1/9/23
Newsletter #214
The Crack of Dawn
Most of my favorite historians have died: David McCullough, Robert K. Massie, John Toland. Luckily, there are at least two living historians that I like very much: Ron Chernow and Candace Millard. Everybody subliminally knows of Ron Chernow because he wrote the book, Hamilton, which is the basis for the musical, Hamilton. Oddly, when I read the book, which is fabulous, I didn’t envision a hip-hop musical. Ron Chernow’s last book, Grant, is one of the best books I’ve ever read. Chernow’s book on George Washington, wittily entitled, Washington, is the best book on our enigmatic first president. I’ve read several other well-regarded biographies of Washington, and they don’t come close to Chernow’s book. Just like David McCullough, when Ron Chernow writes a book about someone, nobody else needs to bother anymore.
Candace Millard is relatively new to the field (therefore she’s young and hopefully has many books ahead of her) and has so far only written four books. Her first book, River of Doubt, was incredible, and I will read it again someday. It is the story of Teddy Roosevelt’s ill-fated South American safari in search of a previously uncharted tributary of the Amazon and it’s a harrowing tale.
I just finished reading Candace Millard’s newest book, River of the Gods, which I found disappointing, but I think it’s an honorable failure. The subject of the book is Sir Richard Francis Burton, a British explorer from the 1850s. Having read a previous, disappointing book about Burton; as well as having seen the disappointing movie about him, Mountains of the Moon (1990), I think Burton himself is the problem – he seems like he should be interesting, and somehow, he just isn’t.
Finally bringing me to where this idea began, which is located in Candace Millard’s terrific book, Destiny of the Republic, the sad, fascinating story of America’s 20th president, James Garfield. From every indication in his life, Garfield seemed like he was going to be one of our great presidents. Garfield was shot five months into his presidency, then lingered for three months before he died.
And so, his Vice-President, Chester A. Arthur, became the 21st president. Chester Arthur was a crooked Republican party stooge, in the pocket of New York’s infamous Boss Roscoe Conkling. New York politics in the 1870s was run by Conkling and Boss Thurlow Tweed, who worked out of place called Tammany Hall. The sweetest plum graft job of all was the head of the New York Customs House, the largest port in America. Chester Arthur got himself appointed to that position in 1870 by President Grant. Chester Arthur was a happy crook with the best job from which to steal and was therefore highly admired by the Republican Party. And strictly as a political prize, they tacked him on the ticket with Garfield.
Garfield got shot, then lingered in pain in the White House for eleven weeks during the hottest summer in years. Chester Arthur didn’t know what to do, so when his country needed him most, he went into hiding. Nobody heard anything from Arthur for two months.
This is true. At this crucial moment, in stepped Julia I. Sand (1850–1933), a bed-ridden, deaf woman of 31 living in New Jersey, who began corresponding with Chester Arthur, beginning in late August 1881. Arthur saved twenty-three letters, all of which were discovered in 1958. The last surviving letter is dated September 15, 1883. It is not known whether Arthur ever wrote back as no letter by him has ever been found.
Julia Sand instilled a conscience into Chester Arthur, which he sadly lacked right up until she began writing him. Over the course of 23 letters, Sand gently steered him in the proper direction on many issues — mainly, right and wrong — being his conscience for him, and Chester Arthur amazingly just went along with it. He needed guidance and he got it. Chester A. Arthur wasn’t a good president, but he wasn’t a terrible president, either. Historians place him at about 34 out of 46. Thankfully, the universe stepped in and helped him out at the right moment, and he was receptive.
Two cats asleep behind me, jazz on the box, and another tale told.
Tally-ho!