15 April 2015

Without God and the Bible Part Four: The Lawyer

s you may recall, I’ve been reviewing the steps in the textual transmission of a bizarre fake George Washington quotation. It has led us from a step in an argument attempting to demonstrate the existence of a supreme being assigned to Washington by a playwright (It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being) to its simplification while making it apply to human governance by a preacher (It is impossible to govern the universe without God), and to a further tweak putting it firmly in the realm of terrestrial affairs by a politician (It is impossible to govern the world without God). Our next (and final) stop in this little road show leads us to the lawyer—Howard Hyde Russell.
Born in 1855, the son of a Protestant Episcopal clergyman, Howard Hyde Russell grew up to become in turn a clerk, a cattle-herder, a newspaper editor, and a lawyer, before finally giving in and following in his father’s footsteps. Although his law-practice is said to have been lucrative, he gave it up in 1883 to study theology, and in 1885 he became a Congregational minister. In taking this course he may have been influenced by his wife Lillian (they married in 1880) who was obsessed with religion.
Merely being an ordinary minister wasn’t enough for him; in 1888 he turned to the “temperance” movement as an outlet for his energies. In 1893 he helped establish the Ohio Anti-Saloon League, of which he was named the first state superintendent. Two years later he took part in founding the American Anti-Saloon League and was named the first national superintendent. He lived long enough to see both the birth and death of Prohibition in the United States, eventually dying in 1946 at the age of ninety.
For our purposes the main thing he accomplished in his life was writing one book: A Lawyer’s Examination of the Bible, a work of recycled Christian apologetics that wrapped up the arguments (along with the outmoded scholarship) of the likes of Paley and McIlvaine into a colorful package to put under the tree of a new generation. The volume came out in 1893, the same year that saw him turn his interests to the anti-alcohol movement.
This slick repackaging of tired apologetics is couched in the conceit of a trial:
We will place the gospel of Christ on trial and by aid of the clearest reason we possess, and under the careful scrutiny of legal rules and precedents, we will test and weigh for ourselves the evidences which prove Christianity to be the God-given religion for mankind. [p. 16]
So the case of Christianity vs. Infidelity is presented, with the readers as the jury. Russell at the outset however restricts his jury to believers. “Christ discriminated—as should we—between doubt and unbelief. Doubt is ‘Can't believe’—unbelief is ‘Won’t believe.’ Doubt is honest, unbelief is obstinate. Doubt looks for light, unbelief is content with darkness.” In other words, believers who have doubts are welcome; unbelievers are not. Human reason is not welcome either: “pride in the powers of human reason, is often the source of prejudice against the Christian Religion [sic].”
Russell tells the following anecdote:
They have a court tradition in an Iowa County, how upon the trial of an important case, after the counsel for the prosecution had ended his argument and before the defendant's counsel began to speak, one of the jurors ran out of the Court-room into the jury-room. When the Court asked an explanation of his conduct he said, “I have got my mind made up now, and I don’t want to have it disturbed.” There is many an error of law and fact, in court and out of court, because the opinion had been formed before the facts had been heard.
In view of Russell’s extremely one-sided presentation of what he likes to think of as evidence this is, shall we say, humorous. There is no question of anything in his book disturbing the minds of his reader-jurors. Here, for example, is his treatment of Thomas Huxley, called on page 44 as a witness for Infidelity: “What then do we know about the originator or originators of the gospel? absolutely nothing. * * * * I repeat without the slightest fear of refutation that the four gospels, as they have come to us are the work of unknown writers.” “In this matter as in many others, infidelity merely enters its denial,” Russell claims. “But denial is not disproof. The objection of infidelity must according to law be overruled.”
Okay, not so fast. This may fly in Russell’s kangaroo court, but we’re in a higher court now, the Court of History, and we’d like to hear what Huxley had to say for ourselves. And the result turns out badly for Russell—because Huxley didn’t actually write what Russell claims. To say that Russell misrepresents Huxley would be an understatement. Russell flatly lies about what Huxley is saying. He did so under necessity—if he had allowed Huxley to testify freely it would have been fatal to his case.
As is often the case, context means everything. Now the context of Huxley’s remarks was an ongoing (let us say) discussion between him and Henry Wace, author of the still-useful Dictionary of Christian Biography and Literature, concerning the true meaning of the word agnosticism. Like certain present-day atheists (though for different reasons) Wace was determined to bulldoze the distinction between disbelief and unbelief, insisting that agnosticism was merely a weak synonym for infidelity. Huxley, who after all had coined the word, wrote to set him straight. (And honestly the article is not one of Wace’s shining moments.) This back-and-forth extended over several articles and was joined by others, the whole thing being eventually archived for posterity (that’s us) in a volume entitled Christianity and Agnosticism: A Controversy (New York, 1889).
In discussing the plausibility of the story of the Gadarene swine Huxley observed that the episode belongs to the “groundwork” of the first three gospels, rather than the “superstructure.” This refers to the contemporary status of the synoptic problem—the issue of the relationships among the gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke. It is self-evident that the three share a common textual ancestor; comparison allows extraction of the parts where the three run together. This triple tradition, or “groundwork” as Huxley calls it, may be assumed to be a source. (The consensus of opinion today is that the common source and canonical Mark are in fact identical; in other words that Mark is Matthew’s and Luke’s source. But B. H. Streeter et al had yet to come along, and this is where matters lay then.) It is in this context that Huxley observes:
What then, do we know about the originator, or originators, of this groundwork—of that threefold edition which all three witnesses (in Paley's phrase) agree upon—that we should allow their mere statements to outweigh the counter-arguments of humanity, of common sense, of exact science, and to imperil the respect which all would be glad to be able to render their Master? ¶ Absolutely nothing. There is no proof, nothing more than a fair presumption, that any one of the Gospels existed, in the state in which we find it in the authorized version of the Bible, before the second century, or, in other words, sixty or seventy years after the events recorded. And, between that time and the date of the oldest extant manuscripts of the Gospels, there is no telling what additions and alterations and interpolations may have been made.
Huxley’s point here was that we know alterations were made to the gospels during the time when manuscript evidence is available—the additions of an ending to Mark and of the story of the woman taken in adultery to John are the most noteworthy (though far from the only) examples—and that we have no way of knowing what alterations may have been made earlier. He argued this point at the necessary length, presenting the necessary evidence—which means that Russell was twice wrong here—Huxley wasn’t saying what Russell claimed, nor did he merely enter a denial sans evidence. “Judge” Howard Hyde Russell is, to use a technical term, full of shit.
And further, Russell deliberately falsified the quotation, substituting the words “the gospel” for Huxley’s “this groundwork.” He further tacked on a footnote from the same page that actually was (at least indirectly) about the authorship of the gospels, but was a side-note for Huxley. To back up a little Huxley had made an observation in an earlier piece (“Science and the Bishops,” The Nineteenth Century, November 1887, p. 632) about alleged miracles like withering a fig tree or cursing pigs with demonic possession “Whether such events are possible or impossible, no man can say; but scientific ethics can and does declare that the profession of belief in them, on the evidence of documents of unknown date and of unknown authorship, is immoral.” An anonymous author in The Quarterly Review (“Robert Elsmere and Christianity,” October 1888, pp. 288-290) took issue with Huxley, claiming that “the case against the authenticity of the New Testament books has in the main completely broken down.” He says that even Ernest Renan (who had written a skeptical life of Jesus decades before this) had admitted as much, though in fact Renan explained the similarities of the synoptic gospels in part by assuming that subsequent scribes had attempted to make them more complete by borrowing from each other. Huxley replied to this in a footnote repeating that the gospels “as they have come to us” are the work of unknown writers—that is, that whoever may have written the hypothetical original works, our present documents had been altered in unknown and unknowable ways.
Russell’s reply is lame but predictable. It’s the old appeal to tradition bit. Christians have always believed in the “authenticity” of the gospels in an unbroken tradition going back practically to the beginning, therefore they are “authentic.” QED. Russell traces the tradition back all the way to Hermas and Barnabas, companions of the apostles. Too bad he apparently hadn’t bothered to consult Joseph Lightfoot’s relatively recent edition of the Apostolic Fathers. He would have learned that nobody still suffered from the illusion that the Shepherd of Hermas or the Epistle of Barnabas were actually written by the Hermas mentioned in Romans or the Barnabas who figures in Acts.
So what have we learned from this side-excursion? Well, we’ve picked up at least two valuable things about Howard Hyde Russell. His scholarship was wretched and he was entirely capable of altering a quotation to serve his ends. With these things in mind we are now ready to examine his (alleged) George Washington quotation.
Washington is dragooned into being a witness for the plaintiff concerning the “authenticity of the testimony” on p. 40, along with a number of other U. S. presidents and an incongruous Queen Victoria. Thus Andrew Jackson is made to testify “That book, sir, is the rock on which our republic rests,” as he had in the account in Morris’s book. And Martin Van Buren likewise is made to say as he had in Wilson’s pamphlet “The atonement of Christ is the only remedy and rest for the soul.” Russell, unlike Wilson, obviously did not rely on a single source for the bulk of his quotations.
So what about the Washington quotation? What he received was the saying as Henry Wilson had left it: “It is impossible to govern the world without God.” But in that form it didn’t really serve its purpose. This is unsurprising; it originally meant that a divine force was needed to keep the world running, not that God had to be a copilot at the world’s helm. That was easily fixed; the infinitive “to govern” could be neatly split with an adroit “rightly” and all was well with the world. A greater difficulty was the fact that Russell’s book was about the Bible, and this saying made no mention of it. The addition of three small words—“and the Bible”—took care of that problem, and voila! the saying as we know it at last achieved its canonical form.
Now of course it’s always possible that Russell was not the person responsible for this bit of tinkering, that he found it ready-made in some second-hand repository, but there is no necessity for assuming that—at least, on the available evidence. Occam’s razor and all that. Russell had the motive, the means, and the opportunity to commit this bit of forgery, and as we saw from his alteration of the Huxley quotation, his ethics did not bar him from falsifying evidence if it served his ends.
So this reasonably brings to an end the story of this fake quotation. A playwright first gave it to us in the form It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a supreme being—this as part of an argument for the existence of God; a preacher simplified it to It is impossible to govern the universe without God and applied it to temporal affairs; a politician cemented that interpretation by changing the word universe to world; and a lawyer gave it a final twist by adding rightly and and the Bible, to create the ultimate version:
It is impossible to rightly govern the world without God and the Bible.
I’ll have a few final observations tomorrow.

Sources and further information:
James Terry White (ed.), “Russell, Howard Hyde,” The National Cyclopedia of American Biography (J.T. White, 1906), vol. 13, p. 330
John William Leonard et al (eds.), “Howard Hyde Russell,” Who's who in New York City and State, Issue 3 (L.R. Hamersly Company, 1907), p. 1136
“Howard Hyde Russell,” Ohio: A Four-Volume Reference Library on the History of a Great State (Chicago: Lewis Pub. Co., 1937), vol. 4, pp. 391-393
Howard Hyde Russell,” Anti-Saloon League Museum website, Westerville Library
Howard Hyde Russell, A Lawyer’s Examination of the Bible (Fleming H. Revell, 1893)
Edwin A. Abbott, “Gospels,” Encyclopaedia Britannica, ninth edition, vol. 10, pp. 789-854 [useful for the state of the synoptic problem at the end of the nineteenth century]
Henry Wace, Thomas Henry Huxley et al., Christianity and Agnosticism: A Controversy (D. Appleton, 1889)

14 April 2015

Without God and the Bible Part 3: The Politician

ynopsis: In our previous episodes we’ve seen how a playwright cooked up a proposition (It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being) as part of an argument for the existence of God and assigned it to Washington in a book intended for the instruction of children. This proposition was then chiseled from its context and simplified by a preacher (It is impossible to govern the universe without God) more interested in human government than in cosmological questions. There are two more men who will hack away at this bit of pyrite—a politician and a lawyer. Today’s installment will look at the (small) contribution of the politician—Henry Wilson.
Now I don’t want to make assumptions about the knowledge (or lack thereof) of my readers, but I’m betting you have no idea who Henry Wilson was. Even assuming that you live in the United States and were afflicted by what passes for American history in most schools, he wasn’t exactly a household name. And yet during the Grant administration he was a heartbeat away (as they say) from the presidency. Even his being one of the handful of vice-presidents (like George Clinton and James Sherman) who died in office doesn’t exactly make him stand out.
And yet … and yet … this guy was an important figure in his time. Practically an embodiment of the Horatio Alger rags-to-riches-by-his-own-bootstraps fantasy that left behind a trail of broken people in the wreckage of their broken dreams, Henry Wilson—originally named Jeremiah Jones Colbath—was born into the sort of bleak poverty that dehumanizes the best of us. He educated himself by omnivorous reading while indentured to a neighboring farmer who could never spare him for school attendance, rose to be a major figure in the Senate, and might well have made it to the presidency had things gone a bit differently.
A man of his time—and in some ways a man out of his time. At a time when women were somewhere between property and second-class citizens he went so far as to introduce a bill that would allow them to vote. Even though not (apparently) convinced that the descendants of Africans brought to America as enslaved laborers were intrinsically on a par with the descendants of Europeans he nonetheless believed that all should be treated equally under the law. He helped repeal laws that prohibited interracial marriage and kept black kids from attending public schools. Much of his political career was devoted to preventing the expansion of slavery at all costs.
Wilson looked at slavery as America’s original sin whose taint brought on the cataclysm that was the Civil War. In his three-volume History of the Rise and Fall of the Slave Power in America (yes, Wilson—despite his lack of formal education—was an historian), he wrote
In the lights of the present, it is now more clearly seen that the dark spirit of slavery was the inspiration of these crimes against the peace, the unity, and the life of the nation, and that these sacrifices of property, of health, and of life were the inflictions of the Slave Power in its maddened efforts to make perpetual its hateful dominion. These bitter fruits of the seeds sown in colonial times afford another signal illustration of the truth of the inspired declaration that “righteousness exalteth a nation, and sin is a reproach to any people.” [I, v]
He wrote with a kind of controlled fury about an institution he obviously loathed. “God’s Holy Word declares that man was doomed to eat his bread in the sweat of his face. History and tradition teach that the indolent, the crafty, and the strong, unmindful of human rights, have ever sought to evade this Divine decree by filching their bread from the constrained and unpaid toil of others.” Knowing abject poverty first-hand himself he had absolute contempt for “caste and privilege, those deadly foes of the rights and well-being of mankind, which can exist only by despoiling the many for the benefit of the few.” The American system of slavery “reduced man, created in the Divine image, to property. It converted a being endowed with conscience, reason, affections, sympathies, and hopes, into a chattel. It sunk a free moral agent, with rational attributes and immortal aspirations, to merchandise.” It was a “system antagonistic to the doctrines of reason and the monitions of conscience, and developed and gratified the most intense spirit of personal pride, a love of class distinctions, and the lust of dominion.” He contrasted the arrival of a Dutch ship in James River in August 1619 “with its ill-starred burden of wretchedness and woe” with that of the Mayflower “with its freight of learning and Christian civilization”. Here were “the seeds of a system destined, after a struggle of two hundred and forty years for development, expansion, and dominion, to light the fires of civil war, and perish in the flames its own hand had kindled.”
He traced the rise and fall of the Slave Power (as he termed it) through two volumes and died while working on the third. The first volume ended with the admission of Texas as a slave state, and the second with the election of Abraham Lincoln as president. The third volume, issued posthumously, covered the Civil War and its immediate aftermath.
The annihilation of slavery became the reason for his political existence.
I saw slavery beneath the shadow of the flag that waved over the Capitol. I saw the slave-pen, and men, women, and children herded for the markets of the far South; and at the table at which sat Senator Morris of Ohio, then the only avowed champion of freedom in the Senate of the United States, I expressed my abhorrence of slavery and the slave-traffic in the capital of this democratic and Christian republic. I was promptly told that ‘Senator Morris might be protected in speaking against slavery in the Senate; but that I would not be protected in uttering such sentiments.’ I left the capital of my country with the unalterable resolution to give all that I had, and all that I hoped to have, of power, to the cause of emancipation in America; and I have tried to make that resolution a living faith from that day to this [applause].
The “Senator Morris” mentioned here was, by the way, not only an implacable opponent of slavery, but also the father of the B. F. Morris who was the subject of the previous piece in this series.
The two men, B. F. Morris (1810-1867) and Henry Wilson (1812-1875), were contemporaries, both involved in the anti-slavery movement, and for all I know may well have known one another. (I have no evidence of that, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.) They are connected here through an action taken by Wilson on 23 December 1866. On that date he lectured the Natick YMCA on the subject of “The Testimonies of American Statesmen and Jurists to the Truths of Christianity.” We live in a “Christian republic” he told them, whose founders “have borne testimonies to the vital truths of Christianity.” At a time when “the providence of God, the religion of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, the inspiration of Holy Writ, [are being] doubted, questioned, denied” it is necessary to recall what these “men of varied and large experience, accustomed to the classification and comparison of facts, the sifting and weighing of evidences” have said. And then he quoted them. At length. Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and the lot. One after another. At the end he urged his audience to “remember, ever and always, that your country was founded, not by ‘the most superficial, the lightest, the most unreflective of all the European races,’ but by the stern old Puritans, who made the deck of ‘The Mayflower’ an altar of the living God, and whose first act, on touching the soil of the New World, was to offer on bended knees thanksgiving and prayer to Almighty God.” It must have been a hideously tedious evening. The American Tract Society, however, liked the speech well enough to have it printed up as a tract for general distribution.
You’re probably way ahead of me on how this speech connects Wilson and Morris, but I’m going to spell it out anyway: Wilson lifted most of his material from Morris’s book, The Christian Life and Character of the Civil Institutions of the United States, published a mere two years before his speech.
If you’re willing to take my word for it, feel free to skip the next several paragraphs; otherwise follow along for some evidence of the connection. Wilson’s use of Morris betrays itself again and again. Morris is sloppy; he changes words in his sources, and he runs material together from different documents as though they were a single seamless quotation. Wilson is even sloppier; he repeatedly takes quotations that are adjacent in Morris and runs them together sans ellipsis or any other indication (however illegitimate) that his source material is stitched together from different originals. Here, for example, is what Morris wrote on pp. 604-5 about Martin Van Buren (bolded material being paralleled in Wilson):
When entering upon the responsibilities of his office, [he] said,—
      I only look to the gracious protection of that Divine Being whose strengthening support I humbly solicit, and whom I fervently pray to look down upon us all. May it be among the dispensations of his providence to bless our beloved country with honors and length of days; may her ways be ways of pleasantness, and all her paths peace.”
      Similar sentiments were officially announced in all his messages. Mr. Van Buren publicly testified to the value of the Christian religion by joining the Dutch Reformed Church in the autumn of 1860. He died inspired with the immortal hopes of the gospel, saying “the atonement of Christ was the only remedy and rest of the soul.”
And here is what Wilson has for Van Buren:
I only look to the gracious protection of that Divine Being, whose strengthening support I humbly solicit, and whom I fervently pray to look down upon us all. The atonement of Christ is the only remedy and rest for the soul.
Wilson has here plucked out adjacent sayings quoted by Morris and run them together as a single quotation. (This is even more significant when you remember that Morris appears to be the first writer to report Van Buren’s reference to “the atonement of Christ.”) Again, here are two adjacent quotations given by Morris as by James Monroe:
      “With a firm reliance on the protection of Almighty God, I shall forthwith commence the duties of the high trust to which you have called me.”
      Deeply impressed with the blessings which we enjoy, and of which we have such manifold proofs, my mind is irresistibly drawn to that Almighty Being, the great source from whence they proceed, and to whom our most grateful acknowledgments are due.
And again Henry Wilson runs them together as one in his version:
James Monroe assumed the duties of fourth president of the United States with the expression of a “firm reliance on the protection of Almighty God. Deeply impressed with the blessings which we enjoy, and of which we have such manifold proofs, my mind is irresistably drawn to that Almighty Being, the great source from whence they proceed, and to whom our most grateful acknowledgments are due.”
Again, on John Adams. Morris (pp. 117-8):
The Christian religion,” Adams said, “as I understand it, is the brightness of the glory and the express portrait of the character of the eternal, self-existent, independent, benevolent, all-powerful, and all-merciful Creator, Preserver and Father of the universe, the first good, the first perfect, and the first fair. It will last as long as the world. Neither savage nor civilized man, without a revelation, could have discovered or invented it.” “Religion and virtue are the only foundations, not only of republicanism and of all free governments, but of social felicity under all governments and in all the combinations of human society. Science, liberty, and religion are the choicest blessings of humanity: without their joint influence no society can be great, flourishing, or happy.”
And Wilson:
The Christian religion, as I understand it, is the brightness of the glory and the express portrait of the eternal self-existing, independent, all powerful and all merciful Creator. Preserver and Father of the Universe; it will last as long as the world. Neither savage nor civilized man, without a revelation could have discovered or invented it. Religion and virtue are the only foundations, not only of republicanism and of all free governments, but of social felicity under all governments and in all the constructions of human society.
The likelihood of such connections happening by chance is minimal. Henry Wilson’s criminal ineptitude in his treatment of quotations is amazing, but is a matter of fact. As an historian Wilson should have known better; his treatment of quotations here is absolutely inexcusable. I can only suppose that as this was merely a throw-away speech for a YMCA event that Wilson felt lower standards applied. (If so, shame on him.) Or maybe he merely delivered a speech written by some minor functionary.
In any case, here is his treatment of Washington:
It is impossible to govern the world without God. It is the duty of all nations to acknowledge the Providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits and humbly implore his protection and favor. I am sure there never was a people who had more reason to acknowledge a divine interposition in their affairs, than those of the United States; and I should be pained to believe that they have forgotten that agency which was so often manifested during the revolution; or that they failed to consider the omnipotence of Him, who is alone able to protect them. He must be worse than an infidel that lacks faith, and more than wicked, that has not gratitude enough to acknowledge his obligations.
To create this concoction Wilson indulged in an extremely dubious procedure. In Morris (p. 510) he found Washington quoted as saying “It is impossible to govern the universe without God.” What Wilson decided to do (and as a historian he really should have known better) was to create a frankenquote out of parts of other sayings. Starting with this piece he changed the world “universe” to “world”, added to it a fragment hacked from Washington’s first Thanksgiving Day Proclamation (Morris, p. 275), and then took an earlier frankenquote from Morris (pp. 32-33) that had joined fragments from two different letters, one to John Armstrong on 11 March 1782, and the other to Brigadier-General Nelson on 20 August 1778. Wilson’s dependence on Morris is manifest—not that that excuses him for this fakery.
As far as his effect on this quotation is concerned, though, it all boils down to one thing. He took Morris’s It is impossible to govern the universe without God and turned it into It is impossible to govern the world without God. A change of one word. The manifold glories of the universe reduced to a single chunk or rock hurtling through space. It is an odd change in one respect, and I have no explanation for it. Why world? You’d think nation would be a better choice. Did he avoid nation because he was about to use the phrase “duty of all nations” in the bleeding member from the butchered Thanksgiving Proclamation? Even so, why not country or people? I mean, he was screwing around with it anyway. It’s not like he had any integrity to maintain here.
Well, some mysteries are beyond the reach of historical investigation, and this may well be one of them. Nearly three decades will pass before the last of our four men gets his grubby hands on it. And that, friends, will be the subject of our next installment, Part 4: The Lawyer.

Elias Nason and Thomas Russell, The Life and Public Services of Hon. Henry Wilson (B. B. Russell, 1872)
“Wilson, Henry,” The National Cyclopaedia of American Biography: Being the History of the United States as Illustrated in the Lives of the Founders, Builders, and Defenders of the Republic, and of the Men and Women who are Doing the Work and Moulding the Thought of the Present Time (J. T. White Company, 1895), Volume 4, pp. 13-14
William M. Thayer, Turning Points in Successful Careers (T. Y. Crowell, 1895), pp. 247-256
Mark O. Hatfield, with the Senate Historical Office, Vice Presidents of the United States, 1789-1993, (Washington: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1997), pp. 233-239
Thomas G. Oey. Review of Myers, John L., Henry Wilson and the Coming of the Civil War. H-CivWar, H-Net Reviews. July, 2007

12 April 2015

Scheduled Programming Will Resume As Soon As Possible

’m still alive. I paid a visit to the emergency room and got tested, but despite the pain and difficulty breathing there’s nothing seriously wrong with me. My heart is apparently in good shape and the symptoms are rapidly disappearing. I just wish I knew what they were symptoms of

09 April 2015

Without God and the Bible Part 2: The Preacher

n the previous installment on the history of a spurious Washington quotation (“It is impossible to rightly govern the world without God and the Bible”) we observed its birth in the stew of gossip James Kirke Paulding picked up in the decades following Washington’s death (or maybe cooked up in his own imagination). The next stage takes place during the maelstrom of the Civil War, and our central figure is the preacher—Benjamin Franklin Morris.
The son of an Ohio senator, B. F. Morris was educated at Miami University in Ohio, where William Holmes McGuffy (of McGuffy Reader fame) was a professor. Morris became a minister in the Congregational church, spending most of his life in the Midwest, but eventually ending up in Washington, D.C. Unlike his father Thomas Morris, or his brothers Isaac and Jonathan, he was never elected to Congress and so evaded the necessary “notability” to end up in Wikipedia. (He is the only one of our four quotation-shapers to do so.) In view of the scarcity of information about him, let me give the entire entry on him from The Twentieth Century Dictionary of Notable Americans, volume 7, no page number:
MORRIS, Benjamin Franklin, clergyman and author, was born in Bethel, Ohio, Aug. 18, 1810; son of the Hon. Thomas and Rachel (Davis) Morris. He was graduated at Miami university, A.B., 1832, A.M. 1836. He was a Congregational minister in Iowa and Illinois, 1833-40; pastor of Presbyterian churches in Indiana, 1840-59, and of a Congregational church in Lebanon, Ohio, 1859-61. He removed to Washington, D.C., in 1861, where he engaged in literary work. He is the author of: The Christian Life and Character of the Civil Institutions of the United States (1864); The Nation's Tribute to Abraham Lincoln (1865); and Life of Thomas Morris (1856). He died in Springfield, Ohio, June 28, 1867.
He was married to Eliza Chittenden in 1833 and they had seven children together, four boys and three girls. At least two of his children died before he did.
Now as I said B. F. Morris was a minister, and if he’d stuck to his profession there’d be no need to drag him out of his well-deserved obscurity. But he didn’t. In addition to his ministerial duties, B. F. Morris engaged in a rather odd hobby—reading through historical and biographical tomes and manuscripts to cherry-pick nice things famous people had said about Christianity and the Bible. (Evangelist David Barton would pursue the same hobby a century and a half later, and he would make it pay.)
Now you have to remember that for Morris this wasn’t simply a matter of going online, finding your source, selecting your passage, copying it, and pasting it into your notes or whatever. Nor could he do as I used to do, carry his source to a convenient photocopier and run off a few pages. Indeed, even propping the volume up by his typewriter and quickly copying his selected passage was out. No, Morris had to copy out his material by hand, relying (most likely) on sunlight for illumination, or maybe candles or lamps if the sun had gone down.
Further, the multi-volume sets and rare pamphlets he wanted were apparently not within his reach. He had to frequent the libraries of wealthy collectors, with all the inconveniences that entailed. In Indiana he used Samuel Parker’s “large political and historical library”; in Ohio he availed himself of Thomas Corwin’s collection. In the nation’s capital he made use of the Library of Congress, the “large and invaluable collection of books and periodicals illustrative of the early history of our country” belonging to Peter Force (and later acquired by the Library of Congress), and Washington’s manuscripts in the State Department. He scanned through the commentaries of Story, Bayard, and Rawle on the Constitution, the works of Webster and Burke and Beecher, the histories of Bancroft and Hall and Grahame, Jared Sparks’ edition of Washington’s works, volumes on preachers and politics, orations, official records, charters, constitutions, collecting bits and pieces, laboriously copying them out by hand—perhaps hastily, perhaps under other less-than-ideal conditions.
I say this because his quotations are often inaccurate. Sentences from separate documents are run together as one, words are substituted for other words, material is silently dropped, quoted material is misattributed or left unattributed altogether. It was Morris who first misattributed “true religion affords to government its surest support” to Washington for example, and it was he who borrowed John Wingate Thornton’s misquotation / paraphrase to make John Quincy Adams write “The highest glory of the American Revolution was this: it connected, in one indissoluble bond, the principles of civil government with the principles of Christianity.” And he passed on the fraudulent version of Patrick Henry’s famous bequest of Christianity in his will: “I have now disposed of all my worldly property to my family: there is one thing more I wish I could give them, and that is the Christian religion. If they had this, and I had not given them one shilling, they would be rich; and if they had it not, and I had given them all the world, they would be poor.” He mistakenly supposed (like William Wisner and Jared Sparks before him) that Benjamin Franklin wrote his infamous “Don’t unchain the tiger” letter to Thomas Paine (a mistake later echoed by David Barton). (130) A possible explanation, at least, is that hastily-taken notes were not always clear when it came time for him to turn them into his magnum opus, The Christian Life and Character of the Civil Institutions of the United States, published in 1864.
The purpose of this untidy compilation, if purpose doesn’t seem too grandiose a term for it, is to show that American institutions are not incompatible with Christian principles—indeed, that Christianity holds a special place in American government and law. The closest Morris comes to articulating a thesis is the following passage, towards the beginning of his tome:
The institutions of the North American republic had their birth and baptism from the free inspirations and genius of the Christian religion. This fact has given to the state its political power and moral glory, and shed new light on the benign nature and adaptation of the Christian system to secure the highest political prosperity to a nation.
As the Civil War was raging as he wrote the book (and in fact the last chapter is devoted to “The Christian Element in the Civil War of the United States”) it is possible that he was reacting to the common belief that the war was God’s judgment on a sinful nation. His response was to cast the war as a holy war, portraying the actions of the Confederacy as “an attack on the Christian religion and the institutions of Christian civilization which had grown out of it and were cherished and sustained by it.” While acknowledging “national vices and degeneracy” Morris pronounced that “All devout and thoughtful minds felt that God, while he chastened and humbled the nation on account of its sins, would again interpose for the preservation and perpetuity of the nation.” It was the United States, not the Confederacy, that was on God’s side, and the Christian element would “reinvigorate and recover the republic, its institutions and functions of civil government, and its political and social character, from the decay and degeneracy of national virtue, and to replenish the life of the nation with increased moral vigor and purity.” (pp. 669-70)
In any case, whatever his actual point was, there is page after page of this wearisome stuff. Every time an American commander attributes his success to the aid of the deity, Morris has to dutifully note it. Every time an American statesman closes an address by asking for a divine blessing Morris feels obliged to quote it. Even the use of the familiar “in the Year of our Lord” to date the US Constitution calls for comment.
Nothing is too trivial, nothing is too pathetic for him hide in a decent obscurity. When President Zachary Taylor proclaimed 3 August 1849 a day of fasting, humiliation and prayer in response to a recurrence of the second cholera pandemic in the United States—some five or so years before the true cause of cholera would be discovered—Morris has to record the fact in all its sad fatuity. When John Quincy Adams inflicted a series of wearisome letters about the Bible and its worth on his young son while away in St. Petersburg serving President Madison as ambassador to Russia, Morris feels obliged to quote page after page of this drivel, often incorrectly and oddly jumbled.
His habit of not citing sources makes it difficult for us to evaluate his work properly. For example, when he tells us that Martin Van Buren “died inspired with the immortal hopes of the gospel, saying ‘the atonement of Christ was the only remedy and rest of the soul’ we are stuck with his bare assertion; nobody else seems to know of it. And from what repository did he get the reverend John S. C. Abbott’s account of Andrew Jackson’s death, with his immortal words “That book, sir, is the rock on which our republic rests. It is the bulwark of our free institutions”? We can only guess.
This seemingly endless parade of foolishness and futility extends for hundreds of pages of warped pedantry (the word erudition overvalues his accomplishment) that would make the angels weep. When you consider the labor involved in this sad endeavor, the endless hours spent in libraries miscopying throwaway boilerplate and casual acts of public piety, the further hours spent arranging this claptrap for publication—well, words fail me. I can only hope that B. F. Morris enjoyed the endless hours he spent on this inane project; if writing it was as tedious for him as reading it is for the rest of us it was truly a sad waste of a life.
But—and maybe I’m just kidding myself in thinking that the reverend Morris and I are in some sense kindred spirits—there’s at least a chance that each little discovery of some forgotten gem of piety gave him a kick, a sense of satisfaction combined with the feeling of some vast never-to-be-finished jigsaw puzzle coming together. The work was its own reward. I hope so, anyway.
While the pious abolitionist Morris and the pro-slavery rationalist Paulding seem to be at opposite poles of the human spectrum in some respects, they do have this in common: both attribute the saying It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being to George Washington. But the context they give it is as different as possible. Where for Paulding it was part of an argument for the existence of God, for Morris it was part of the boilerplate conclusion of Washington’s sixth annual address to Congress of 19 November 1794 (Morris’s additions are in bold; his omissions are struck out; the punctuation is his throughout):
It is impossible,” said he, “to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being. Let us, therefore, unite therefore in imploring the Supreme Ruler of nations to spread his holy protection over these United States; to stop turn the machinations of the wicked; to the confirming of our Constitution; to enable us, at all times, to suppress root out internal sedition and put invasion to flight; to perpetuate to our country that prosperity which his goodness has already conferred, and to verify the anticipations of this government's being a safeguard to human rights.”
Morris didn’t get this version from Jared Sparks’ edition of Washington’s writings, nor from the official publication of the address to Congress, nor from the manuscript copy in the letter book preserved in the Washington papers. Nor do the differences seem plausible; the insertion of the Paulding fragment is an irrelevancy and interrupts the sense, and the alterations to the “machinations of the wicked” passage seem to be a plain misunderstanding of the text. On the other hand the changes don’t seem to be tendentious. If anything they seem simply, well, pointless. And this leads me back to the hypothesis—for want of any better idea—of Morris’s misreading of his own notes.
If Morris didn’t find the Paulding fragment already embedded in the sixth annual address to Congress—and he manifestly didn’t—then where did he find it? How did he come to attach it to a passage from Washington’s sixth annual address to Congress? Obviously he could have found it in Paulding’s biography of Washington—but I’m inclined to doubt it. Paulding’s biography probably would not have appealed to him, being written by a pro-slavery advocate and for children. I didn’t find any obvious evidence (outside of this passage) for Morris’s use of Paulding—which doesn’t mean there isn’t any. Morris doesn’t mention Paulding in his list of sources, but that also doesn’t mean he didn’t use his work—Morris does not pretend to give a complete list, and he clearly did use many sources he did not specifically acknowledge.
And in fact none of the sources he listed contains our passage. But—and this may not mean much, but I like it—the author of one of his sources did in fact use our passage in a work not cited by Morris. John Frederick Schroeder released his Maxims of Washington: Political, Social, Moral, and Religious in 1855 and included the Paulding fragment on p. 341 under “Religious Maxims”. Several pages later (on p. 348) in the same section he included the conclusion to Washington’s sixth annual address to Congress. (He gave no citation for either.) One possibility at least is that Morris copied one piece from p. 341 into his notes, and then the other from p. 348, and when looking at them later mistakenly thought that they belonged together. There are objections to this hypothesis—but the most likely alternative is to suppose that Morris deliberately falsified the speech for unknown reasons.
Obviously it’s possible that Morris took the speech already falsified from some unknown source, but that just pushes the problem back a stage. How did this hypothetical text-manipulator come to make these changes, and what was his motive? It’s far more likely that Morris himself is the culprit here, whether by incompetence or malice. It’s not like he’s the model of scrupulous care elsewhere. On pp. 33-34, for example, he quotes Washington as writing
I am sure that there never was a people who had more reason to acknowledge a divine interposition in their affairs than those of the United States; and I should be pained to believe that they have forgotten that agency which was so often manifested during the Revolution, or that they failed to consider the omnipotence of that God who is alone able to protect them. He must be worse than an infidel that lacks faith, and more than wicked that has not gratitude enough to acknowledge his obligations.
But these are actually fragments from two different letters joined together—the first written to John Armstrong on 11 March 1782, and the second to Brigadier-General Nelson on 20 August 1778. Whatever the cause of these errors—carelessness or dishonesty—Morris appears to be the one responsible for them.
The effect of this incongruous juxtaposition is to change the meaning of the sentence about God’s governance from being a proposition in the argument for his existence to being an axiom from which an action follows: because God governs the universe, therefore we should implore him so that certain desirable results follow. When Morris joined these two bits together he created a false impression, deliberately or not—specifically that the quotation under discussion concerned politics rather than cosmology.
The alleged quotation appears again on p. 510, this time with a different continuation. “‘It is impossible,’ he said, ‘to govern the universe without God,’ and, ‘a fortiori, impossible to govern a nation without him.’” In this version “God” has replaced “the aid of a Supreme Being” and there is also a political addition—a different one. It’s hard to believe that Morris intended the additional words to be attributed to Washington. Since Washington is speaking ex cathedra, as it were, he has no need to interpret his previous words via a logical argument; he might just as well have said on his own It is impossible to govern a nation without God. I can’t help wondering if Morris intended to put the final words in Washington’s mouth, or whether this wasn’t a quotation fail, a printer’s error perhaps, and these words were his own comment on the supposed Washington quotation. In any case the words are Morris’s, whether he intended us to take them as Washington’s or not.
It is the first part of this sentence, the words It is impossible to govern the universe without God, however, that is the seed for future developments. B. F. Morris thus started the process of chipping away at the quotation by separating it from its context, giving it a political spin, and replacing the phrase “the aid of a Supreme Being” with the simple word “God”. (He also took the step of replacing “universe” with another word, “nation”, though this change, for some reason, didn’t take.) And within a few years a contemporary, a politician, would get to work on it in his own way. This will be the subject of the next installment: Part 3: The Politician.

Technical Difficulties … Please Stand By

’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m having chest pains and difficulty breathing. I’m sorry I didn’t get the next installment of “Without God and the Bible” posted yet, but as soon as I’m up to it I’ll have it up. Sorry about that.

08 April 2015

Stan Freberg (1926-2015)

ith Stan Freberg it’s always hard to know where fantasy ends and reality begins. He liked to tell a good story, and his autobiography—which he rehearsed in interview after interview—is made up of good stories. For this piece, however, the good stories will have to take a back seat. This one’s going to be, you know, just the facts, ma’am.
Born 7 August 1926, the son of a Baptist minister, Stan Freberg (like Walt Kelly) never shed his Christian upbringing despite being on the liberal end of the sociopolitical spectrum. Occasionally it got the better of him (“Yulenet” comes to mind here), but most of the time it just helped to ground him, to give him a place to defend in the storm of moral relativism that seemed always to be lurking at the edge of the fifties and sixties. After a stint of doing voices for cartoons and Cliffie Stone’s radio show Freberg had a fluke hit on Capitol with “John and Marsha”, which was actually banned on some radio stations for being too suggestive. The year was 1951. He followed that up with a send-up of Pete Seeger’s then group, the Weavers, giving “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” the “On Top of Old Smoky” treatment. (As a child I particularly liked the line where Freberg apologizes to the singers—“I’m sorry. I loused it up. Let’s start the thing over” only to have them sing it back to him in perfect harmony with the melody.) The release of “Maggie” in February 1952 seems to have fallen relatively flat, as far as I can tell, but the release of “Try” the next month, co-written with Ruby Raksin (the brother of the composer of “Laura”) did not pass unnoticed. A near-perfect send-up of Johnnie Ray, it enraged the owners of the original song (“Cry”) who responded by suing both Freberg and Capitol Records. That year also saw the forgettable “Abe Snake for President” and the technically clever “The World is Waiting for the Sunrise” issued.
Spike Jones must have seen the writing on the wall at this point; he had a few more singles left in him but Freberg’s rising sun was burning out the repertoire of the King of Corn. 1953 brought one of Freberg’s most memorable pieces—“St. George and the Dragonet”—which applied Jack Webb’s understated style to the medieval legend of St. George and the Dragon. Co-written with Daws Butler and also featuring June Foray as a maiden who’d almost been devoured (“Believe me, I got it straight from the dragon’s mouth”), the piece instantly became a pop classic. “That’s Right, Arthur,” scheduled to be released late that same year, might have done as well—but Capitol’s lawyers, perhaps afraid of another lawsuit like the one over “Try”, ran the savage Arthur Godfrey takeoff past that entertainer’s lawyers, and they refused to okay it.
For the next several years it seemed that Freberg could do no wrong as he released takeoff after takeoff on the likes of Ferlin Husky (“A Dear John and Marsha Letter”), the Chords (“Sh-Boom”), Eartha Kitt (“C’est Si Bon”), the Platters (“The Great Pretender”), Elvis Presley (“Heartbreak Hotel”)—well, you get the idea. And then in 1957 CBS radio gave him the 7:30 Sunday slot, following Jack Benny repeats. And the Stan Freberg Show was born.
The actual show was not nearly as revolutionary as the best-of compilation double album made it appear. The album dropped the more conventional sketches, the songs by Peggy Taylor, and most of the reprises. But even so it was too close to the edge for CBS. It started with arguments over the perhaps too-long “Incident at Los Voraces,” which simultaneously satirized the Las Vegas trashing of culture and morals and the Cold War arms race. Freberg probably didn’t make things any easier by his obvious disdain for conventional advertising (ruthlessly mocked on more than one episode). But he managed to produce some great comedy bits—the interview with the abominable snowman, the coverage of a rocket launch, the tuned sheep, the Lawrence Welk parody, the Sam Spade send-up, and a surreal bit where a man tries to use cash to buy a tool for his home workshop instead of credit, with unfortunate results. And of course, “Elderly Man River.” And that noxious muckraker with the inside scoop on historical events. (That one Freberg would recycle a few years later into the far superior Stan Freberg Presents the United States of America, possibly his masterpiece.)
Struggles over the CBS radio show, the release of his Yuletide satire “Green Chri$tma$,” and a prolonged struggle with a producer over a stage version of the Freberg USA album seem to have robbed him of his enthusiasm for the record business. Commercials were perhaps more lucrative; at any rate he made a success of them. I personally kept hoping to hear him back in the saddle again—Bob Dylan or Jim Morrison trying to record “Subterranean Homesick Blues” or “Celebration of the Lizard” against Freberg’s clueless A&R man, for instance, or Tommy James performing “Crimson and Clover” overwhelmed by effects gone wrong. But there was nothing. Oh, there were the commercials, and I collected them when I could, but it wasn’t exactly the same.
You might not know it, but Stan Freberg has been around, active and performing, in the seventies, eighties, nineties, and beyond. I don’t feel that any of his later work, including the disappointing sequel to the original United States of America album, lives up to that of his glory days, but in that time and place he was incomparable. I received the news of his passing with inexpressible sorrow. His work was unique, and he will be missed.

Without God and the Bible Part 1: The Playwright

ast time I observed that I plan to tell the tale of a fake quotation—the famous pseudo-Washington observation that It is impossible to rightly govern the world without God and the Bible—in maybe four installments—one for each of the four men who created and shaped the thing. These four were (in reverse order) a lawyer, a politician, a preacher, and a playwright.
Our paper trail starts with the last of the four, a guy called James Kirke Paulding—playwright, poet, novelist, essayist, satirist—a friend of Washington Irving, a protégée of James Madison, a passionate defender of slavery—Secretary of the Board of Navy Commissioners, Navy Agent at New York, and (under Martin Van Buren) Secretary of the Navy. Of the four guys we’re going to look at Paulding is probably my favorite; at least I’ve run into him in a variety of connections at various points in my life.
For example, many years ago, when I was younger and my stepfather was teaching a course in the literature of slavery I ran into Paulding’s enthusiastic (and long-winded) defense of the institution of slavery. He worries at the thing like a dog pulling apart your favorite antique quilt, showing that science, religion, philosophy, and tradition all support the natural subordination of the African peoples, and that slavery is the rational solution to the difficulty of racial coexistence. If I bought any of his premises I might have been persuaded; it was probably easier back in the day when slavery was so entrenched in American culture that looking the other way seemed like the only way to avoid going mad—or taking up weapons like John Brown.
In my own college days I became interested in the legends of the American Old West, because (unlike ancient and medieval legends) we have at least some chance of tracing their course and of comparing them to the actual history lurking behind them. In the course of things I learned of a play titled The Lion of the West which featured a character named Nimrod Wildfire, viewed at the time (and subsequently) as a caricature of a well-known politician, a fellow known as Davy Crockett to his constituents. This caricature was a stage in the development of his eventual legend, and the man behind it was—you guessed it—James Kirke Paulding.
And again, more recently, during the internet era, when I was looking up classic parodies I’d never had the time or ability to obtain before, I took a peek at something I’d only heard of—The Lay of the Scotch Fiddle—a hideous “parody” (I’d call it a burlesque) of Sir Walter Scott created by—yes, again—James Kirke Paulding.
Now these encounters had happened far enough apart that I had never really realized that the authors of the defense of slavery, the Davy Crockett caricature, and the Walter Scott takeoff, were one and the same. That realization only came only after reading Paulding’s account of George Washington’s life written for the edification of the young, and I only looked that one up while trying to run down the origin of the very quotation now under discussion.
That book is a remarkable production. Paulding explains its origin in its preface:
Shortly after the conclusion of the late war [of 1812], the author of the following work removed to the city of Washington, where he resided several years. His situation brought him into familiar intercourse with many respectable, and some distinguished persons, who had been associated with Washington; and the idea occurred to him of attempting to compile a Life of the Father of his Country, which might possibly address itself to the popular feeling more directly than any one hitherto attempted. With this object in view, he took every occasion to gather information concerning his private life and domestic habits from such sources as could be relied on as authentic. [A Life of Washington (New-York, 1835), volume 1, p. v]
In gathering material he wrote to various people who had known Washington, including James Madison and John C. Marshall. Madison was not encouraging, writing him:
Everything relating to Washington is already known to the world, or will soon be made known thro' Mr. [Jared] Sparks; with the exception of some of those inside views of character and scenes of domestic life which are apart from ordinary opportunities of observation. And it may be presumed that interesting lights will be let in even on those exceptions through the private correspondences in the hands of Mr. Sparks. [Madison to Paulding, April 1831]
In that same letter he warned him also about some of the pitfalls in biography:
In a task properly biographical, the difficulty lies in the evanescent or inaccessible information which it particularly requires. Autographic memorials are rare, and usually deficient on essential points, if not otherwise faulty; and at the late periods of life the most knowing witnesses may have descended to the tomb, or their memories become no longer faithful depositories. Where oral tradition is the resort, all know the uncertainties, and inaccuracies which beset it.
Paulding was not deterred. He continued looking for information from anybody who had known Washington, and even wrote to Jane C. Washington (1786-1855, before her marriage Jane Blackburn), “the present most estimable lady who is now in possession of Mount Vernon.” He “availed himself of all the sources of information within his reach”.
Who or what those sources were, however, he chose not to tell us; in fact he “avoided citing his authority on every occasion.” He often gave some general idea of where an anecdote originated—it was “traditionary in the family” (volume I, p. 64), or it came from “one who was with him at the time” (I, 79), or from “one whose situation afforded him the best means of information” (I, 91), or from “one of his nearest connections, who is still living” (I, 119). Given this studied vagueness, suspicion is inevitable. Did he in fact gather these anecdotes “from the information of his contemporaries then living”—or did he make them up? Sure, he assures us “that he has inserted nothing which he does not believe to be true,” but sans citation is there any way to be sure of that? Vague appeals to “the authority of history, of Washington himself, or of undoubted traditions” don’t really cut it. Paulding’s asking us to trust him across the board—not only his honesty, but his memory and his critical acumen in evaluating the traditions that came to him. It’s a lot to ask.
At some point in his work on the project Paulding changed his mind about the nature of the book—rather than write a popular biography, he would “adapt it to the use of schools.” He thought “that the life of Washington furnished an invaluable moral example to the youth of his country” and so his purpose should be “to enlist their affections—to call forth their love, as well as veneration, for the great and good man whose life and actions he has attempted to delineate.” Rather than write biography, in other words, he would engage in hagiography.
His two-volume Life of George Washington came out in 1835. Edgar Allen Poe loved it. He admired its “forcible, rich, vivid, and comprehensive English,” noting that it “might advantageously be held up, as a model for the young writers of the land.” The volumes “contain many long individual passages of a force and beauty not to be surpassed by the finest passages of the finest writers in any time or country.” He predicted that it would find a place in “every respectable academy in the land.” Perhaps significantly, he said nothing about its reliability, accuracy, or authenticity.
It ought to go without saying that a book of this sort—undocumented, intended for children, based on tradition and rumor—has no authority whatsoever. It ought to—and yet I’ve seen people cite it as authoritative. True, Paulding did know people who had known Washington, like James Madison and Jane Washington, but still—a book for children. A volume based on anecdote and second-hand recollections. A narrative intended to appeal “to the feelings of nature than to the judgment of criticism.” Really.
In a chapter in volume II on Washington’s character, set forth to show that “Those who follow in his footsteps can never go astray,” Paulding discusses his subject’s piety. “It is impossible,” he wrote, “to read the speeches and letters of Washington, and follow his whole course of life, without receiving the conviction of his steady, rational, and exalted piety.” “No parade accompanied its exercise, no declamation its exhibition; for it was his opinion that a man who is always boasting of his religion, is like one who continually proclaims his honesty—he would trust neither one nor the other.” And now comes the key point. “He was not accustomed to argue points of faith, but on one occasion, in reply to a gentleman who expressed doubts on the subject, thus gave his sentiments:—
      “It is impossible to account for the creation of the universe without the agency of a Supreme Being.
      It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being.
      “It is impossible to reason without arriving at a Supreme Being. Religion is as necessary to reason, as reason is to religion. The one cannot exist without the other. A reasoning being would lose his reason in attempting to account for the great phenomena of nature, had he not a Supreme Being to refer to; and well has it been said, that if there had been no God, mankind would have been obliged to imagine one.”
Note the section in bold. This is the nucleus of what will become, step by step, the fake quotation. Those steps will be detailed in future parts. For the moment, however, what is under consideration is the passage in the form given by Paulding.
Two issues present themselves. First—what does it mean? What is its function in Paulding’s narrative? How does it connect with similar arguments in time and space? And then, second—its authorship. Who said it? Who wrote it? How likely is it to go back to Washington himself in some form?
The first thing to note, I suppose, is that this is an expression of the cosmological argument for the existence of God, an argument much favored by deists. The existence and maintenance of the universe can only be explained by positing a creator and sustainer. Human reason leads us inevitably to that conclusion. It’s familiar territory. Thomas Paine covered it back in the 1790s. This is worth noting; subsequent developments of the fragment in bold are going to significantly change its focus.
The line about mankind being obliged to imagine a god of course goes back to a 1768 poem by Voltaire, “Epître à l'auteur du livre des Trois imposteurs”. There it reads “Si Dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer” (“If God didn’t exist, we’d have to invent him.”) The argument there is a utilitarian one—belief in God makes society run better. The hope of heaven and the fear of hell motivate people to keep their promises and behave rightly. Benjamin Franklin made the same point in his infamous “Don’t unchain the tiger” letter to some unknown infidel, and Washington himself alluded to it in his farewell address. Social order is, as Voltaire observed, “le fruit d'une utile croyance.”
Here, however, the observation is being used to make a different point—that it is impossible to conceive of an orderly cosmos without imagining some Supreme Being to keep it in order. And this use seems frankly more like something Paulding would come up with than Washington. Here, for example, is Paulding on his religion:
It is founded in reason and reflection and cannot therefore be orthodox. Since according to all clerical authorities the moment a man consults his reason in matters of faith he becomes little better than an infidel. Does it seem strange that a religion exclusively propounded of rational beings is not to be judged of by reason? [letter to Joseph Sims, quoted in Aderman and Kime, Advocate for America, p. 338]
Washington by contrast was (relatively) conventional in his religion—as least as far as observances are concerned. This deistic statement with its emphasis on reason and its reference to Voltaire reeks of Paulding.
As does its wording. Washington’s characteristic word-choices are quite different. Here, for example, is Washington writing to an author of a book on mathematics:
The science of figures, to a certain degree, is not only indispensably requisite in every walk of civilised life; but the investigation of mathematical truths accustoms the mind to method and correctness in reasoning, and is an employment peculiarly worthy of rational beings. In a clouded state of existence, where so many things appear precarious to the bewildered research, it is here that the rational faculties find a firm foundation to rest upon. From the high ground of mathematical and philosophical demonstration, we are insensibly led to far nobler speculations and sublimer meditations. [George Washington to Nicholas Pike, 20 June 1788]
Here is Washington writing of the Bible:
The blessed Religion revealed in the word of God will remain an eternal and awful monument to prove that the best Institutions may be abused by human depravity; and that they may even, in some instances be made subservient to the vilest of purposes. [p. 34 of his undelivered first inaugural address]
And here are three examples of Washington referencing the creator of the universe:
It is also most devoutly to be wished that faction was at an end and that those to whom every thing dear and valuable is entrusted would lay aside party views and return to first principles. happy, happy, thrice happy Country if such was the government of it, but alas ! we are not to expect that the path is to be strewed wt. flowers. That great and good Being who rules the Universe has disposed matters otherwise and for wise purposes I am perswaded. [George Washington to Joseph Reed, 27 November 1778]
The man must be bad indeed who can look upon the events of the American Revolution without feeling the warmest gratitude towards the great Author of the Universe whose divine interposition was so frequently manifested in our behalf. And it is my earnest prayer that we may so conduct ourselves as to merit a continuance of those blessings with which we have hitherto been favored. I am etc. [George Washington to Samuel Langdon, 28 September 1789]
The kind interposition of Providence which has been so often manifested in the affairs of this country, must naturally lead us to look up to that divine source for light and direction in this new and untried Scene. [GeorgeWashington to William Heath, 9 May 1789]
The contrast between genuine Washington and the alleged quotation could hardly be more stark.
Of course that doesn’t really settle the authorship issue. Even if the exact words aren’t Washington’s, could the thing go back to him in some form? After all, it’s highly unlikely that either Paulding or his informant (assuming he had one) repeated the words exactly as they came to them. Might the underlying concept be Washington’s, even if the wording is not?
Anything is possible. It depends how much faith you have in Paulding. Mine had worn thin before I was halfway through the first volume. The presence of the horse-breaking incident (a variation on the cherry-tree story) doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. Again, on pp. 91-93 we find a story attributed to Washington, supposedly passed down by tradition, in which Washington is made to tell in several hundred words how the sight of a massacre in his youth had given him an undying hatred of Indians. That one alone gives rise to the question of how gullible Paulding was—or how gullible he expected his readers to be. He was writing for children, after all.
And then, when you look at the structure of the section on religion—well, Paulding needs some sort of creedal statement to sort of kick things off. It’s really a requirement. If Washington hadn’t said it, or something in the same vein, it would have been necessary for Paulding to invent it.
And there’s the rub. Honestly, I’d like it to go back to Washington, even if only through the historical haze of oral tradition. It would be a fascinating flash of insight into his cosmic beliefs, though nothing more than a single lightning strike. But there’s too much going against it to buy into that notion. Maybe someday somebody with new critical tools, or manuscript access, or a time machine—something—will figure out some new angle that will rehabilitate it. But as it stands, well, better look elsewhere for insight.
Some in Paulding’s audience clearly liked it, though. Thomas Baldwin Thayer included it in Christianity against Infidelity (B.B. Mussey, Boston, 1836, p. 73); Nathaniel Hervey placed it in The Memory of Washington; with Biographical Sketches of His Mother and Wife. Relations of Lafayette to Washington; with Incidents and Anecdotes in the Lives of the Two Patriots (James Munroe and Company, Boston and Cambridge, 1852, p. 123); and John Frederick Schroeder used it in Maxims of Washington; Political, Social, Moral, and Religious (D. Appleton and Company, New York, 1855, pp. 341-2). All three reprinted it as Washington’s without bothering to inform their readers of its questionable antecedents.
So there you have it. The original version of this saying (It is impossible to govern the universe without the aid of a Supreme Being) was part of an argument for the existence of God either transmitted by a playwright from an unknown informant, or perhaps invented by him out of whole cloth. Nearly three decades will pass before the next stage of the story, when this sentence will fall into the hands of a preacher. What he did with it will be the subject of the next installment: Part 2: The Preacher.

"Death of James K. Paulding," New York Times, 6 April 1860
Paulding, James Kirke,” The New International Encyclopædia (New York: Dodd, Mead and Co., 1905) at Wikisource
Ralph A. Aderman and Wayne R, Kime, Advocate for America: The Life of James Kirke Paulding (Susquehanna University Press, 2003)
James Kirke Paulding, A Life of Washington (Harper and Brothers, New-York, 1835). [At Google Books: volume I; volume II]
Edgar Allen Poe, "Paulding's Washington," Southern Literary Messenger, May 1836

Copyright © 2005-2015