Isn't it interesting that English lacks any accents or other diacritical marks? I can think of no other language off the top of my head where this is the case, apart from Latin. As English is a hodgepodge of various languages, one would think that some of the diacritical marks of French or of the Norse languages would've survived. Middle English still used some of the old Norse letters like ð, æ, and þ, for instance (these are preserved in modern Icelandic). Perhaps accents would make English easier to learn for non-native speakers? But then again, sometimes spelling is so disconnected from pronunciation that this may be impossible. It would be difficult to explain the difference in pronunciation of "cough" and "through", for example, with the mere addition of a diacritical mark or two.
I am in the midst of reading Empires of the Word: A Language History of the World. The subject of language has always fascinated me, especially when it comes to the evolution of sounds and words. Last night, I was at a friend's 25th birthday party. Several of us were talking about how we are getting to the point of "not understanding kids these days." We were discussing the use of the expression "on fleek" which has apparently arisen recently. Synonyms include "on point". We decided it sounds far better if one pretends it was a French phrase. Thus, en flique, was added to the modern lexicon. Nous etions en flique hier soir...
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Showing posts with label History. Show all posts
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
Je me souviens
"He thought of the war and the English with the same bitterness. How could French-Canadians -- the only real Canadians -- feel loyalty to a people who had conquered and humiliated them, and were Protestant anyway? France herself was no better; she had deserted her Canadians a century and a half ago, had left them in the snow and ice along the Saint Lawrence surrounded by their enemies, had later murdered her anointed king and then turned atheist. Father Beaubien had no fondness for the Germans and no wish for them to win the war; he knew nothing whatever about them. But he certainly knew if a people deserted God they were punished for it, and France was being punished now."
--- from Two Solitudes by Hugh Maclennan (1945)
The book Two Solitudes is apparently a landmark of Canadian literature (I confess my ignorance of all Canadian literature outright - unless you can count Life of Pi). It takes place during and after World War I in Quebec, and follows the soap-opera-esque actions of the aristocratic Tallards - an old French landowning family who practically run the small fictional town of Saint-Marc. Adding depth to the story are a Nova Scotia sea captain who buys land in Saint-Marc, causing a stir amongst the entirely French population; the parish priest who resents Mr Tallard's anticlerical streak; a prominent English banker in Montreal; and Mr Tallard's Irish wife and two sons.
I remarked a few weeks ago about "the pre-revolution" and how interesting it is to me to see what gives rise to massive social change. In the 1960s, Quebec (and France, but that is a separate issue) went through a massive societal upheaval known as the Quiet Revolution. The Church and the conservative provincial government were swept out of politics and social life. What had been one of the most institutionally vibrant centers of global Catholicism saw all of its influence vanish almost overnight. Of course, the Quebecois still employ church vocabulary as swear-words, even if fewer and fewer of them understand their origin.
In any event, Two Solitudes paints a rather convincing picture of pre-Quiet Revolution Quebec. The Church was The People and they both resented what they perceived as English intrusion on their land and their way of life. I read somewhere that apart from the various Native American cultures, the French Canadians and the American Confederacy are the only "defeated" peoples of North America. They are the only two groups who have been told that their way of life and their rights to self-determination are wrong. Of course, we can exhaust a lot of time arguing over the merits of each, but I present the comparison as a way of understanding the thinking of the time period. In any event, the Quebecois in the Nineteenth and early-Twentieth Century regarded the English in much the same way that a Southerner might've regarded a Yankee during Reconstruction. The difference, as you may have guessed, was the Quebecois saw their struggle through intensely religious eyes. Not only was their way-of-life being repudiated - their faith was as well.
Thus, it seemed only natural that Church and State would make an alliance to assail what both saw as a common enemy. Yet, not every French-Canadian refused to fight. And, after the war, Canada had begun to develop a cultural cohesion distinct from the rest of the British Empire. World War II sealed the deal, and the post-war economic boom brought prosperity to both English and French in Canada. Thus, what good were the old Church-approved nationalist arguments that hinged on English oppression? Hadn't the period of the Church's usefulness in French-Canadian society run its course? If the national government is going to allow our French schools and our French culture in our French province, why do our institutions still need to be in the hands of the Church?
This is in my mind when I read about people wanting to build "a Catholic culture" that simply stands in opposition to the mainstream. I think the experience of the French Canadians should give us pause to examine our motives. The Gospel is a freeing joy, not a hammer with which to pound away at a perceived grievance. A Catholic culture that rests on the joy of the Gospel - difficult though it may be - will be ten times stronger than one that has its basis in the negation of the current cultural climate. If that climate improves, at least one historical example warns us that the Church will have then have simply been viewed a means to an end.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Saint Jean Baptiste Day
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| Meanwhile, the crucifix remains in Parliament |
There is perhaps no better way to start to understand modern Quebec than through the lens of St Jean Baptiste Day. Since the so-called Quiet Revolution of the 1960s, which upended the Catholic Church's societal dominance throughout the province, the day has taken on a much more nationalist tone. Some years, depending on the provincial government, the celebrations are more separatism-friendly than others. Regardless, the religious undertones have been largely expunged and relegated to the sterile confines of "cultural heritage".
The same statement might as well be applied to the entirety of La Belle Province. Flannery O'Connor once described the American South as "Christ-haunted" - the same could be said of Quebec. Our Lord haunts the countryside in the names of His saints, applied to every little village. Our Lord's cross and His Blessed Mother's fleur-de-lys haunt the provincial flag (one of the most graphically-pleasing flags in the world, but I digress). Our Lord even haunts the chambers of Parliament, where a crucifix has been allowed to remain "as an important component of the historical character of the Province."
Yet, rates of weekly mass attendance throughout the province are among the lowest in the Catholic world. In a society where formerly large families were encouraged and commonplace (my French Canadian great-great-grandmother was one of eighteen), the birth rate now limps toward replacement rate. What can we make of the rapid secularization of what was formerly one of the most devout regions on earth?
It is indeed a riddle. On the one hand, I am wary of seeing the Church too powerful or too cozy with the political establishment, as this has often lead to abuses. At the same time, the Quebecois church was not an egregious offender in this way - society simply changed the government and threw the Church out with it, because they were viewed as such close allies. Political abuses were projected onto the Church. Now, there exists what the French term laïcité - religion may play a discreet and private role in an individual's life, but that is it. This model is decidedly more pointedly secular than our American model, which envisioned churches as operating more or less as they please outside of government interference, with free exercise being a well-defined right of all citizens.
The more important question than how we got where we are, is to consider how we might successfully evangelize in such a culture that has actively decided to privatize religion and sees any corporate, institutional religion as a threat to a culture's way of life. How can the Church in Quebec, which was once an institutional marvel, recenter itself on Christ and authentic discipleship? How can things grow from the ground up, so that people are attracted to the lifestyle of other people and not to the perceived "institution" and its historical baggage?
The answers to these questions are many and can be difficult to parse, but things certainly can get much worse in Quebec for the Church before they get better. That's not to lose hope, though. Among the first batch of cardinals named by Pope Francis was the Archbishop of Quebec, Gerald Cyprien Lacroix. The Pontiff allegedly told the Cardinal in an audience that "the Church needs Quebec!" Perhaps to underscore this point, His Holiness canonized François de Laval, Lacroix's predecessor - the first bishop of Quebec - who evangelized much of the province himself. The Pope knows what needs to be done. Let us pray for the day that the Church in Quebec will stand proudly with her patron, John the Baptist, announcing the saving presence of Christ!
Saturday, June 7, 2014
Men of Letters
I am almost finished reading The Greater Journey: Americans in Paris by popular historian David McCullough. It has been a fascinating look at the "long Nineteenth Century" in Paris, during which time it was the undisputed world capital of the arts, science, and culture (and maybe still is). The author follows the lives of many notable Americans who made long stays in Paris, including such luminaries as James Fenimore Cooper, Samuel Morse, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Mary Cassatt, John Singer Sargent, and Augustus Saint-Gaudens, among many, many others.
An interesting thing to consider about the book, which deals about day-to-day existence as well as wider historical happenings, is that the primary source material is from personal letters and journals. Though only a few were "writers", everyone was constantly writing. Of course, it was out of necessity in those days, but it gives me pause to consider how my generation will be reconstructed by historians. We are, generally, not writing very much. At least, not in any intimate or personal way to one another. The phone call has generally replaced the letter for such needs. But, though they may serve a similar purpose, they are not perfectly analogous. First, the letter is permanent, while the phone call (apart from some clandestine word-for-word transcription being generated by the NSA) is transient. Second, the letter, as a literary form, can pack in much extemporaneous information that is notably absent from most phone calls. Poetic descriptions of the weather, or musings on the culture that one is immersed in, are predictably absent from most phone calls that I am apart of.
We might then suppose that the internet, in all its myriad social media platforms, may be the other replacement for the letter. But, as a public forum, it is necessarily deficient in the exact opposite ways as a phone call. The internet is public, and largely permanent (though it feels transient), so a degree of intimacy and personality is inherently missing. We hurl our thoughts out into the abyss on the internet (I am doing so now) without much thought about the person-to-person conversations or discoveries that they may engender. And, when they do engender discussion, the case is that it often rapidly devolves into nonsensical shouting (have you read the comments on anything, ever?). No, the letter, with its one intended recipient, has a way of provoking thoughtful response that no blog or Facebook post ever will.
So, that leaves me to my original question, I suppose. How will we be discovered by generations yet nonexistent? Will they google us and find our blogs? Will they be able to read our Facebook messages and updates to get a sense of what we were thinking and doing? Will they raid the digital archives for our Instagram photos? And, will they, when all of this is said and done, come away with only a shallow impression of our existence - as shallow as we are accused of being by other generations for delving so deeply into the fleeting things of the digital age?
An interesting thing to consider about the book, which deals about day-to-day existence as well as wider historical happenings, is that the primary source material is from personal letters and journals. Though only a few were "writers", everyone was constantly writing. Of course, it was out of necessity in those days, but it gives me pause to consider how my generation will be reconstructed by historians. We are, generally, not writing very much. At least, not in any intimate or personal way to one another. The phone call has generally replaced the letter for such needs. But, though they may serve a similar purpose, they are not perfectly analogous. First, the letter is permanent, while the phone call (apart from some clandestine word-for-word transcription being generated by the NSA) is transient. Second, the letter, as a literary form, can pack in much extemporaneous information that is notably absent from most phone calls. Poetic descriptions of the weather, or musings on the culture that one is immersed in, are predictably absent from most phone calls that I am apart of.
We might then suppose that the internet, in all its myriad social media platforms, may be the other replacement for the letter. But, as a public forum, it is necessarily deficient in the exact opposite ways as a phone call. The internet is public, and largely permanent (though it feels transient), so a degree of intimacy and personality is inherently missing. We hurl our thoughts out into the abyss on the internet (I am doing so now) without much thought about the person-to-person conversations or discoveries that they may engender. And, when they do engender discussion, the case is that it often rapidly devolves into nonsensical shouting (have you read the comments on anything, ever?). No, the letter, with its one intended recipient, has a way of provoking thoughtful response that no blog or Facebook post ever will.
So, that leaves me to my original question, I suppose. How will we be discovered by generations yet nonexistent? Will they google us and find our blogs? Will they be able to read our Facebook messages and updates to get a sense of what we were thinking and doing? Will they raid the digital archives for our Instagram photos? And, will they, when all of this is said and done, come away with only a shallow impression of our existence - as shallow as we are accused of being by other generations for delving so deeply into the fleeting things of the digital age?
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Why isn't the District of Columbia square?
If you've ever looked at a map of Maryland and Virginia and wondered why the otherwise regular boundaries of the District of Columbia only enclose land on the Maryland side of the Potomac, you aren't alone. I, too, found this truncation curious, as the original Residence Act passed in 1790 stipulated a district that was to be ten miles by ten miles square. It turns out, this was originally the case. When the Organic Act of 1801 placed the newly delineated District of Columbia under the exclusive purview of Congress, it included the new federal city of Washington, the existing city of Georgetown, the existing city of Alexandria, and many acres of rural land.
The map above, though from much later, shows how the District's boundaries would've looked in 1801. Since Washington did not undergo a major period of population until after the Civil War, the region was quite rural and sparsely populated for much of the Nineteenth Century. Throughout the Antebellum period, government of the District was split between the three city governments of Washington, Georgetown, and Alexandria (which were referred to as Georgetown, DC, and Alexandria, DC, at that time), and the two county governments of Washington County on the north side of the Potomac and Alexandria County (later, Arlington County) on the south side of the Potomac.
As the Nineteenth Century sped toward the Civil War, the Virginia side of the District began agitating to be freed of federal domination and return to Virginia. This was partly because Alexandria had lost much of its share of the trading economy to Georgetown, and partly because there were rumors that slavery was to be outlawed in the District. Thus, in 1846, the retrocession of Alexandria and Alexandria County to Virginia was completed. This left the District of Columbia with land only on the Maryland side of the Potomac.
Eventually, due to the rapid growth of the capital after the Civil War, the population growth was such that the city of Washington annexed all of the County of Washington, and eventually took Georgetown too. This process was completed in 1871, when a the District was consolidated into a single local government unit - an arrangement that exists to this day. When Georgetown was absorbed into the consolidated government, all of the streets were renamed to match the existing conventions present throughout the rest of Washington. Thus, though the streets are much older, the main thoroughfares have rather modern names. M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, the two major thoroughfares, were originally named Bridge Street and High Street, respectively.
The map above, though from much later, shows how the District's boundaries would've looked in 1801. Since Washington did not undergo a major period of population until after the Civil War, the region was quite rural and sparsely populated for much of the Nineteenth Century. Throughout the Antebellum period, government of the District was split between the three city governments of Washington, Georgetown, and Alexandria (which were referred to as Georgetown, DC, and Alexandria, DC, at that time), and the two county governments of Washington County on the north side of the Potomac and Alexandria County (later, Arlington County) on the south side of the Potomac.
As the Nineteenth Century sped toward the Civil War, the Virginia side of the District began agitating to be freed of federal domination and return to Virginia. This was partly because Alexandria had lost much of its share of the trading economy to Georgetown, and partly because there were rumors that slavery was to be outlawed in the District. Thus, in 1846, the retrocession of Alexandria and Alexandria County to Virginia was completed. This left the District of Columbia with land only on the Maryland side of the Potomac.
Eventually, due to the rapid growth of the capital after the Civil War, the population growth was such that the city of Washington annexed all of the County of Washington, and eventually took Georgetown too. This process was completed in 1871, when a the District was consolidated into a single local government unit - an arrangement that exists to this day. When Georgetown was absorbed into the consolidated government, all of the streets were renamed to match the existing conventions present throughout the rest of Washington. Thus, though the streets are much older, the main thoroughfares have rather modern names. M Street and Wisconsin Avenue, the two major thoroughfares, were originally named Bridge Street and High Street, respectively.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
A papal palace in Jerusalem
The idea of such a project is enough to get each and every hair on each and every conspiracy theorist's head to stand on end. But, apparently, someone in the early 20th Century did not think the project entirely too far-fetched. Glancing through my copy of The Master Drawings of Otto Wagner the other day, on an entirely different errand, I discovered these beguiling watercolors. The proposal was authored in 1912 by Josef Heinisch, an Austrian architect who was very much a devotee of the Jugendstil, as was Wagner. Further commentary and background information are not provided.
I suspect that this was simply a student project, rather than any sort of official proposal sanctioned by the Holy See. However, at that time Pope Pius X was on the Chair of Peter and the papacy was still essentially a "prisoner of the Vatican". Relations with the Kingdom of Italy were chilly at best, and there was some talk throughout the years previous of the papacy moving. The Ottomans, who controlled the Middle East at the time, were not favorably disposed toward Italy, a stance which could have theoretically engendered an alliance with the popes. In any event, there was enough back story to make this pass muster as a decent theoretical project for a student to undertake.
I suspect that this was simply a student project, rather than any sort of official proposal sanctioned by the Holy See. However, at that time Pope Pius X was on the Chair of Peter and the papacy was still essentially a "prisoner of the Vatican". Relations with the Kingdom of Italy were chilly at best, and there was some talk throughout the years previous of the papacy moving. The Ottomans, who controlled the Middle East at the time, were not favorably disposed toward Italy, a stance which could have theoretically engendered an alliance with the popes. In any event, there was enough back story to make this pass muster as a decent theoretical project for a student to undertake.
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| An aerial view of the complex |
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| The plan, as a whole, resembles that of one of the great French Gothic cathedrals |
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| The elevation. Note the inscription. Rather interesting considering our current Jesuit Pontiff. |
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| Section through the church. |
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
The eleven nations of North America
I've written before on various regional differences I've encountered by living in different places at different stages of my life. I've always puzzled over the pre-packaged "regional maps" that the Census Bureaus and other such agencies use to conveniently compartmentalize states. For instance, how do you define the Midwest? On the surface, I'd say you might first include all of the Great Lakes states, but then what? If you throw in Iowa, I'd say Nebraska, the Dakotas, and Kansas have to be included too. And if you add those four, do you include Missouri and Oklahoma because they are mostly agrarian states as well? Stopping there seems appropriate, but the result is a region so large as to be almost meaningless. Can we really compare the culture of metro Detroit with that of Wichita?
In the final analysis, our state borders usually do not encapsulate regional differences very well. In the Great Lakes region alone, I can think of a few microregions. Stretching from Buffalo through Cleveland, Toledo, South Bend, and Chicago, up to Milwaukee is a largely urbanized region commonly called the Rust Belt. A spur of this region reaches up through southeast Michigan to encompass Detroit, Flint, Saginaw, and Jackson. The midsections of Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio are rather Great Plains like in their history and settlement. The southern reaches of those same states are very much oriented toward the Ohio River and the cultural patterns found in Kentucky and West Virginia. Wisconsin, Minnesota, and northern Michigan form a Scandinavian bloc, in terms of ethnic makeup, culture, and even weather.
Enter Colin Woodard and his very enlightening book, American Nations. Woodard names and describes eleven distinct nations that each have distinct histories and cultures - all within the current borders of the United States. We must recall that nation and country are not synonyms, though they are often used interchangeable. A nation is a group of people who identify with one another and share a common history and culture. Sometimes nations have their own countries (the French have France), and sometimes nations find themselves without a country (think of the Kurds, the Palestinians, or the Basques). Woodard posits that there is no American nation like there is a French nation, but, instead, our country is made up of eleven, somewhat hidden, nations, whose particular values and worldviews continue to shape our politics.
When I opened the book and first saw this map, it was as though the scales fell from my eyes. No, not all of what I described above vis a vis the Midwest shows up perfectly, but it is a clarifying diagram regardless. I'd like to consider just a few interesting spots on the map.
Firstly, there is my current situation in Washington, DC. I'd say the District itself is rather a-regional, but it is situated at the nexus of three regions. To the north, encompassing the Maryland suburbs is the Midland nation, which has its origins in the pragmatic, pacifistic efforts of the Quakers and Germans in Pennsylvania. To the east and south is the aristocratic Tidewater nation, which was founded by the younger sons of English nobles as a manorial, class-based society built on the tobacco trade. And, finally, to the west, starting just past Arlington, is the Greater Appalachian nation. Originally a lawless and individualistic land, Appalachia was settled in the 17th Century by Scotch-Irish who had left behind their war-torn lands of Northern Ireland and the Scottish border.
In local terms, this means that there's quite a difference between Maryland and Virginia (beyond the fact that Marylanders are terrible drivers). Even closer to Washington itself, "national" differences can be felt. Alexandria and Georgetown, the oldest settlements in the area, were settled from the south, from the Tidewater culture. This can still be felt in the strong attention to social class still attached to these areas. Kennedy once called Washington the "city of Northern charm and Southern efficiency." I think this statement is essentially founded on the swirling of national cultures that exists in the Potomac lowlands.
The second interesting spot is Indiana. Indianapolis, Fort Wayne, and South Bend are all in different nations. I have always sort of suspected as much. South Bend is a Yankee city, aligned with the industrial, pro-government, pro-union sensibilities of the rest of Yankeedom - from Maine to Minnesota. Fort Wayne, though an industrial city, is definitely in the Midlands. There is a mind-your-own-business attitude throughout central Indiana, where government is often seen as more of a problem than a solution. This attitude has its roots in the Quakers and the German Protestants who founded the Midlands around Philadelphia as a refuge from repressive governments in Europe. Finally, southern Indiana (including, I think, most of Indianapolis) is definitely a part of Greater Appalachia, where there is a more intense reliance on family connections alongside a very intense suspicion of authority.
As for where the borders are, exactly, within Indiana, is a question unto itself. I'd say Indianapolis and south are Greater Appalachia. Muncie is a Midland city, as is Lafayette. The Region (the northwest three counties of Indiana) are definitely Yankee.
In any event, Woodard's analysis, though very interesting, leaves out a few considerations. While the historic narrative is well done, the author avoids the current urban/rural sociological differences. Additionally, Native Americans and African Americans are generally not a part of the conversation. While it's true that both groups have never had "nation" prominence in this country, they do influence the culture and society of the United States. In any event, it's a fascinating book.
In the final analysis, our state borders usually do not encapsulate regional differences very well. In the Great Lakes region alone, I can think of a few microregions. Stretching from Buffalo through Cleveland, Toledo, South Bend, and Chicago, up to Milwaukee is a largely urbanized region commonly called the Rust Belt. A spur of this region reaches up through southeast Michigan to encompass Detroit, Flint, Saginaw, and Jackson. The midsections of Illinois, Indiana, and Ohio are rather Great Plains like in their history and settlement. The southern reaches of those same states are very much oriented toward the Ohio River and the cultural patterns found in Kentucky and West Virginia. Wisconsin, Minnesota, and northern Michigan form a Scandinavian bloc, in terms of ethnic makeup, culture, and even weather.
Enter Colin Woodard and his very enlightening book, American Nations. Woodard names and describes eleven distinct nations that each have distinct histories and cultures - all within the current borders of the United States. We must recall that nation and country are not synonyms, though they are often used interchangeable. A nation is a group of people who identify with one another and share a common history and culture. Sometimes nations have their own countries (the French have France), and sometimes nations find themselves without a country (think of the Kurds, the Palestinians, or the Basques). Woodard posits that there is no American nation like there is a French nation, but, instead, our country is made up of eleven, somewhat hidden, nations, whose particular values and worldviews continue to shape our politics.
When I opened the book and first saw this map, it was as though the scales fell from my eyes. No, not all of what I described above vis a vis the Midwest shows up perfectly, but it is a clarifying diagram regardless. I'd like to consider just a few interesting spots on the map.
Firstly, there is my current situation in Washington, DC. I'd say the District itself is rather a-regional, but it is situated at the nexus of three regions. To the north, encompassing the Maryland suburbs is the Midland nation, which has its origins in the pragmatic, pacifistic efforts of the Quakers and Germans in Pennsylvania. To the east and south is the aristocratic Tidewater nation, which was founded by the younger sons of English nobles as a manorial, class-based society built on the tobacco trade. And, finally, to the west, starting just past Arlington, is the Greater Appalachian nation. Originally a lawless and individualistic land, Appalachia was settled in the 17th Century by Scotch-Irish who had left behind their war-torn lands of Northern Ireland and the Scottish border.
In local terms, this means that there's quite a difference between Maryland and Virginia (beyond the fact that Marylanders are terrible drivers). Even closer to Washington itself, "national" differences can be felt. Alexandria and Georgetown, the oldest settlements in the area, were settled from the south, from the Tidewater culture. This can still be felt in the strong attention to social class still attached to these areas. Kennedy once called Washington the "city of Northern charm and Southern efficiency." I think this statement is essentially founded on the swirling of national cultures that exists in the Potomac lowlands.
The second interesting spot is Indiana. Indianapolis, Fort Wayne, and South Bend are all in different nations. I have always sort of suspected as much. South Bend is a Yankee city, aligned with the industrial, pro-government, pro-union sensibilities of the rest of Yankeedom - from Maine to Minnesota. Fort Wayne, though an industrial city, is definitely in the Midlands. There is a mind-your-own-business attitude throughout central Indiana, where government is often seen as more of a problem than a solution. This attitude has its roots in the Quakers and the German Protestants who founded the Midlands around Philadelphia as a refuge from repressive governments in Europe. Finally, southern Indiana (including, I think, most of Indianapolis) is definitely a part of Greater Appalachia, where there is a more intense reliance on family connections alongside a very intense suspicion of authority.
As for where the borders are, exactly, within Indiana, is a question unto itself. I'd say Indianapolis and south are Greater Appalachia. Muncie is a Midland city, as is Lafayette. The Region (the northwest three counties of Indiana) are definitely Yankee.
In any event, Woodard's analysis, though very interesting, leaves out a few considerations. While the historic narrative is well done, the author avoids the current urban/rural sociological differences. Additionally, Native Americans and African Americans are generally not a part of the conversation. While it's true that both groups have never had "nation" prominence in this country, they do influence the culture and society of the United States. In any event, it's a fascinating book.
Tuesday, January 14, 2014
Two Saint-Jeans
We remarked at winding length on these pages a few days ago about the seigneurial system of New France, and its semi-feudal underpinnings. Since then, I have come across two beautiful relics of those days which now function as museums. They both exhibit typically French features in their architecture, and look as though they would be just as comfortable in Normandy as in Quebec. The first is the seigneurial manor of Saint-Jean-Port-Joli, located on the south side of the St Lawrence, downriver (which is to say, northeast) from Quebec City:
Red, white, and beige do seem to be the dominant palette in La Belle Province. And, look at that steep sloped roof, managing to keep the inundating Canadian snow at bay. The second manor is also in a place called Saint-Jean, but this Saint-Jean is located on the Ile d'Orleans, the large island that sits astride the St Laurence immediate north and east of Quebec City. This is the famed Mauvide-Genest manor, which was completed in 1734:
This house is certainly more manorial in its bearing, being a full two stories and exhibiting more detail in terms of door and window openings. This manor was the seat of a seigneur who possessed a portion of one of the most ancient areas of French Canada. The Ile d'Orleans, due to its proximity to Quebec City and its fertile soils, was one of the first places to be colonized. Many of my own ancestors can be found among the island's records. Some, in fact, even came from Saint-Jean. It is interesting to think of them working the land for the gentleman who resided in this very house. Their residences would probably be more akin to his type of home (also located on the Ile d'Orleans):
This is a typical example of the small cottages built by the habitants in New France. They are simple, but certainly have an elegance about them. The fine view of the Laurentian Mountains in the background certainly does not hurt their case either.
Red, white, and beige do seem to be the dominant palette in La Belle Province. And, look at that steep sloped roof, managing to keep the inundating Canadian snow at bay. The second manor is also in a place called Saint-Jean, but this Saint-Jean is located on the Ile d'Orleans, the large island that sits astride the St Laurence immediate north and east of Quebec City. This is the famed Mauvide-Genest manor, which was completed in 1734:
This is a typical example of the small cottages built by the habitants in New France. They are simple, but certainly have an elegance about them. The fine view of the Laurentian Mountains in the background certainly does not hurt their case either.
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Canadian Feudalism
We in the United States tend to myopically view the western hemisphere through the lens of democracy, as if every republic on the continent sprang forth fully-formed from the mind of Libertie herself. Reality, of course, tells a quite different story. While the English colonies were certainly more egalitarian, the French and Spanish possessions were often more reminiscent of the old world. New France, in particular, imported a peculiar brand of Gallican feudalism from the ancien regime.
The seigneurial system was used throughout Quebec, Louisiana, and Acadia as a means of encouraging settlement. Much like the feudal system of the Medieval period, the King would grant fiefs, called seigneuries to nobles, called seigneurs, who would take possession of the land in person and parcel out land to commoners who would pay him a small rent. The people who lived upon the land were known as habitants. Cardinal Richelieu, the administrative mastermind of Louis XIV, devised the particulars of the seigneurial system for New France, which began with the granting of the Seigneury of Beauport just outside of Quebec City to Robert Giffard, a surgeon from Mortagne-au-Perche in Normandy.
The seigneurial system was one means by which the French middle class was able to ascend social strata. This, in itself, encouraged emigration from the old country. Following their countryman Giffard, dozens of people from Mortagne and other villages in the Perche région made their way to Quebec. My own ancestor, Michel Messier, left Rouen and settled in Montreal, where, after a strategic marriage and successes in the fur trade in Michigan, he was made Seigneur de Cap-Saint-Michel et de La Guillaudière, encompassing much of the land around Varennes, the ancestral home of my maternal grandmother's family. More interesting, perhaps, is the story of Messier de La Guillaudière's wife's family. Anne Le Moyne was the daughter of an innkeeper from Dieppe in Normandy. Her brother, Charles, came to Quebec with her and, after beginning at age fifteen as an indentured servant in the service of Jesuit missionaries followed by a distinguished military career in the service of the colony, was named Seigneur de Longueuil et de Châteauguay. He had twelve sons, many of which reached illustrious heights in the government of New France. Among them were Pierre Le Moyne d'Iberville, the great soldier, tradesman, and explorer; Jean-Baptiste Le Moyne de Bienville, the founder of New Orleans, Mobile, and Biloxi, governor of Louisiana; and Charles Le Moyne de Longueuil, who was governor of Montreal and was made a baron - the first native born Canadian to be so named.
The seigneurial system was used throughout Quebec, Louisiana, and Acadia as a means of encouraging settlement. Much like the feudal system of the Medieval period, the King would grant fiefs, called seigneuries to nobles, called seigneurs, who would take possession of the land in person and parcel out land to commoners who would pay him a small rent. The people who lived upon the land were known as habitants. Cardinal Richelieu, the administrative mastermind of Louis XIV, devised the particulars of the seigneurial system for New France, which began with the granting of the Seigneury of Beauport just outside of Quebec City to Robert Giffard, a surgeon from Mortagne-au-Perche in Normandy.
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| Charles Le Moyne, Baron Longueuil |
* * *
Not only are these stories interesting from a personal point of view, since they compose a part of my family's history, but, I think they illustrate several useful points. The first is they help abolish the misconception that the class divisions of the ancien regime were completely static. The case of the Le Moynes, for instance, shows how, with a lot of work and a little luck, it was possible to go from an innkeeper to an indentured servant to a baron in three generations. In general, hard work - whether military or otherwise - was rewarded in the colony. Even the habitants were not the hovel-dwelling, dirt-scraping peasants of popular imagination. Many of them - sometimes even women - became quite wealthy in terms of land and possessions (I think of Adrienne Du Vivier-Hebert, widow of the first colonist of Montreal, who expanded her family's landholdings in her own name). Some even had hired servants.
Thus, in New France, there was a sense of Liberté, Egalité, et Fraternité within a hierarchical, monarchical system. People who deserved to be honored were given honors that then became associated with the entire family. Those who lived average lives were not "oppressed", but they were not elevated beyond their rank for no reason. This, I think, is one of the virtues of aristocracy.
I came across this quote earlier this week by the conservative Colombian philosopher Nicolás Gómez Dávila, which, I think, sums it up quite nicely: "In societies where everybody believes they are equal, the inevitable superiority of a few makes the rest feel like failures. Inversely, in societies where inequality is the norm, each person settles into his own distinct place, without feeling the urge, nor even conceiving the possibility, of comparing himself to others. Only a hierarchical structure is compassionate towards the mediocre and the meek."
I think of our current culture when I read this quote. I think we have the worst scourges of aristocracy without the graces of nobility. We have fabulously wealthy and influential families and people in this country, yet we refuse to honor them in the way that the ancien regime would have. We pretend that "all men created equal" erases the fact that some men are born to higher stations than others. As if the Medieval monarch thought he was a "higher being". He knew, as all Christians know, that rights come from God, and that souls are equal, though station in life may not be.
I am reminded of the burial custom of the Habsburg monarchs. When the body of the deceased is brought before the Franciscan Church in Vienna, where the family crypt is, the steward of the church knocks on the door three times. The monks inside inquire thrice as to who is begging admittance. The first two times, the steward responds with the full list of titles of the deceased. The door remains unopened. The last time, the steward simply announces the first name of the deceased, followed by "a humble, sinful man." The door is than opened.
* * *
So, let the Le Moynes keep the Baronetcy of Longueuil. Give a duchy to the Kennedys. Make the Vanderbilts Viscounts of Asheville. Name George H.W. Bush the Earl of Kennebunkport. Give Americans the benefit of having a codified upper class to lampoon. Give them little privileges and little responsibilities. Like the seigneurs of New France, let them have a nice house, but make them build a grist mill for the community. Let the President name new nobles for meritorious service to the nation, so that people have a goal to aspire to above and beyond the jet-set lifestyle of Malibu and Miami.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Churches of Quebec
La Belle Province is home to the finest collection of French Colonial architecture anywhere in the New World. Because of Quebec's relatively sparse population and largely undisturbed culture (away from the St. Lawrence, that is), the province is littered with hundreds of beautiful churches dating from the 17th century to the early 20th century. Here are a few to give you a taste. These are taken from the fascinating Flickr group Églises du Québec. Of course, I will remind the readers that I have 300 years of Québecois ancestry on my mother's side of the family, so I have a special interest in the history of that part of the continent.
As you can see, there is some stylistic variation, but the uniformity of building materials (granite walls, limestone details, tin roofs) leads to a fairly cohesive architectural genre. Much like the stereotypical white, neoclassical Congregational church of New England, the paroisse stood at the center of the cultural life of New France - first out of a necessity for social cohesion in the face of the wilderness, and later as a bastion against British imperialism. With these two exterior pressures largely gone, Quebec has become one of the most religiously arid places in the Catholic world. Though, in a typical display of Québecois contrarianism, the crucifix remains steadfastly affixed to the wall of the provincial parliament chambers in Quebec City. Only time will tell what the fate of these beautiful buildings will ultimately be.
Monday, September 16, 2013
Lou Kahn on Our Epoch
This man is Hungarian, who came to this country when the Russians entered Hungary. I pondered this question because, somehow, it fascinates me to answer questions to which I do not know the answer.
But I had just been reading in the New York Times Magazine of the things that had been going on in California. I had visited California, and I went through Berkeley, and I noticed the size of the revolution, and the great promises of the machine, and I felt, as I had read recently, that there were poets who were trying to write poems without words.
I sat for at least ten minutes, without moving, reviewing in my mind all these things, and finally I said to Gabor, "What is the shadow of white light?"
Gabor has a habit of repeating what you say, "White light... white light... I don't know." And I said, "Black. Don't be afraid, because white light does not exist, nor does black shadow exist."
I think that it is a time of our sun on trial, of all our institutions on trial.
I was brought up when the sunlight was yellow, and the shadow was blue. But I see it clearly as being white light, and black shadow. Yet this is nothing alarming, because I believe that there will come a fresh yellow, and a beautiful blue, and that the revolution will bring forth a new sense of wonder. Only from wonder can come our new institutions... they certainly cannot come from analysis.
And I said, "You know, Gabor, if I could think what I would do, other than architecture, it would be to write a new fairy tale, because from the fairy tale came the airplane, and the locomotive, and the wonderful instruments of our minds... it all came from wonder."
- Louis I. Kahn, 1968
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Champion Grandparents
An article in a Detroit paper in August 1936 lauded the pair as "Champion Grandparents". At press time, Mr. and Mrs. Pilon had 17 living children, 71 living grandchildren, and 54 living great-grandchildren. A mass in honor of their 60th wedding anniversary was attended by over 100 of their living descendants at the now-demolished but formerly grand church of Our Lady of Lourdes.
Delphine Pilon the younger, the third child of Francis Xavier and the elder Delphine, is my great-great-grandmother (pictured second row, second from left). She met and fell in love with Henry Hebert, scion of one of French Canada's most ancient families, whose roots go to the very foundations of the colony. She was widowed at a fairly young age, and she lived with her parents for the remainder of their lives.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
ANZAC Day
On April 25, 1915, Allied forces landed on the Gallipoli peninsula during an assault on the Ottoman Empire. Both the Turks and the Allies sustained heavy losses, though the Turks were eventually victorious, laying waste to the Allied strategy of quickly overthrowing the Ottoman Empire. The armed forces of Australia and New Zealand (referred to as the ANZACs), fighting with their British brethren, sustained very heavy casualties in the midst of the fighting. The Gallipoli campaign was a defining moment for the young nations, and one that lead to an increased sense of self-direction at the conclusion of the war. Prior to WWI, Australia and New Zealand (and Canada) were still very important parts of the British Empire. The ANZACs answered the call "to defend King and country", though the King and the country were both 11,000 miles away. Thus, seeing all of the sons of Australia and New Zealand being slaughtered by the Turks in a war that had little to do with Australia or New Zealand, shaped public opinion in those countries for years to come.
The commemoration of ANZAC Day is far more somber than our equivalent Veteran's Day, which tends to take on a bit more nationalistic fervor. Since ANZAC Day recalls a defeat - and a gruesome defeat at that - the national observance tends toward more solemnity and reflection on the terrible fruits of war. The song "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda," written by Eric Bogle in 1971, captures well the mood of ANZAC Day and the events it remembers. Here is a version of the song performed by The Dubliners:
The commemoration of ANZAC Day is far more somber than our equivalent Veteran's Day, which tends to take on a bit more nationalistic fervor. Since ANZAC Day recalls a defeat - and a gruesome defeat at that - the national observance tends toward more solemnity and reflection on the terrible fruits of war. The song "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda," written by Eric Bogle in 1971, captures well the mood of ANZAC Day and the events it remembers. Here is a version of the song performed by The Dubliners:
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Of Slovakia
I wrote a lengthy post the other day about some of my French Canadian and English Puritan ancestors and some of the intriguing portions of their lives. In fairness to my father's side of the family, I thought I'd post a little bit about my grandmother's Slovak roots. My grandmother's parents immigrated to these United States from the small village of Jakubany in eastern Slovakia (at that time a part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire). The village itself is nestled in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains in a region historically contested among the Austrian, Prussian, and Russian forces.
Seems like a rather idyllic place to me. We have records of my grandmother's family living in this same village since the late 1600s. An interesting note is that they were all Greek Catholics - Christians whose liturgy reflects Eastern Orthodox traditions but who are in communion with the Pope. The only church in town (pictured above) is Sts. Peter and Paul Slovak Greek Catholic Church.
This is the interior of the church. Note the Eastern influences including the iconostasis (icon screen), and the rich iconography. My grandma's parents left Jakubany in 1913 and moved to Windber, Pennsylvania. My great-grandfather mined coal and my great-grandmother raised twelve children. When my great-grandfather died of the black lung, the family moved to Detroit, where some of the elder sons had already found jobs at Ford. When my grandma married my grandpa, she stopped attending Greek Catholic services in favor of his Roman Rite tradition.
Seems like a rather idyllic place to me. We have records of my grandmother's family living in this same village since the late 1600s. An interesting note is that they were all Greek Catholics - Christians whose liturgy reflects Eastern Orthodox traditions but who are in communion with the Pope. The only church in town (pictured above) is Sts. Peter and Paul Slovak Greek Catholic Church.
This is the interior of the church. Note the Eastern influences including the iconostasis (icon screen), and the rich iconography. My grandma's parents left Jakubany in 1913 and moved to Windber, Pennsylvania. My great-grandfather mined coal and my great-grandmother raised twelve children. When my great-grandfather died of the black lung, the family moved to Detroit, where some of the elder sons had already found jobs at Ford. When my grandma married my grandpa, she stopped attending Greek Catholic services in favor of his Roman Rite tradition.
Tuesday, April 16, 2013
Puritan Connections
Though I am at most a fourth generation American citizen, my family's history on the North American continent goes back much further - some 400 or so years - via the French presence in the province of Quebec. The settlers of Nouvelle France were a "priest-ridden people", which has ensured that copious parish records have survived through the ages. Hence, that portion of my family is rather well documented all the way back to those intrepid souls who left the fishing villages of Normandy in the early 1600s. There is, however, an interesting hiccup in this rather uniform narrative of French ancestry. It turns out I have one or two Puritans lurking in the family tree. The tale of John and Hannah Swarton is the bizarrely intriguing link between Puritan New England and French Montreal.
John Swarton hailed from Jersey, one of the Channel Islands - British territories that lie off the northern coast of France. In the chaos of the English Civil War, King Charles II fled Britain for the continent, perhaps stopping off at Jersey along the way. In any event, John Swarton joined the military forces of Charles II in Flanders (modern day Belgium) and was a part of the army that helped restore Charles to the throne in 1660. The historical record is relatively silent until 1687 when John Swarton was awarded a grant of fifty acres in North Yarmouth in the Massachusetts Bay Colony (North Yarmouth is now a suburb of Portland, Maine).
Swarton had married a certain Hannah Hibbard in Beverly, Massachusetts on January 6, 1671, meaning he must have emigrated from England rather soon after Charles' restoration (most likely during the reign of the Catholic King James II before the Protestant resurgence of power under William and Mary during the Glorious Revolution in 1688). Hannah Hibbard was the daughter of Robert Hibbard, a weaver's apprentice from Salisbury, England, who had settled in Salem, Massachusetts, sometime before 1640. The Hibbards were an interesting family in their own right since they were distantly descended from King Edward I through the Earls of Devon - but that is a story for another time.
John Swarton and Hannah Hibbard were living in North Yarmouth during a tumultuous period of colonial history known as King William's War (the colonial outgrowth of Continental European wars spawned by the Glorious Revolution and the accession of William and Mary to the English throne). The French and their Native American allies were eager to stop English encroachment symbolized by the new settlements around Fort Loyal (the site of modern-day Portland). The French mounted a raid on those settlements in 1689, which was repelled by forces under Major Benjamin Church. The next May, the French returned and captured the settlements and killed many of the settlers - including John Swarton. The rest were taken as prisoners and hauled off to Quebec.
Hannah Swarton was, by all accounts, a very pious Puritan woman. She kept a journal of her captivity that was published in 1697 as an appendix to a book by prominent Puritan minister Cotton Mather entitled "Humiliations Followed With Deliverances". Hannah and her three surviving children, Mary, Samuel, and Jasper, were pressured to convert to Catholicism while captives in Quebec. Hannah Swarton described the ordeal thusly: "The lady, my mistress, the nuns, the priests, the friars and the rest set upon me. . . to perswade me to turn Papist." She remained steadfast and was eventually allowed to return to Massachusetts Bay, though her children did not accompany her.
Her daughter, Mary Swarton, stayed in Quebec and eventually married John Lahaye, an Irishman from Tullow. He was raised Catholic, despite having a Protestant mother, but he later strayed into Puritanism before finally being readmitted to the Catholic Church prior to his marriage:
An interesting anecdote regarding Mr. Lahaye regards him and another English captive attempting to counterfeit money. The charge was sent in a letter to King Louis XIV, who dropped all charges because of the "great service he has already rendered to the colony" and because the bills "were so badly made, no one could've been deceived."
I'm unsure whether this story has a moral or not, but it is always interesting to look back at the unfathomably large tapestry of consequences woven by our actions. We cannot see all the ends of our decisions. If one little circumstance of these events had been slightly different, I would not be here as I am today. A tiny genetic part of me comes from Mary Swarton and John Lahaye. I would not have that part if Yarmouth had never been attacked, or had the Swartons all been killed instead of captured, or had John Swarton never bothered to leave the Isle of Jersey with Charles II. That's the fascinating thing about history and about genealogy in particular - you are looking at the story of yourself.
Source: New England Captives Carried to Canada between 1677-1760 During the French and Indian Wars by Emma Lewis Coleman
John Swarton hailed from Jersey, one of the Channel Islands - British territories that lie off the northern coast of France. In the chaos of the English Civil War, King Charles II fled Britain for the continent, perhaps stopping off at Jersey along the way. In any event, John Swarton joined the military forces of Charles II in Flanders (modern day Belgium) and was a part of the army that helped restore Charles to the throne in 1660. The historical record is relatively silent until 1687 when John Swarton was awarded a grant of fifty acres in North Yarmouth in the Massachusetts Bay Colony (North Yarmouth is now a suburb of Portland, Maine).
Swarton had married a certain Hannah Hibbard in Beverly, Massachusetts on January 6, 1671, meaning he must have emigrated from England rather soon after Charles' restoration (most likely during the reign of the Catholic King James II before the Protestant resurgence of power under William and Mary during the Glorious Revolution in 1688). Hannah Hibbard was the daughter of Robert Hibbard, a weaver's apprentice from Salisbury, England, who had settled in Salem, Massachusetts, sometime before 1640. The Hibbards were an interesting family in their own right since they were distantly descended from King Edward I through the Earls of Devon - but that is a story for another time.
John Swarton and Hannah Hibbard were living in North Yarmouth during a tumultuous period of colonial history known as King William's War (the colonial outgrowth of Continental European wars spawned by the Glorious Revolution and the accession of William and Mary to the English throne). The French and their Native American allies were eager to stop English encroachment symbolized by the new settlements around Fort Loyal (the site of modern-day Portland). The French mounted a raid on those settlements in 1689, which was repelled by forces under Major Benjamin Church. The next May, the French returned and captured the settlements and killed many of the settlers - including John Swarton. The rest were taken as prisoners and hauled off to Quebec.
Hannah Swarton was, by all accounts, a very pious Puritan woman. She kept a journal of her captivity that was published in 1697 as an appendix to a book by prominent Puritan minister Cotton Mather entitled "Humiliations Followed With Deliverances". Hannah and her three surviving children, Mary, Samuel, and Jasper, were pressured to convert to Catholicism while captives in Quebec. Hannah Swarton described the ordeal thusly: "The lady, my mistress, the nuns, the priests, the friars and the rest set upon me. . . to perswade me to turn Papist." She remained steadfast and was eventually allowed to return to Massachusetts Bay, though her children did not accompany her.
Her daughter, Mary Swarton, stayed in Quebec and eventually married John Lahaye, an Irishman from Tullow. He was raised Catholic, despite having a Protestant mother, but he later strayed into Puritanism before finally being readmitted to the Catholic Church prior to his marriage:
"On Monday, 19 March 1696, Jean Lahe born in 1670 at Tollo in Ireland of the marriage of Thomas Lahé, Catholic, and of Catharine Williams, Protestant, and baptized in his country in the Catholic religion & later having professed the Puritan religion until last year, when he was taken in the month of July among the Flemish of Corlar and living now in the service of M. le Ber, Merchant, solemnly made abjuration of heresy [renounced heretical ideas - i.e. Puritanism] into the hands of Mre. Henri Antoine Meriel, Priest of the Seminary of Ville Marie, authorized to receive it by M. François Dolie priest, Grand Vicaire etc. And this in the presence of M. Yves Priat, priest of said Seminary of Ville Marie [Montreal] and of several others." (Signed by all herein named.)The pair were married in Montreal on the 9th of Septermber, 1697, and eventually had eleven children (two of which I directly descend from - yes, that means that distant cousins married at some point along the way - it happens).
An interesting anecdote regarding Mr. Lahaye regards him and another English captive attempting to counterfeit money. The charge was sent in a letter to King Louis XIV, who dropped all charges because of the "great service he has already rendered to the colony" and because the bills "were so badly made, no one could've been deceived."
* * *
I'm unsure whether this story has a moral or not, but it is always interesting to look back at the unfathomably large tapestry of consequences woven by our actions. We cannot see all the ends of our decisions. If one little circumstance of these events had been slightly different, I would not be here as I am today. A tiny genetic part of me comes from Mary Swarton and John Lahaye. I would not have that part if Yarmouth had never been attacked, or had the Swartons all been killed instead of captured, or had John Swarton never bothered to leave the Isle of Jersey with Charles II. That's the fascinating thing about history and about genealogy in particular - you are looking at the story of yourself.
Source: New England Captives Carried to Canada between 1677-1760 During the French and Indian Wars by Emma Lewis Coleman
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Vatican II, 50 years on
Now, 50 years and several generations removed, we have an opportunity to look back on the documents and the history of Vatican II in the life of the Church. Much ink has been used by people much more intelligent than I in either defending or lambasting the Council and its aftermath. Everyone has an opinion on it. It went too far and changed too much or It stopped short of what should've happened. I think the great benefit of those in my generation is that we are emotionally disinterested in the Council. It happened during the time of my grandparents, and its changes (both approved and non-approved) took place over the course of my parents' childhood and adolescence. I have only known a post-Vatican II world and post-Vatican II popes. This has shaped my views, obviously.
I am of the opinion that the Council itself was a rather neutral affair. It was perhaps the last great adjustment of the Church to the Industrial Revolution and its accompanying philosophies. Yet, the Council did not spring fully formed from the head of John XXIII. The priests and bishops who became the movers and shakers at the Council went through formation in a per-Conciliar world. The roots of Vatican II lie in that world. They lie firstly in the Council of Trent - the first evangelistic council, since it sought ways to effectively distinguish Catholicism from Protestantism and ways to bring Protestants back to the Church. This Counter-Reformation institutional mentality persisted in the Church throughout the latter half of the second millennium until the pontificate of Leo XIII, the first major reforming pope in many centuries. It was Leo XIII's exposition of Catholic social teaching and the rights of laborers - inspired by the industrializing labor markets in Europe and the US - that became the theological genesis of much of what would be discussed during the Council.
Throughout the first half of the 20th Century, the Church was changing continuously - though incrementally - from papacy to papacy. Pius X introduced several liturgical reforms, as did Pius XII. This history is often lost on those who see Vatican II as a new beginning of the Church, rather than as an organic continuation of the eternal faith. Alternatively, there are those who cling to the pre-Vatican II Church as some sort of golden age, which is also easily disproved. Alas, the truth of matters is always more complicated than the polemics.
Again, I take a rather dispassionate view of the Council itself, though I do think it prepared the Church to deal with the modern world in a rather roundabout way that I don't think has truly matured yet. At the heart of the Council, and all of its documents, is a desire for ordinary Catholics to strive toward holiness (often termed the universal call to holiness). This, to me, is the greatest fruit of the Council. It seems to me that the Faith in pre-Conciliar days had become a bit static and mechanical. Holiness was seen as something priests and nuns did, not as something that everyone should strive toward. Even Sunday mass was dealt with in an almost factory-like way of one after another - sometimes as short as 20 minutes! For me, the call to the average Catholic in the pews to wake up and smell the Spirit is the most important effect that Vatican II brought about. It reminded us that our faith is not rooted in the grand institutions of the Counter-Reformation, but rather in our personal and communal relationship with God himself, in the person of Jesus Christ.
As with any momentous event, it will take more time for Vatican II to work itself into the lifeblood of the Church. I need not list the myriad of unintended and unfortunate consequences it triggered in the liturgy and other areas in the life of the Church. But, people are aware and are working to correct some of these unintended consequences. The gradual reintroduction of some of the traditional elements of Catholicism that were obscured by the razzle-dazzle of post-Vatican II excitement is a laudable trend that I foresee continuing. Pope John Paul II and especially Pope Benedict XVI have provided us with ways to integrate the unchanging doctrines of the Church into our modern lives through our relationship with Jesus.
The last 50 years have been an interesting ride, but that is to be expected because we are sinful people. As time goes on and the dust settles, I think we will begin to see Vatican II for what it was - an attempt to renew the soul of the Church in a way that does not discard the beauty and history of the Church. Like I said, we have a ways to go, but it's a path worth traveling.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Liverpudlian Lutyens
In my estimation, one of the great tangential tragedies of the Second World War and the Great Depression it followed, was the end it put to good traditional design projects. Funds for projects became scarcer during the economic downturn, and after the European modernist architects had been dispersed in the postwar era, many noble project were simply discarded in favor of cheaper, more industrial, more modern, designs. The most monumental victim to this trend was Sir Edwin Lutyens' design for the Catholic cathedral of Liverpool.
Plans for a Cathedral in Liverpool date to the mid-nineteenth century, when the Catholic population swelled due to the Great Potato Famine in Ireland. Edward Welby Pugin, son of the preeminent Gothicist A.W.N. Pugin, was called on to design the structure. He finished only the Lady Chapel, which now serves as a parish church in its own right. Pugin's design was predictably Gothic, and would have more or less matched the style of the Anglican cathedral, which is quite fine in its own right.
As a visual aside, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, the Scottish master of the Arts and Crafts Movement, submitted his own design to the Anglican design competition, which is not without its merits. It has a muscular, sculpted quality about it that one can find echoes of in the architecture of Bertram Goodhue in early Twentieth-Century America.
I digress. Back to Lutyens. Lutyens was commissioned in 1930 to design the Catholic cathedral on a site not more than a half mile from the then newly-constructed Neo-Gothic Anglican cathedral by Giles Gilbert Scott (shown in the first image). Lutyen's proposal was a massive, vaguely Byzantine structure that would have been the second-largest church in the world. The dome would've been the world's largest, outdoing St. Peter's by some thirty feet. Below are two images showing the proposed cathedral in its urban setting. In the first, you can clearly see the architectural challenge it would have been to Scott's Gothic Anglican cathedral.
Thankfully, Lutyens' original scale model, in wood, survived the War and is preserved to this day. The model more clearly shows the immense proportions of his grand design.
Impressive, no? Lutyens, in the tradition of the great cathedral-builders of old, most likely believed that this project would outlive him for several hundred years. Though it is very unlikely to be built as planned, the sheer grandeur and subtle artistry involved in such a mature design are likely to continue to inspire architects. I think the real power in Lutyens' design was his ability to be grand without being gaudy. There is a control and restraint in the design that I think is admirable.
Lest we end this post on a high note, we must continue with the telling of the story. Lutyens' design was scrapped after the war due to its astronomical costs (estimates of what it would take to build such a structure today typically run into the £990,000,000 range), and a third design competition was held. The winning built design for the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King is shown below.
I can hear the Anglicans laughing from here.
Plans for a Cathedral in Liverpool date to the mid-nineteenth century, when the Catholic population swelled due to the Great Potato Famine in Ireland. Edward Welby Pugin, son of the preeminent Gothicist A.W.N. Pugin, was called on to design the structure. He finished only the Lady Chapel, which now serves as a parish church in its own right. Pugin's design was predictably Gothic, and would have more or less matched the style of the Anglican cathedral, which is quite fine in its own right.
As a visual aside, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, the Scottish master of the Arts and Crafts Movement, submitted his own design to the Anglican design competition, which is not without its merits. It has a muscular, sculpted quality about it that one can find echoes of in the architecture of Bertram Goodhue in early Twentieth-Century America.
I digress. Back to Lutyens. Lutyens was commissioned in 1930 to design the Catholic cathedral on a site not more than a half mile from the then newly-constructed Neo-Gothic Anglican cathedral by Giles Gilbert Scott (shown in the first image). Lutyen's proposal was a massive, vaguely Byzantine structure that would have been the second-largest church in the world. The dome would've been the world's largest, outdoing St. Peter's by some thirty feet. Below are two images showing the proposed cathedral in its urban setting. In the first, you can clearly see the architectural challenge it would have been to Scott's Gothic Anglican cathedral.
Thankfully, Lutyens' original scale model, in wood, survived the War and is preserved to this day. The model more clearly shows the immense proportions of his grand design.
Impressive, no? Lutyens, in the tradition of the great cathedral-builders of old, most likely believed that this project would outlive him for several hundred years. Though it is very unlikely to be built as planned, the sheer grandeur and subtle artistry involved in such a mature design are likely to continue to inspire architects. I think the real power in Lutyens' design was his ability to be grand without being gaudy. There is a control and restraint in the design that I think is admirable.
Lest we end this post on a high note, we must continue with the telling of the story. Lutyens' design was scrapped after the war due to its astronomical costs (estimates of what it would take to build such a structure today typically run into the £990,000,000 range), and a third design competition was held. The winning built design for the Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King is shown below.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Treasures from the past
Last Saturday was my sister's graduation party, which had the rather obvious effect of bringing together both family and friends from the far corners of the earth. My aunt and uncle, who are currently in the midst of a move from Indiana to Florida, discovered an old trunk of my grandpa's that they had forgotten about in their spare room. Since their new space in Florida will be rather more constrained, they were kind enough to leave it in our possession.
And what a treasure it is! It is chock full of memories from a time that my grandma never talks about and that my dad knows very little about. It's all quite fascinating. There are two albums full of old photos of my grandpa in his youth. One of them is an entire scrapbook of his tour of duty during the Korean War. The photo below shows my great-grandmother and her seven children. My grandpa is the one seated on the car.
Most intriguing to me were the objects of religious significance. There was a stack of funeral prayer cards about four inches thick. They were interesting because of the genealogical information many of them provided, and because of the religious artwork portrayed (since my grandma's family were Greek Catholic). There was even a prayer card for John F. Kennedy included in the collection.
I also discovered three prayer books. One was my grandpa's Sunday Missal from his youth (presumably from his First Communion). Another was a similar Missal from when my grandparents got married. The third, and most interesting find, was a prayer book from my grandma's First Communion, which was written in both English and Old Church Slavonic. It was enlightening to read through some of the liturgy and prayers of the Eastern Churches.
This trunk of things will be a treasure for the family for many years.
And what a treasure it is! It is chock full of memories from a time that my grandma never talks about and that my dad knows very little about. It's all quite fascinating. There are two albums full of old photos of my grandpa in his youth. One of them is an entire scrapbook of his tour of duty during the Korean War. The photo below shows my great-grandmother and her seven children. My grandpa is the one seated on the car.
Most intriguing to me were the objects of religious significance. There was a stack of funeral prayer cards about four inches thick. They were interesting because of the genealogical information many of them provided, and because of the religious artwork portrayed (since my grandma's family were Greek Catholic). There was even a prayer card for John F. Kennedy included in the collection.
I also discovered three prayer books. One was my grandpa's Sunday Missal from his youth (presumably from his First Communion). Another was a similar Missal from when my grandparents got married. The third, and most interesting find, was a prayer book from my grandma's First Communion, which was written in both English and Old Church Slavonic. It was enlightening to read through some of the liturgy and prayers of the Eastern Churches.
This trunk of things will be a treasure for the family for many years.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Bauakademie by Schinkel
Karl Friedrich Schinkel was the chief proponents of the Neoclassical style in Germany. His most active period of designing was during between the 1810s and the 1820s, when he oversaw the transformation of Berlin into the showplace of the Kingdom of Prussia. In the latter half of his career, Schinkel would turn from the Neoclassical to a stripped-down version of the Gothic (as can be seen in his design for the Friedrichswerder Church). Another landmark commission of this later era was the Bauakademie in Berlin, a building for an architectural and technical school. It is a building that I rather enjoy. It has the simplicity and harmony of the modernism that would eventually be perfected in Germany, while still employing traditional construction materials and decorative elements. Sadly, the building was demolished in 1962. Plans to rebuild are currently under study.
Monday, November 14, 2011
A Bit of Heraldry
One of the lesser things lost with the abolition of the Austro-Hungarian Empire in 1918 was its spectacular heritage of heraldry. Very few current monarchies (excepting the United Kingdom) have any such heraldry worth boasting about. For those unaware of the subject, a cursory introduction is in order. Heraldry is the art pertaining to a person's coat of arms. Now, the coat-of-arms originated in Medieval Europe, when knights would cover their armor with cloth of a particular pattern and/or color (hence, the arms or armor, was being coated). This practice allowed the knights to be easily identified upon the battlefield. Eventually, arms became hereditary and a complex array of rules were drawn up to govern the awarding of arms to a person of a subsequent generation. A highly intricate system of symbols and colors also developed, often pertaining to a person's geographical origins or personality traits (a fleur-de-lys for France, or a dog for loyalty, for example).
In the arms of Austria-Hungary as they were immediately prior to its dismemberment by the Allies, we see a pictoral microcosm of the empire and of the ruling house of Habsburg. To the left, we see the arms of Austrian portion of the empire, with the black double-headed eagle supporting the minor arms of the constituent Austrian regions. On the right are the arms of the Kingdom of Hungary, surmounted by the sacred crown of St. Stephen with its characteristic bent cross. In the center are the arms of the house of Habsburg, whose members were of course both Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary simultaneously. Thus, by looking at the entire composition, we can visually understand the government of the realm. We can add a layer of insight by translating the motto "Indivisibiliter ac Inseparabiliter" which means "Indivisible and Inseparable" which underscores the union of the disparate ethnicities under a single monarch.
It is somewhat of a tragedy that such emblems have, by and large, ceased to exist. We have become an extremely literal and word-oriented culture, and the ancient language of symbols is largely foreign to the modern mind.
In the arms of Austria-Hungary as they were immediately prior to its dismemberment by the Allies, we see a pictoral microcosm of the empire and of the ruling house of Habsburg. To the left, we see the arms of Austrian portion of the empire, with the black double-headed eagle supporting the minor arms of the constituent Austrian regions. On the right are the arms of the Kingdom of Hungary, surmounted by the sacred crown of St. Stephen with its characteristic bent cross. In the center are the arms of the house of Habsburg, whose members were of course both Emperor of Austria and King of Hungary simultaneously. Thus, by looking at the entire composition, we can visually understand the government of the realm. We can add a layer of insight by translating the motto "Indivisibiliter ac Inseparabiliter" which means "Indivisible and Inseparable" which underscores the union of the disparate ethnicities under a single monarch.
It is somewhat of a tragedy that such emblems have, by and large, ceased to exist. We have become an extremely literal and word-oriented culture, and the ancient language of symbols is largely foreign to the modern mind.
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