The Edge of Anarchy by Jack Kelly, St Martin’s Press 2019.
When George Pullman, creator of the Pullman Porter Railway Car died in 1897, his family, worried that his enemies might do the body some mischief, had him buried under an elaborate monument involving several tons of steel and concrete. Ambrose Bierce, always ready with a verbal stiletto, suggested that “It is clear the family in their bereavement was making sure the sonofabitch wasn’t going to get up and come back.”
What did the man have to do to warrant that level of hate?
Money, of course. Money and power. This was the gilded age, large fortunes made and a reasonable balance of power between capital and labor was still being worked out.
Dr. John Gamgee was born in Florence Italy in 1831, the son of a Scottish veterinarian who wanted his children to have a broad education. John eventually graduated from the Royal Veterinary College in London. He thrived in that field. In 1858, he founded the New Veterinary School in Edinburgh in 1858, and later the Edinburgh Veterinary Review. In 1863, he organized the first International Veterinary Congress in Hamburg Germany.
So far, so dull, unless you are interested in Victorian academic politics. A few years later, the United States government invited him to consult on the matter of lung plague and cattle fever in Texas. He lectured widely in America, promoting his novel view on the pathogenic theory of medicine. That is, that disease was transmitted by microorganisms. It was a theory for which claim he was widely ridiculed.
His so-called “rollerskate” was less controversial, but it was his explorations into the mechanics of refrigeration more that makes him interesting to the general reader. Continue reading →
Back in the day, the day being any time between, say, 1520 and 1600, the way to the heart of the Turkish sultans was through clockwork. Makes sense. When you have the wealth of the world at your disposal, you want the unusual and the unique. Toys, essentially, the fiddly wind-up spring machine types that whirred and turned and chimed and bonged. Fortunately for Europe, there were men who excelled in this kind of trivia.
As with anything that is not a mere commodity, the novelty value had to gear up over time. A simple one handed pocket watch becomes a bore, and so further complications – second hands, moon phases, twittery birds – have to be grafted onto the basic work. By the turn of the seventeenth century, it would take something very complicated indeed to turn the head of a jaded potentate. And as at that time, Britain, not yet fully engaged with its eventual empire, was still wooing the sultans in hopes of profitable trade arrangements for the Levant Company, the gift had to be spectacular indeed.
Long boots and half boots, Hessians, Hussar, top boots, and for the ladies, low cut shoes or pumps – if you wanted them in the age of Hornblower, you went to the corner of Piccadilly and St James’s Street and the establishment of George Hoby, boot maker to George III. The king was not alone. The Iron Duke thought so much of the man that he worked with the bookmaker to modify a Hessian boot a bit higher up than was standard, and so created the Wellington.
Which gave him particular interest in the battles the Iron Duke was waging in Spain. He was fitting the Duke of Kent when news of the victory at Vittoria came in. “If Lord Wellington had had any other bootmaker than myself, he never would have had his great and constant successes; for my boots and prayers bring his lordship out of all his difficulties.” Continue reading →
Mrs. Crosby writes: “I am sure it was in exchanging modern ideas over the after luncheon coffee cups that they together with Miss Loundes and Miss Lewis (both as British as buns) brewed the scheme for instigation of a Girls Scout movement right there at Rosemary.”
Polly was chosen as the first initiate, and got the name Policumteenawa, signifying Little-Possum-By-the-Fire, or some such.
Treason doth never prosper. What’s the reason? If treason prosper, none dare call it treason
Old joke, and a good one. The other night we were trying to remember whose it was. Too light hearted for Milton. Too old timey for Dr. Johnson. Not quite good enough for Shakespeare, but about that period.
It was John Harrington.
He was one of your basic old Etonians who went on to Cambridge. He was also the godson of Elizabeth I, which connection helped him get a minor place at court. He was witty, or close enough for courtly work. Seemed to have a taste for dirty jokes. They must have been utterly filthy – the story is they got him exiled to Kelston, near Bath.* Well, the jokes, and the stuff insulting the government in general Continue reading →
The one difficulty in Brideshead Revisited (okay, there are a lot of difficulties in Brideshead Revisited, but I’m only interested in one of them) is the question Sebastian Flyte’s charm.
We are assured that he has it, repeatedly, but somehow it never quite gets off the page. Now Waugh is some kind of writerly genius, and Sebastian is based on the real thing, but in this exercise, the author is coming up against a writing challenge even harder than describing sex without sounding absurd. Charm, like certain jokes, is evanescent.
As with Sebastian, so with Alfred. That he had charm and by the bucket-load is widely attested, and his CV ticks all the boxes for any romance writer’s dashing leading man. His father, a general for Bonaparte,* was considered the best looking man in the army and a dab hand at warfare. While the general was off expanding and defending the empire, Alfred was raised by his maternal grandmother, another good looking and elegant wit, Anne Franchi, aka Madame Craufurd, mistress of Duke of Wurtemberg among others. (Of her it is written “there is considerable mystery about this good lady’s career”. But I digress.) Continue reading →
The recent death of Ewald von Kleist, last of the July 20 conspirators, who but for bad scheduling would have assassinated Adolf Hitler in the spring of 1944, set me to wonder about the rest of the family.
There are the usual suspects, a long line of more or less prominent military men, the writer Bernd Heinrich Wilhelm von Kleist (who started out as a solider), minor professionals who left no particular marks behind them. And then there was Ewald Georg, jurist and cleric and Bishop of Pomerania. Continue reading →
I came across a review of RupertThomson’s novel Secrecy, which sounds like one for the to read list. What struck me was the protagonist Zummo, aka Zumbo.*
He was an historical personage, as it happens, born in Sicily, possibly to impoverished aristocrats, certainly in reduced circumstances, and was initially schooled to be a cleric. The records give him the title of Abate. Somehow his talents in the plastic arts emerged (he was self taught) and it was clear that this was a man destined for something other than performing Mass and taking confessions.
Perhaps because he was self taught, his first public appearance as an artist comes relatively late in life, in the 1680s, in Bologna. The work was good enough to encourage to try for Florence, where in 1695 Grand Duke Cosimo III put him on the payroll. Continue reading →
Read at any length about the Vietnam war and you will come across accounts of American GIs ditching their M-16 rifles in favor of Kalashnikovs, a weapon better suited to abuse and jungle life. It’s not the first nor probably the last time this sort of thing has happened. Back in World War One, there was a similar problem with the Mark III Ross rifle, the brain child of Sir Charles Henry Augustus Frederick Lockhart Ross.
Ross was born at Balnagown, Scotland, one of those Downton Abbey type estates, encompassing 350,000 (eventually 366,000) acres and 3,000 tenants. He inherited the Baronetcy at age eleven, making the lucky pre-teen the largest landowner in Scotland. Continue reading →