Lemuel Haynes Would Like Your Attention

“I am not afraid to appeal to the conscience of any rational and honest man as to the truth of what I have just hinted at. And if any will not confide in what I have humbly offered, I am persuaded it must be such shortsighted persons whose contracted eyes never penetrate through the narrow confines of self and are mere vassals to filthy lucre.”

Lemuel Haynes was not one to mince words. That was written in 1776 and he still had over a half century of rhetorical fusillades ahead of him. By the time he died in 1833, he had preached around 5500 sermons, and presumably a healthy number of non-sermons as well. Middlebury College gave him an honorary degree in 1804. Not bad for a guy who started out as an indentured servant.

Selected Sermons, a collection of four of Haynes’ sermons, includes a remarkably telling anecdote in the editor Jared Wilson’s foreword:

An oft-told anecdote about Haynes concerns a scene of family devotions at the Rose household where he was indentured. Given his adeptness at reading and his deep concern for spiritual matters, the Rose family would often ask Haynes to read a portion of Scripture or a published sermon. One night, Haynes read a homily of his own without credit (apparently the sermon on John 3:3 included in this volume). At the end, members of the family remarked at its quality and wondered, “Was that a Whitefield?” “No,” Haynes is said to have replied, “it was a Haynes.”

Later, Haynes joined the war against Britain right after the battles of Lexington and Concord and was eventually ordained in Connecticut in 1785 when he was 32 years old.

Ordained ministers were not exactly uncommon in New England at the time. How does Haynes compare? Wilson, in a marvelous formulation: “The few sermons we have of Lemuel Haynes prove him to be an exceptional expositor in the Puritan tradition, similar to Edwards or Whitefield though simpler than the former and more substantive than the latter.”

Haynes’ place in the pantheon of American preachers was solidified when the Library of America included one of his works (“Universal Salvation,” also included in this volume) in their volume American Sermons. He does indeed have a style that anyone who appreciates the genre will certainly enjoy reading.

All of this makes Haynes someone worthy of getting to know better, but there is one more tidbit which cements his place not just in a catalogue of early American sermonizers, but in early American history more broadly. Lemuel Haynes was the first ordained minister in America who was black.

The quotation at the outset of this review is from “Liberty Further Extended” which in true 18th century style has a lengthy subtitle (and the Superfluous Capitalization beloved by This Reviewer): “Or Free Thoughts on the Illegality of Slave Keeping, Wherein Those Arguments that Are Used in its Vindication Are Plainly Confuted, Together with a Humble Address to Such As Are Concerned in the Practice.” The word “Humble” in that subtitle should probably have been omitted; it’s hard to read this sort of thing as something humbly spoken:

Can you wash your hands and say “I am clean from this sin”? Perhaps you will dare to say it before men; but dare you say it before whom we must all, in a few precarious moments, appear?

“Liberty Further Extended” begins with a now famous epigraph: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” At the time Haynes wrote this sermon, though, it was not nearly as famous as it is now; in fact, this sermon was the first time in history that passage from the Declaration was quoted. Two hundred years later, Martin Luther King, Jr. would use exactly that same passage from the Declaration to make exactly the same argument that Haynes was making. Haynes was a pioneer in making the Christian argument against slavery; William Wilberforce had not even converted to Christianity when Haynes was making this argument. It is a gripping sermon made even more enthralling by its originality.

But, Haynes should not be reduced to an early abolitionist. The first sermon in this collection is a polemical marvel, wonderful to read. “Universal Salvation” was a response given immediately after hearing Hosea Ballou preach a sermon advocating the idea of Universal Salvation, the doctrine that all people are saved. Haynes, a Puritan’s Puritan, eviscerates Ballou.

He begins by talking about the wonders of living in Eden.

Happy were the human pair amidst this delightful paradise until a certain preacher, in his journey, came that way and disturbed their peace and tranquility be endeavoring to reverse the prohibition of the Almighty—as in our text, “Ye shall not surely die.”

That is simply brilliant. To label the serpent in the garden a preacher, a preacher who is travelling about no less—rhetorical genius. I don’t know of any record which indicates whether Ballou was in the audience when Haynes began his talk, but you can just imagine the steam coming out of his ears at this remarkably sly way of being called the Devil Himself. The talk just keeps going with allusive remarks like that, all to show that “Universal Salvation is no newfangled scheme but can boast of great antiquity.”

“Go ahead,” you can hear Haynes saying in sentence after sentence, “listen to the words of Mr. Ballou and his assertions that you need not fear damnation. You won’t be the first to listen to Mr. Ballou. Adam and Eve listened to Mr. Ballou when he told them that they need have no fear of death. Go ahead and join them if you want. Of course Mr. Ballou sounds good; he is not called a silver tongued devil without reason.”

The volume also contains the aforementioned sermon on John 3:3, explaining the necessity of being born again and a sermon on what is expected of preachers (“The Character and Work of a Spiritual Watchman described”). It’s hard to know how representative the limited number of sermons which survive are of the thousands of sermons Haynes preached, but if these are any example, he would indeed have been the type of preacher you would love to hear. Crisp and focused with some rather nice turns of phrase throughout.

But, as Haynes would be quick to note, we should not give him too much credit:

We infer that ministers should not be proud of their preaching. If they preach the true gospel, they only, in substance, repeat Christ’s sermons; if they preach “Ye shall not surely die,” he only make use of the devil’s old notes that he delivered almost six thousand years ago.

(While on the subject of the devil, he is, as Christ noted, “the father of lies,” and so rest assured, Dear Reader, that I am not attempting to emulate the Great Deceiver in this here blog post. Everything I wrote above is (shockingly) what I actually think! I need to note this because the US Federal Government is rather concerned that I might be deceiving you because Crossway, the publisher of this volume, sent me a free copy of the book so I could read it and write about it. The government requires me to tell you that. Aren’t you glad the government is protecting you in this manner? Now if you click the picture of the book cover above and buy this volume, you can’t say I deceived you!)

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Star Trek and Adam Smith: Sympathy of the Vians

Adam Smith begins The Theory of Moral Sentiments with a discussion of sympathy:

“How selfish soever man may be supposed, there are evidently some principles in his nature, which interest him in the fortune of others, and render their happiness necessary to him, though he derives nothing from it, except the pleasure of seeing it.”


What follows is a lengthy exploration of the implications of the fact that we are sympathetic beings. Smith provides an array of examples meant to illustrate the nature of sympathy, but, for some odd reason, he never seems to have watched Star Trek.


The Star Trek episode “The Empath” (directed by John Erman and written by Gene Roddenberry and Joyce Muskat) is an extended exploration of the theme of sympathy.

If you want an example of what Adam Smith is talking about when he discusses the importance of sympathy, there may be no better example than the self-sacrifice of the Vians, the people who realized there is no greater love than to lay down their lives so that others might live.

Too see the argument, you can read the post at Adam Smith Works

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The Horror

“The horror! The horror!”

That is Hall of Fame in the category of famous last words in literature. (Famous last words should not be confused with famous last sentences.) Indeed, in the entire history of literature, it is hard to come up with any other candidates for the most famous.

(Yes, I hear you, Dear Reader, exclaim, “What about Sydney Carton?” “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.” Quite famous, to be sure. But, Carton didn’t actually say it.)

Heart of Darkness is a work of genius on many levels. Mencken summarized it thus:

I give you “Heart of Darkness” as the archetype of his [Conrad’s] whole work and the keystone of his metaphysical system. Here we have all imaginable human hopes and aspirations reduced to one common denominator of folly and failure, and here we have a play of humor that is infinitely mordant and searching.

It’s a short novel, but Mencken is right about its laser-like ability to concentrate the energy of the human experience into a small area. What do we find at the center, at the heart of humanity? Darkness. Now begins the fascinating question: what is in that darkness at the heart of humanity?

Mr. Kurtz knows about that heart of darkness. An ivory trader who ventured upriver and ended up as a godlike ruler engaged in barbaric acts of brutality, he has slipped the bonds of the civilization in which he grew up. Marlow, that narrator, is sent to fetch Kurtz, and on the way back, Kurtz shuffles off this mortal coil, gasping his famous last words on the way out. The horror.

One of the many brilliant aspects of the novel is that it is never quite clear what exactly the horror is. Kurtz knew; he peered into the darkness and saw it. He told us what he saw, and we mere mortals are left to figure out the implications of that revelation.

Marlow is greatly disturbed by the revelation, but not by the content of the revelation. His immediate concern is with something else:

I was within a hair’s breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say. This is the reason why I affirm that Kurtz was a remarkable man. He had something to say. He said it.

There is your challenge. You are on your deathbed; you have time to say one thing. You can give one message to posterity, one thing you have learned in the course of your life that is worth sharing with the rest of the world. Do you have something to say?

He had summed up—he had judged. “The horror!” He was a remarkable man. After all, this was the expression of some sort of belief; it had candour, it had conviction, it had a vibrating note of revolt in its whisper, it had the appalling face of a glimpsed truth—the strange commingling of desire and hate. And it is not my own extremity I remember best—a vision of greyness without form filled with physical pain, and a careless contempt for the evanescence of all things—even of this pain itself. No! It is his extremity that I seem to have lived through. True, he had made that last stride, he had stepped over the edge, while I had been permitted to draw back my hesitating foot. And perhaps in this is the whole difference; perhaps all the wisdom, and all truth, and all sincerity, are just compressed into that inappreciable moment of time in which we step over the threshold of the invisible. Perhaps! I like to think my summing-up would not have been a word of careless contempt. Better his cry—much better. It was an affirmation, a moral victory paid for by innumerable defeats, by abominable terrors, by abominable satisfactions. But it was a victory! That is why I have remained loyal to Kurtz to the last, and even beyond, when a long time after I heard once more, not his own voice, but the echo of his magnificent eloquence thrown to me from a soul as translucently pure as a cliff of crystal.

Presumably most people do not actually decide in advance which words will be uttered with one’s final breath, mostly because it is generally difficult to know when one is drawing one’s final breath. But, it’s still an interesting thought experiment. Based on your life to date, what words would you utter if you knew it was the last thing you would ever say?

Obviously, your final words would be different if you believed that they would be broadcast to the world or if you believed that only whomever is standing nearby will hear them. So, for the sake of the thought experiment imagine that your words will be shared far and wide for generations to come. What would you say?

As I thought about it, it became a very depressing exercise. None of my ideas stand up as something worthy of being memorialized in such a manner. “I love you, Long-Suffering Wife of Your Humble Narrator”—she would presumably be charmed, but it is hard to imagine anyone else would be. “Christ is Lord” makes a nice message to the world, but it is hard to believe that anyone would find that worthy of thought simply because it was someone’s last words. “Read more Wodehouse” has the advantage of being novel and it is certainly good advice, but it seems to be lacking in gravitas as the summation of one’s life.

As Marlow said: “I was within a hair’s breadth of the last opportunity for pronouncement, and I found with humiliation that probably I would have nothing to say.”

Kurtz had something to say. The horror! The beauty of that exclamation, the reason is resonates so deeply, comes when you ask yourself, “To what is Kurtz referring?”

The sharp divide in possible answers is whether he is referring to something outside or inside of himself. How you answer that question probably says a lot about how you thing about the horror of the world in which you live.

First Kurtz could have been talking about things outside himself, talking about society. Here though there is still yet another divide. To which society is Kurtz referring? Is it the utterly barbaric society he was leading deep in the jungle, full of blood and heads on spikes? Or is it the Western Civilization to which he was returning? Are blood sacrifices by a fire in a jungle at night or balls in drawing rooms in European capitals the horror?

There is yet another related possibility which the very clever Conrad casually tosses on the table. After returning to Europe, Marlow tracks down Kurtz’s fiance to tell her about the death of her beloved. She asks Marlow what were the final words uttered by Kurtz. His reply? “Your name.”

On the other side, the horror may not be external at all. Lying on the boat transporting him from one world to another, did Kurtz look deep into himself and see the horror within? Here he was, the pride of Europe heading off to the jungle where he became a god, this hero of two civilizations, and yet when in that liminal space that is neither here nor there he looked into his heart and all he saw was darkness.

I like that last explanation the best, but like I said above, that may well be more due to the fact that such a reading fits my theological priors. One of the beauties of the book is that it can just as easily be read as an indictment of European Civilization or of civilizations who have not yet adopted Western norms. (The condemnations of this book as if it can only be read as an expression of the glories of Western Imperialism truly fascinate me. How can anyone read so narrowly?)

“The horror! The horror!” Coppola ending Apocalypse Now with Brando’s voice uttering those words is surely one of the most brilliant directorial decisions ever. It is a haunting refrain, worth a lifetime of contemplation.

(An appendix: as all right-thinking people know, Apocalypse Now is one of the greatest movies ever made. There is a fabulous documentary about the making of the move: Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse. If you love Apocalypse Now and have never seen the documentary about making it, you really owe it to yourself to hunt it down. The short version: it is truly amazing this movie ever got made—a complete train wreck of a production process.)

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The Celebrity-Industrial Complex

The celebrity,” opined Daniel Boorstein, “is a person who is known for his well-knownness.”

Sixty years later, Katelyn Beaty provides an incisive update in Celebrities for Jesus. If you want to know how far society has drifted away from cherishing what Russell Kirk called “the permanent things,” Beaty stands ready to fill in for Virgil.

Before entering the celebrity inferno, a taxonomic note is in order. What is the difference between Fame and Celebrity? Fame has always been with us; people did something particularly noteworthy and fame followed. Celebrity is different; to be a celebrity does not require any fame-worthy achievement. It is a peculiarly modern phenomenon, only possible in an age with mass media. “Celebrity is fame’s shinier, slightly obnoxious cousin.” It “feeds on mass media” and “turns icons into idols.” “We don’t always know why we’re supposed to know who someone is, just that we should.” Consider this test: “Much to my chagrin, I know more factoids about my favorite actors, musicians, and comedians, than I do about my flesh-and-blood neighbors. Mass media gives us the illusion of intimacy while drawing our attention away from the true intimacy available within a physical community, be it an apartment building, a book club, or a church.”

Seeing the effect of celebrity on the culture is hard because most of us live in a celebrity-infused society. It would be helpful to find a subculture which is immune to its influence. If any place was going to be the holdout in a celebrity-addled society, surely it would be the Christian church. Right? The implications of Beaty’s book run far beyond the documentation of how celebrity culture is destroying the church. If you want to know what has happened to the broader culture and politics by looking at what should have been the last holdout, Beaty’s book is an excellent post-mortem. 

Read the rest at The University Bookman

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A Brave New Financial World

How can the Federal Reserve help you today?

A few years ago, such a question would have been rather odd. The Federal Reserve was created a little over a century ago as an independent government agency with a rather small mandate: manage the money supply. It was an important, but limited, role. In normal times, the Fed existed to ensure the money supply grew at a reasonable rate. In times of crisis, the Fed would become the Lender of Last Resort, lending funds to solvent banks to get them through a crisis.

But, times have changed. The Fed, no longer tied to the mast, is here to take your order. 

This new world is magnificently described in Lev Menand’s The Fed Unbound: Central Banking in a Time of Crisis. With impeccable brevity and precision, Menand details how the Fed has abandoned its historical mission, appropriating to itself a new mandate and powers of dubious legality. None of this has been done in secret. Its actions have been front page news, Congress has aided and abetted the unbinding, and as James Pierce noted in 1990, it was all predictable:

“The nation likely will drift into a situation in which its central bank will be expanding its regulatory and safety-net coverage, vainly trying to protect everything in the interest of protecting ‘banks.’ The tremendous power it will come to wield not only will be harmful to the structure of the financial system but also will make the Fed an even more formidable foe to those inside and outside the government who believe that it is too powerful already.”

Read the rest at Law and Liberty

Evil Jeeves

A plot summary:
A young gentleman of dubious intellectual capacity with no discernable means of income has a valet who is extraordinarily brilliant. Said valet is capable of designing ingenious scheme to enable his master to attain seemingly impossible aims. The story is told with great wit. It is incredibly amusing despite the fact (or maybe because of the fact) that it is ridiculously repetitive. Over and over the valet’s clever plans are thwarted because the young master is convinced he knows best and ends up making things even worse.

Question: Who is the author of that story?

The odd thing: within the last week, I have read two stories which are perfectly described by that plot summary. Only one of the stories was written by P.G. Wodehouse. Right Ho, Jeeves, which I read for the third or fourth or fifth (I really have no idea) time has Bertie Wooster deciding he can forgo Jeeves’ talents and solve a wealth of problems which continuously get worse until in desperation Bertie turns to Jeeves to save the day. But you knew all that as soon as you saw that the title contained with word “Jeeves.”

Right Ho, Jeeves was published in 1934. You can imagine my great shock when I read a version of this story from 1655.

Moliere’s The Bungler is the tale of young Lelie who is enamored with a slave, the extremely beautiful Celie, but cannot figure out how to win her. Fortunately, Lelie has a very clever valet, Mascarille. Consider this exchange at the outset of the play:

Lelie:
Yet I’d be foolish to despair or doubt;
With your help, I feel sure of winning out.
You’re full of clever schemes; your canny wit
Finds no predicament too much for it;
You are, I think, a king among valets;
In all the world…

Mascarille
                        Whoa! No more sugary praise.
When masters need the help of us poor hinds,
They call us paragons with brilliant minds;
But let us make some slip; and in a flash
We’re stupid scoundrels who deserve the lash.

With a few changes, that could have come straight out of any Jeeves and Wooster novel. The changes? First, Wooster and Jeeves don’t speak in verse. Moliere wrote in verse, and the translation here is the great Richard Wilbur translation (if you are going to read Moliere in English, do not even think of reading any other translation).

It is the second difference between the Moliere play and a Wodehouse novel which is the more intriguing. What Mascarille says above is not something that Jeeves would ever say. He might think it, but he would never say it. It is most definitely true—every Jeeves and Wooster story begins with Bertie sporting a new bit of rather loud clothing or facial hair which Jeeves abhors and Bertie in effect declares that Jeeves is a stupid scoundrel lacking taste—but Jeeves would still never say this. Jeeves always maintains a perfect outward demeanor.

What follows is very much in the Jeeves and Wooster line. Mascarille hatches a plan which will cleverly allow Lelie to leave the scene with Celie as his wife, and Lelie shows up and manages to bungle the entire plan. Over and over. A part of the humor in the play is watching how Lelie bungles yet another perfect plan. It makes no difference if Lelie knew the plan in advance or not; he never fails to ruin it.

The plot is not the only source of humor; the wit in the dialogue is extraordinary. Consider this exchange:

Lelie: Help me, I beg of you.
Mascarille: No, I’ll do nothing.
Lelie: If you won’t change your mind, I’ll kill myself.
Mascarille: Do, if you’re so inclined.
Lelie: You won’t relent?
Mascarille: No.
Lelie: You see that my sword is drawn?
Mascarille: Yes.
Lelie: I shall thrust it through my heart.
Mascarille: Go on.
Lelie: Won’t you be sad to have taken my life from me?
Mascarille: No.
Lelie: Then, farewell.
Mascarille: Farewell, Monsieur Lelie.
Lelie: So! . . .
Mascarille: Hurry up, please; less talk, more suicide.
Lelie: Because you’d get my wardrobe if I died,/ You’d have me play the fool and pierce my heart.
Mascarille: I knew that you were faking, from the start./ Men often swear to kill themselves, and yet/ Few of them, nowadays, make good their threat.

Humor relies on the unexpected and there is no way that any reader expected Mascarille’s lines in that bit of dialogue. Jeeves is also extremely funny, but one again, Jeeves would never say to Bertie “Less talk; More Suicide.” Never.

Therein lies the big difference between the two valets. Jeeves is good; Mascarille is not. The trailer for The Bungler: “What if Jeeves decided to become morally bankrupt.” This evil Jeeves is every bit as clever as the Jeeves we know, but this Jeeves is perfectly willing to concoct a plan which involves lying to Lelie’s father, Pandolfe, to send him on a wild goose chase out of town and then telling Anselme that Pandolfe has died, staging a funeral, and then asking Anselme for money to help Lelie pay the funeral expenses—all so Lelie can get the money he needs to buy Celie from her owner so he can run off with her. A clever plan to be sure, but of course it fails.

We get a glimpse into the soul of Mascarille in a remarkable soliloquy which seems positively Shakespearean in the midst of a madcap story. He begins with a debate within himself:

Hush, my good nature; you haven’t a grain of sense.
And I’ll no longer hear your arguments.
It’s you, my anger, that I’ll listen to.
Am I obliged forever to undo
The blunders of a clod? I should resign!

He is right; there is no reason he should continue to strive to help his bumbling fool of a master. We never once get the impression that Jeeves is angry with Bertie for being a fool, but that is a level of heroic resolve which seems quite above mortals. Mascarille has no such calm. It is annoying, truly annoying to have a bumbling master.

But why does Mascarille persist in working for Lelie? It isn’t about service at all.

Were I to let my just impatience rule me,
They’d say that I’d been quick to call it quits,
And that I’d lost the vigor of my wits;
And what them would become of my renown
As the most glorious trickster in the town,
A reputation that I’ve earned by never
Failing to think of something wildly clever?

Once again, the contrast with Jeeves is revealing. Jeeves is the most clever person in the Wodehouse pantheon. Indeed, Jeeves may be the most clever person in the literary pantheon. Jeeves vs Hamlet in a battle of wits? I’d bet on Jeeves. Yet, while Jeeves would have every right to utter these lines about his reputation, it is inconceivable he would ever say such a thing, even in an aside to the audience.

Then comes the most fascinating pair of lines in Mascarille’s soliloquy:

O Mascarille, let honor be your guide!
Persist in those great works which are your pride.

Mascarille is a devious trickster engaged in any number of immoral schemes, and yet, in deciding to persist in his ways, he is letting honor be his guide. Honor? It is hard to find an honorable act in the whole play. Right after talking of honor, Mascarille explains:

And though your master irks you, persevere
Not for his sake, but for your own career.

Mascarille may be many things, but honorable is not one of them.

The disturbing note: imagine a person who has the inventive genius of Jeeves and Mascarille. Which moral character is more realistic? I’m afraid it isn’t even close. I can far more easily imagine meeting Mascarille than Jeeves.

Moliere is not listed in the index of Robert McCrum’s biography of P.G. Wodehouse, but if Wodehouse had never read this play before concocting Jeeves and Wooster, that would be amazing. If you like Wodehouse (and you should like Wodehouse), I am happy to heartily recommend the Richard Wilbur translation of The Bungler. In addition to all the other joys contained therein (the play, by the way that Victor Hugo said was Moliere’s best), you’ll get the added enjoyment of watching the evil version of Jeeves in action.

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