimmer, and had been drowned. They
searched far and near to find him, and had the water drawn from the
head of the canal that they might find his body, but all in vain.
Several weeks past before they heard from him, and then they got
word through a woman living at Mount Vernon, who had been a
neighbor to them at Newark, that Johnnie had been there, and that
she had sent him home in care of the conductor.
It seems that Johnnie moved on the sympathies of the conductor,
who took him on to Columbus, where he joined the Twenty-fourth
Ohio Regiment; but ascertaining that an uncle was in that regiment,
he left it and joined the Twenty-second Michigan.
He was an expert drummer; and being a bright, cheerful little fellow,
he soon won his way into the confidence and affection of officers and
men.
He was in many battles; at Shiloh, Perryville, Murfreesboro,
Chattanooga, Chickamauga, Nashville, and Kenesaw, and in other
engagements in which the Army of the Cumberland took part.
When he entered the army, being too young to be mustered in, he
went with the regiment, the Twenty-second Michigan, as a volunteer,
until the battle of Shiloh.
When he was beating the long roll at the battle of Shiloh, a piece of
shell struck his drum and sent it flying in fragments. He was after that
called “Johnnie Shiloh.”
He was afterwards mustered in, and served also as a marker, and
with his little musket so served on the battle-field of Chattanooga. At
the close of that bloody day, the brigade in which he was, being
partly surrounded by rebels, was retreating, when he, being unable
to fall back as fast as the rest of the line, was singled out by a rebel
colonel who rode up to him with the summons, “Scoundrel, halt!
Surrender, you —— little Yankee!”
Johnnie halted, and brought his gun into position as though he was
about to surrender, thus throwing the colonel off his guard. In
another moment the gun was cocked, fired, and the colonel fell dead
from his horse.
His regiment was pursued, and a volley was fired at that moment,
and Johnnie fell as though he had been killed, and lay there on the
field until it was dark enough for him to slip away unnoticed. At
Chickamauga he was struck with a fragment of a shell in the hip. He
was taken prisoner with others while detailed to bring up a supply
train from Bridgeport, Ala.
He fared hard as a prisoner. His sister, Mrs. Adams, says, “The
rebels stripped him of everything—his clothes, his shoes, his little
gun—an ordinary musket, I suppose, cut short—and his little cap. He
said he did not care about anything but his cap; he did want to save
that, and it hurt him sorely to part with it, for it had three bullet holes
through it.” When exchanged he was given a furlough and sent
home for a week. He was weak and emaciated from starvation, and
his clothes were a bundle of rags. He had been absent about two
years in the army, and was at that time in his twelfth year.
I did not meet him at Shiloh, but became acquainted with him at
Chattanooga, when he was in the hospital there, and saw him
frequently when he was on General Thomas’s staff.
He was a fair and beautiful child then, about twelve years old, but
very small of his age. He was at that time only about thirty inches
high and weighed about sixty pounds.
At Atlanta, while in the act of delivering a despatch from General
Thomas to General Logan, a ball struck the head of his pony
obliquely, killing him, and wounding his little rider in the right ear.
For his heroic conduct, he was made a sergeant, and his name
placed on the Roll of Honor, and he was attached to Headquarters of
the Army of the Cumberland.
Shortly afterwards he received from Nettie M. Chase, the daughter of
Chief Justice Chase, a silver medal inscribed:—

Sergeant Johnnie Clem,

twenty-second michigan volunteer infantry,
from n. m. c.
which he worthily wears as a badge of honor on his left breast with
other medals.
When the war was over, General Thomas advised him to study and
make a man of himself. He studied at West Point, but on account of
his size he could not enter as a cadet. In 1890 he weighed one
hundred and five pounds and was only five feet high. His wife,
Annita, the daughter of General Wm. H. French, U.S.A., is also small
and delicate, weighing about seventy pounds. General Grant
commissioned him as a lieutenant. He is now captain of the twenty-
fourth U.S. Infantry, and is stationed at Columbus, Ohio, and holds
the important office of depot quartermaster and commissary.
He has one son living, who is very like him, only he will be larger.
From recent correspondence he seems to be the same kindly, great-
hearted Johnnie as when I first met him at Chattanooga, Tenn.
 ARMY TRICKS.

THERE were many tricks played on the officers, just for the fun of
the thing, during the war, especially if the troops remained long at
any one camping-place.
In one of the many camps of the Union soldiers, an odd trick was
played off on the surgeon and chaplain of a regiment noted for its
merry-making.
The troops were camped by a small stream, over which was a
narrow, rickety bridge.
Just across from the camp was a log cabin, in which lived an old
woman alone.
The woman paid no attention to the soldiers, but went about her
daily duties as though unconscious of their presence.
One day some of the boys passed the cabin, and hurrying over the
rickety bridge, came running into the camp with the message, “The
old woman in the cabin is dying!” The chaplain and surgeon were
notified.
“Chaplain, hurry over quick! The old woman is dying!”
The chaplain hurried over the rickety bridge as rapidly as possible;
the surgeon soon followed. As the chaplain came round to the open
door he saw at a glance that it was a trick, and he passed on around
the house, so as to allow the surgeon to come on and bear a full
share of the joke.
The woman was dyeing. She was over a kettle of butternut juice
dyeing a lot of yarn.
When the two came back over the bridge the whole camp was in a
roar of laughter over the joke.
But what could be done? The men had reported a truth—the woman
was dyeing; so there was no redress.
 GENERAL GRANT’S KINDNESS.

ONE morning during the war, coming down on the packet boat that
plied between Cairo, Ill., and Columbus, Ky., I noticed a woman
weeping as though her heart would break. Her calico dress and
coarse blanket-shawl betokened abject poverty, and her face was
hidden; and she sobbed out her anguish in a coarse bandanna
handkerchief.
Laying my hand gently on her shoulder, I said,—
“My dear woman, what is the matter?”
“It’s my boy I’m crying about; he’s awful sick down in Tennessee, and
he has writ for me to come down an’ nus him up, but the men as
keeps the passes at Cairo says I can’t go.
“They say there’s plenty to take care uv my boy, and maybe there is;
but I reckon that his muther what took care uv him when he was a
baby could do it better nor any of them.
“My boy wus a very smart boy. You never seen a smarter boy nor a
better boy than mine wuz. Well, if they won’t let me go down on the
railroad I reckon I can walk. My boy’s sick an’ I’m bound to go. They
tried to skeer me by tellin’ me the guards would arrest me if I tried to
get through the lines. But I can dodge the guards, an’ creep under
the lines. Anyway, I s’pose them guards ar’ human cre’turs, an’ if I
tell ’em my boy is a solger, an’ awful sick, an’ wants his mother to
come down an’ nus him, they’ll let me go through.”
“Have you his letter with you?”
“Yes, I have.”
And out of the depth of a capacious pocket she drew forth a
package, and carefully unrolling it, she handed me a letter. It was
short, but full of tender pathos. The boy was sick and homesick, and
wanted his mother. Among other things, he said:—
“You could nus me better than the boys. I hain’t got no apertite and
can’t eat nothin’; the boys hain’t much on cookin’, but you could cook
something that I could eat, and maybe I’d get well.”
Satisfied that she was a true woman, and not a spy, I said:—
“General Grant, the highest officer in the army, is on this boat. He
can give you a pass; he was sitting here by this table a few minutes
ago; as he has left his paper and writing material there, he will no
doubt return in a few minutes. Go to him and show him your boy’s
letter, and ask him for a pass. He will give it to you.”
She was almost dismayed at the thought of speaking to such a great
man. When the General came in and took a seat at the table, I
whispered to her,—
“Now go,—don’t be afraid.”
The meeting of the two was a picture for an artist.
With sun-bonnet pushed back, and her coarse shawl drawn closely
about her, she timidly approached him, holding out the letter.
General Grant looked up kindly.
“Are you Gineral Grant?” she questioned.
“Yes.”
“Well, my boy’s awful sick down in Tennessee, an’ he’s writ me this
letter to cum an’ nus him up; but them men at Cairo what gives
passes said I might be a spy, and they wouldn’t give me a pass.
“But, Gineral, I hain’t no spy; I’m a good Union woman as ever lived;
and there’s a lady here as allowed that if I’d ask you maybe you’d
give me a pass.”
In the meantime, General Grant had looked over the letter and
scrutinized the woman, and handing the letter back to her, he said,
“Yes, I’ll give you a pass; what is your name?”
The woman gave her name; but she was so delighted that she talked
all the while he was writing the pass:—
“It’s awful unhandy for me to leave home now, cos I hain’t nobody to
take care of nothing. Bill Spence’s wife, she agreed to milk the cow,
but I had a beautiful pig, and I had to turn that out to root for itself,
and I’m awful feared that it will get lost while I’m gone. But I told Mis’
Spence that I’d ruther risk the pig than to risk my boy, for he’s an
awful good boy, Gineral.”
“This pass will take you down and bring you back,” said General
Grant, handing her the precious document.
“How much do you s’pose it’ll cost me to go down?”
“It will cost you nothing, madam; the pass will take you free.”
“Don’t they charge nuthen on them roads?”
“They will not charge you. A mother who has given her son to the
government, the government can afford to carry free.”
Just then I got her attention and beckoned her away.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Gineral,” she said, and made an old-
fashioned courtesy.
Years afterward, while he was an occupant of the White House, and
I was there on a friendly visit, I reminded him of the circumstance,
which he had almost forgotten, and expressed the hope that the boy
had recovered, and that she had found her pig on her return. He
smiled, and said,—
“I always let the mothers pass if their boys were sick, and they
seemed to be good loyal women.”
I had noticed that General Grant did not judge by appearance or
dress. Often the lady in her silks was turned back, while a woman
arrayed in calico would go through the lines.
 ARMY LIFE AT HELENA, ARKANSAS.

HELENA, Arkansas, was an important military station in 1862-63. In

December, 1862, General Sherman, with his great fleet of boats and
an army of twenty or thirty thousand men, moved from that point
down the Mississippi River upon Vicksburg. There was nothing in the
place of itself that made it a desirable camping-ground for troops,
other than that it was an advance station far down into the enemy’s
country, and commanded considerable important territory. The
soldiers called it a “God-forsaken place.”
It was named after the daughter of the founder of the town, Helena;
but the soldiers suggested that the name ought to be spelled with
one syllable and two l’s.
Along the river front the land was very low and subject to overflows,
but was protected by a high embankment, which effectually shut out
the flood tides of the Mississippi River. Just back of the town was a
great green cypress swamp, that was crossed by a corduroy road—a
road made of large round logs fastened together at each end. Back
of the swamp rose high bluffs of yellow clay. They were unsightly and
very precipitous; in most places perpendicular. Their uneven sides
were seamed and wrinkled by the floods and storms of ages, and
looked like a line of forts.
It is easy to imagine the discomfort of such a camping place. During
the winter and spring the streets of the town were miry and almost
impassable.
In December, 1862, I reached Helena with a heavy lot of hospital
supplies. I sent a message to my friend, General Cyrus Bussey, who
was Assistant-Secretary of the Interior during President Harrison’s
administration, but who was then in command, requesting an
ambulance, that I might visit the several hospitals. He sent me a
note, saying that it would be impossible to get about in an
ambulance, but that if I wished he would send me an army wagon.
Of course I accepted the offer. A big wagon, with four good strong
mules attached, was sent me. A camp-chair was put in for my use;
and Chaplain P. P. Ingalls offered to accompany me, and took a seat
with the driver on a board which had been placed across the wagon
bed. We started down the principal street of the town, towards the
steamboat-landing; but we had not gone far till the team began to
mire. The mules made a desperate struggle to get out, and the driver
tried to turn them towards the sidewalk; but the more they struggled
the deeper they sank into the black mire of the street. The mules
were in up to their sides, and the wagon had sunk down almost to
the bed.
Immediately a crowd of soldiers gathered on the board sidewalk.
They had been through many a miry place, and knew just what to
do. Boards from the near fence and rails were brought, and soon the
space was bridged between the struggling mules and the board
sidewalk. The mules were soon detached from the wagon, poles and
rails were used to pry them out, and ropes were put about them, and
they were pulled by main force to the sidewalk.
As the boards on which the men stood sank down in the mud, other
boards were brought and laid on top of them, and many willing
hands made the work of rescue possible. The last mule to be
rescued was up to his sides in the mire.
It seemed almost impossible to get a rail down under him, or to get
ropes about him, so as to help him; but at last, covered with black
mud and almost exhausted, he stood on the board sidewalk.
Chaplain Ingalls and myself were then rescued, the wagon was
abandoned, and a board put up, “No Bottom,” to warn others.
 A TERRIBLE STORM AT
CHATTANOOGA.
How the Men in the Hospital Tents were saved
from Freezing.

ON the night of Dec. 31, 1863, a fearful storm swept over the
Southern States, extending from the Mississippi River to the Atlantic
Coast. I was at Chattanooga at the time. The tempest came down
upon us like an Arctic hurricane. It beat and tore around the cliffs of
Lookout Mountain and down its gorges, levelling trees, and freezing
the life-currents in every unprotected living thing. Many of the guards
on duty in the army that night froze to death. General Russell A.
Alger, who was in front of the enemy in the Eastern Army that night,
tells of his ride along the picket-line. As the position of his forces was
a dangerous one, he desired to assure himself that the guards were
at their posts of duty.
At one point, where the lines of the two armies came close together,
and the danger was especially great, a trusty soldier had been
posted. As General Alger approached that point, he was surprised at
not being halted, and he felt sure that the guard was asleep.
“Why do you not challenge me, sir?” he demanded. There was no
response. Taking the man by the shoulder, General Alger was
shocked to find him dead. Standing against a tree, facing the enemy,
that terrible night, with eyes and ears on the strain, intent on doing
his duty well, he had frozen to death.
At Chattanooga there was great suffering from scarcity of food, and
clothing, and lack of proper protection. The railroad had been
repaired to Bridgeport only; and it was necessary to haul all the
supplies of that great army from Bridgeport to Chattanooga, a
distance of twenty-eight miles, and over a rough, stony mountain
road. The army had marched over this road to Mission Ridge and
Chickamauga, and their shoes had been cut to pieces on the sharp
rocks. Many of the men were almost barefooted. They were two
hundred and thirty-six miles inland from their base of supplies. Every
bridge had been destroyed, and every foot of the long line of railroad
had to be guarded.
Those of us who ventured to travel over that dangerous route had to
take the chances, both of obstructions on the track, and volleys of
musketry from ambuscades. When the storm fell upon the army at
Chattanooga the troops lacked both food and clothing.
At the foot of Lookout Mountain, there was a large “field hospital,” at
which were quartered the men who were most severely wounded
and sick. The men were sheltered by large tents, and lay on cots.
There were no floors in these tents, and no arrangements for heating
them.
Mrs. Jeremiah Porter of Chicago, a dear little saint, who is now in
heaven, had gone to Chattanooga with me; and we were together at
the rooms of the Christian Commission when the storm burst upon
the place in its terrible fury. Amid the raging of the tempest, which
made every timber in the old frame building creak, and threatened to
tear away the roof that covered us, our first thought was of the men
in the field hospital, who were exposed to its fury. Night, as it was, it
was decided that we should go to their relief. While the delegates
were getting out the horses and ambulances, everything that would
be likely to add to the comfort of the patients was collected from the
stores on hand. It was about daybreak when we started.
The way was lined with dead mules and horses frozen to death.
Half-starved and unsheltered they could not live in such a storm. The
muddy roads were now frozen. The wind was in our faces, and the
two miles we had to travel seemed a long journey.
When we reached the hospital our worst fears were realized. Many
of the tents had been blown down upon the faces of the helpless
men. Against the fierce northern blasts, which threatened to tear the
tents into tatters, the attendants were striving to right them. But the
force was small compared to the work which needed to be done. To
leeward of the camp, three great log fires were blazing and crackling
furiously.
Mother Bickerdyke, a grand old army nurse, who did heroic service
in the hospitals from the beginning until the close of the war, was
there, and giving directions with the clearness and force of a sea-
captain in a storm. Orders were imposed on all of us before we were
out of the ambulance. “Come on, Lawrence, with your men, and help
get up these tents. Mrs. Wittenmyer, you and Mrs. Porter get sticks
and pry out rocks, and heat them here in these fires and put them
about the men to keep them from freezing.”
We all went to work at once. No one stood upon the order of his
going. With such sticks as we could pick up it was hard to pry out the
rocks, but we were willing and we succeeded. One delegate had
brought a lot of reading-matter with him; and we utilized them as
wrappers for the hot rocks, which we carried in our arms to the cots,
creeping under the flapping canvas when the tents were down, and
putting them around the men the best we could, and speaking at the
time words of cheer which they so much needed. I thank God that
because of the heroic and timely efforts which were made, not one
man froze to death in the tents that day. The great log fires, we
learned later, had been built from a part of a fort surrendered by the
Confederates. Mother Bickerdyke, not finding suitable wood for fires
which could withstand a tempest, suggested to the surgeon, that
such timbers as they could get out of the two forts be used for that
purpose. But as the forts were government property, the surgeon
refused to touch them without an order.
Military headquarters were two miles away, and the tempest was
raging. Mother Bickerdyke rose to the emergency as usual. “Come
on, boys,” said she; “we’ll soon have the timbers out of the old fort.
What possible use can Uncle Sam put them to?”
The surgeon warned her that it would be his duty to report the matter
to the proper authorities. “That’s all right, doctor; but in the meantime
we’ll have the fires going.” Of course nothing was ever done about it.
We toiled all day. As the tents were raised we carried great pans and
kettles full of live coals into the tents, and emptied them on the
ground to temper the keen air, which seemed to pierce to the
marrow. I had brought up the river, with great difficulty, a special
store of supplies, transporting them in a small boat, through the
special kindness of General John A. Logan, who had detailed the
boat for that purpose. Among the supplies was the largest lot of good
woollen home-knit socks I had ever seen together. Many sacks of
them had been pitched into the ambulance that morning; and as we
went through the tents we examined the feet of the men to see if
they were frozen. We put socks on the feet that were bare, and kept
the hot bowlders moving back and forth to aid all. Many of the men
had on good socks which had been sent to them by mail; but the feet
of many were bare. I shall never forget the stone-bruised feet on
which we put warm woollen socks that day.
At last the work was well-nigh done. The wind had abated, the tents
were up, and our supplies were nearly all distributed. We had
reached the last tent, and the last two men in the tent. I turned to the
last sack to draw out two pairs of stockings for the two men before
us, but there was only one pair in the sack. “O Mrs. Porter, what shall
I do? There are two men, and only one pair of socks!” I exclaimed in
despair.
To my surprise the men began to laugh; and one of them said,
“There is no great loss without some small profit, Jim.” And they
laughed again heartily. At last one of them explained. “You see, miss,
we’ve each of us lost a leg, and one pair will do us both.” And this
was true; they had been brought into the tent for the amputation, and
laid side by side. We were both deeply impressed. I had not counted
the feet or the socks, but He who counts the hairs of our heads had
counted both. Mrs. Porter and I divided the one pair between us, and
each put a sock on the one foot. Tears of sympathy blinded our eyes
as we remembered that henceforth these two heroes must walk
lame through life.
It was wonderful with what heroism these men could bear their
sufferings and losses. They were full of hope, and grateful for every
little kindness. They literally overwhelmed me with thanks. But it was
left for an Irishman to express his thanks for timely help in the most
original manner. He said in the most impassioned tones, his face all
aglow,—
“And sure it’s an angel ye are, and may ye be in heaven three weeks
before the devil finds out ye’re dead.”
 THE WONDERFUL POTATO-PATCH.

IN the spring of 1862 potatoes were very scarce and dear.

The women of Muscatine, Iowa, who were earnest workers in the
Soldiers’ Aid Society of that town, were anxious to secure potatoes
to send to the army. They decided to canvass the town and the
region round about for that purpose.
But the first grocery they entered the proprietor said, “No, I have no
potatoes to spare; but I have a field about a mile out of town that you
may have the use of, if you wish to raise potatoes.”
The proposition was accepted gladly; and they at once began to
solicit potatoes for planting.
At the appointed day for planting, the loyal old men who had not
gone to the front, and the women and children, rallied for the work.
Wagons were in readiness to carry out the ploughs, harrows, hoes,
and potatoes. The men ploughed and harrowed and furrowed the
ground, the women and children followed, dropping and covering the
potatoes, and the field in due time was planted.
When the time came to cultivate the potatoes, a “potato picnic” was
announced; and when the day arrived, wagons were in readiness to
take all who were willing to work to the field. A picnic dinner was
served, and although the work was hard, these hours of toil were
enlivened with laughter and song and wit and wisdom; and the
weeds were destroyed, and the potatoes cultivated. And so it was
each time when the cultivation of the field was needed.
Happily the Colorado beetle, known as the potato bug, had not been
heard of as yet.
But there came a time of drought and great anxiety, for men, and
women too, for women toiled in the fields in those heroic days. They
watched the clouds with sinking hearts, as they sailed carelessly by,
giving never a drop of rain to revive vegetation and moisten the
parched earth.
Every one felt as much interest in the potato-field the women had
planted as though it had been their own.
There are, perhaps, a score or more of men and women still living in
that loyal town, who will remember that “Sanitary Potato-Patch;” and
the remarkable fact, that one day a cloud sailed over it and drenched
the field with rain, scattering only a few sprinkles over the fields
adjoining.
The yield of that potato-field was immense; and the entire crop was
in time shipped to me at St. Louis, and distributed in camps and
hospitals.
I do not now remember how many bushels they raised on that patch
of ground, but I distinctly remember that they sent me by one
shipment fifteen hundred bushels of potatoes.
Never were potatoes more needed, or more acceptable to men
suffering from that army scourge, “scurvy,” than were those fifteen
hundred bushels, distributed to Iowa soldiers and to all in the general
hospitals. To me the supply seemed inexhaustible.
One of the first stops made by the steamer sent down with them was
at Island No. 10, above Memphis, Tenn., where one hundred bushels
were put off, with the injunction that they must be divided equally
among the men and officers of an Iowa regiment stationed there.
There were over one thousand men in all.
On my return trip the steamer stopped again at Island No. 10. My
feet had scarcely touched the shore till I was surrounded by soldiers,
who reported that the officers had eaten up most of the potatoes,
and that they had been given only about three messes.
I was indignant, and went directly to the colonel’s headquarters with
the complaint. He was greatly surprised, and sent for the