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Here beginneth the chronicle of those memorable circumstances of the year 1620, as recorded by Nathaniel Morton, keeper of the records of Plymouth Colony, based on the account of William Bradford, sometime governor thereof:

The Desolate Wilderness

So they left that goodly and pleasant city of Leyden, which had been their resting-place for above eleven years, but they knew that they were pilgrims and strangers here below, and looked not much on these things, but lifted up their eyes to Heaven, their dearest country, where God hath prepared for them a city (Heb. XI, 16), and therein quieted their spirits.

When they came to Delfs-Haven they found the ship and all things ready, and such of their friends as could not come with them followed after them, and sundry came from Amsterdam to see them shipt, and to take their leaves of them. One night was spent with little sleep with the most, but with friendly entertainment and Christian discourse, and other real expressions of true Christian love.

The next day they went on board, and their friends with them, where truly doleful was the sight of that sad and mournful parting, to hear what sighs and sobs and prayers did sound amongst them; what tears did gush from every eye, and pithy speeches pierced each other’s heart, that sundry of the Dutch strangers that stood on the Key as spectators could not refrain from tears. But the tide (which stays for no man) calling them away, that were thus loath to depart, their Reverend Pastor, falling down on his knees, and they all with him, with watery cheeks commended them with the most fervent prayers unto the Lord and His blessing; and then with mutual embraces and many tears they took their leaves one of another, which proved to be the last leave to many of them.

Being now passed the vast ocean, and a sea of troubles before them in expectations, they had now no friends to welcome them, no inns to entertain or refresh them, no houses, or much less towns, to repair unto to seek for succour; and for the season it was winter, and they that know the winters of the country know them to be sharp and violent, subject to cruel and fierce storms, dangerous to travel to known places, much more to search unknown coasts.

Besides, what could they see but a hideous and desolate wilderness, full of wilde beasts and wilde men? and what multitudes of them there were, they then knew not: for which way soever they turned their eyes (save upward to Heaven) they could have but little solace or content in respect of any outward object; for summer being ended, all things stand in appearance with a weatherbeaten face, and the whole country, full of woods and thickets, represented a wild and savage hew.

If they looked behind them, there was a mighty ocean which they had passed, and was now as a main bar or gulph to separate them from all the civil parts of the world.

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And the Fair Land

Any one whose labors take him into the far reaches of the country, as ours lately have done, is bound to mark how the years have made the land grow fruitful.

This is indeed a big country, a rich country, in a way no array of figures can measure and so in a way past belief of those who have not seen it. Even those who journey through its Northeastern complex, into the Southern lands, across the central plains and to its Western slopes can only glimpse a measure of the bounty of America.

And a traveler cannot but be struck on his journey by the thought that this country, one day, can be even greater. America, though many know it not, is one of the great underdeveloped countries of the world; what it reaches for exceeds by far what it has grasped.

So the visitor returns thankful for much of what he has seen, and, in spite of everything, an optimist about what his country might be. Yet the visitor, if he is to make an honest report, must also note the air of unease that hangs everywhere.

For the traveler, as travelers have been always, is as much questioned as questioning. And for all the abundance he sees, he finds the questions put to him ask where men may repair for succor from the troubles that beset them.

His countrymen cannot forget the savage face of war. Too often they have been asked to fight in strange and distant places, for no clear purpose they could see and for no accomplishment they can measure. Their spirits are not quieted by the thought that the good and pleasant bounty that surrounds them can be destroyed in an instant by a single bomb. Yet they find no escape, for their survival and comfort now depend on unpredictable strangers in far-off corners of the globe.

How can they turn from melancholy when at home they see young arrayed against old, black against white, neighbor against neighbor, so that they stand in peril of social discord. Or not despair when they see that the cities and countryside are in need of repair, yet find themselves threatened by scarcities of the resources that sustain their way of life. Or when, in the face of these challenges, they turn for leadership to men in high places — only to find those men as frail as any others.

So sometimes the traveler is asked whence will come their succor. What is to preserve their abundance, or even their civility? How can they pass on to their children a nation as strong and free as the one they inherited from their forefathers? How is their country to endure these cruel storms that beset it from without and from within?

Of course the stranger cannot quiet their spirits. For it is true that everywhere men turn their eyes today much of the world has a truly wild and savage hue. No man, if he be truthful, can say that the specter of war is banished. Nor can he say that when men or communities are put upon their own resources they are sure of solace; nor be sure that men of diverse kinds and diverse views can live peaceably together in a time of troubles.
But we can all remind ourselves that the richness of this country was not born in the resources of the earth, though they be plentiful, but in the men that took its measure. For that reminder is everywhere — in the cities, towns, farms, roads, factories, homes, hospitals, schools that spread everywhere over that wilderness.

We can remind ourselves that for all our social discord we yet remain the longest enduring society of free men governing themselves without benefit of kings or dictators. Being so, we are the marvel and the mystery of the world, for that enduring liberty is no less a blessing than the abundance of the earth.

And we might remind ourselves also, that if those men setting out from Delftshaven had been daunted by the troubles they saw around them, then we could not this autumn be thankful for a fair land.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!!

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Annually on Thanksgiving, since 1961, The Wall Street Journal has published two editorials.

“The Desolate Wildnerness” is the opening passage from “the chronicle of those memorable circumstances of the year 1620, as recorded by Nathaniel Morton, keeper of the records of Plymouth Colony, based on the account of William Bradford, sometime governor thereof,” whose bust appears at the upper right.

“And The Fair Land“ is an essay written in 1961 by Vermont Royster, who was then the editor of the Wall Street Journal.

Now, I’ve just called Senator Sherrod Brown (D-OH) a Communist. Mr. Brown would call himself a Progressive Democrat. There is nothing Democratic about Sen. Brown except he might stress that a majority rules when his party has the majority. However, if you look at the run of ads on the Internet all promoted by “Friends of Sherrod Brown” one word stands out in the advertisements – “Progressive.”

Previously I presented a five part series on how the American Left would like to use the judiciary to change the Framers’ Constitution to a “21st century constitution.” (Part I appears here, Part II appears here, Part III here, Part IV here and Part V is here.)

Many would reflect that progressives are Statist, Marxist, Fascist, Nazi or Communist. Maybe Statism is the combo-pak for all the others. Let’s take a brief look at the Progressive movement in the United States. Keep in mind, the use of “Progressive” is from Sherrod Brown, his so-called “friends” and the likes of Nancy Pelosi, Barabara Boxer, Maxine Waters, Charles Schumer and the list goes on and on.

President Wilson wrote in Congressional Government:

“Government is not a machine, but a living thing.”

From this perspective, the ever expanding power of the state was entirely natural. Wilson, along with the vast majority of progressive intellectuals, believed that the increase in state power was akin to an inevitable evolutionary process. Governmental “experimentation,” the watchword of pragmatic liberals from Dewey and Wilson to FDR, was the social analogue to evolutionary adaptation. Wilson was the first president to speak disparagingly of the Constitution.

Another prominent progressive, Jane Addams wrote:

“[W]e must demand that the individual shall be willing to lose the sense of personal achievement, and shall be content to realize his activity only in connection to the activity of the many.”

Let’s further examine Wilson and his writings:

“Our problem is not merely to help the students to adjust to themselves to world life . . . [but] to make them as unlike their fathers as we can.”

In his 1890 essay, Leaders of Men, Wilson explained that the “true leader” uses the masses like “tools.” He continued:

“Men are as clay in the hands of the consummate leader.”

As we see today Wilson is indeed correct. The have’s vs. the have not’s. Class warfare called upon by that consummate Marxist, Barack Obama, and followed up by Sherrod Brown. The “Occupy Wall Street” gang of misfits denouncing the so-called rich who go to work each day to earn a living while they illegally camp out in parks and march violently in city streets, all with the quiet support, a wink and a nod, from the progressives like Sherrod Brown, Barack Obama and their political ilk. And we even see the telltale return of ACORN, the previously funded arm of Obama exposed in recent years.

I’ve called Sherrod Brown a Communist but maybe there is more, an alternative description.

Socialism was predicated on the Marxist view that “workers” as a class were more bound by common interests than any criteria. Implicit in the slogan “Workers of the world, unite!” was the idea that class was more important than race, nationality, religion, language, culture, or any other “opiate” of the masses.

After all, the notion that political power is and should be vested in the people was a classical liberal position. Populism was a more radical version of this position. It’s still a “power to the people” ideology, but it is skeptical of the parliamentary machinery of conventional liberalism. (e.g. checks and balances)

In the US since the 19th and early 20th century populists pushed for reforms such as direct elections of senators and the nationalization of industry and banking. Direct democracy and nationalization were two main planks of the Fascist agenda. Populists sought to expand the scope of government in order to smash the “economic royalist” and help the little guy.

FDR preached for “bold experimentation” and declared:

“The people . . . have not failed. In their need they have . . . asked for discipline and direction under leadership. They have made me the present instrument of their wishes. In that I take it.”

Progressives and the others twist the calls for leadership as calls for bigger government and more power to themselves. Mussolini promised to restore two things in short supply: pride and order. Sound familiar?

Sherrod Brown and his progressive ilk are not so different than a quick visit to a local Starbucks where they have brochures highlighting their Corporate Social Responsibility Report covering all progressive “concerns” such as the environment, trade, sustainable development and so on. Let’s not overlook the section on “embracing diversity” in which a huge multinational boasts that it is “striving to increase our diversity in our US workforce.” Using terms such as “Partners” stating how much they spend for “extensive diversity training courses to address our partners’. Employees is restated by the Orwellian term “Partners”. Why not just call them all Comrades?

Let’s not digress but continue to compare “progressive” to other forms of tyranny.  Don’t think I’m getting to extreme here but remember a look at history only tells that regimes that take over the people don’t necessarily happen over night. The advertising firm Leo Burnett has made a point over the years that an advertisement must be delivered at least nine times to get its message to stick.

Let’s get back to the “Occupy Wall Street” gang that is now erupting into violence. Sherrod Brown and Barack Obama are not publicly denouncing any of this. Historian Marisa Linton wrote:

“For the first time in history, terror became an official government policy, with the stated aim to use violence in order to achieve a higher political goal.”

The silence by the Progressives is deafening but not unexpected. Why not let their surrogates in the streets start the chaos they so relish as and end to a means?

Stuart Chase was famous for the quote at the end of his book A New Deal,  Why should Russians have all the fun remaking a world?, he also reported after visiting Russian in 1927 that unlike America, where “hungry stockholders” were making economic decisions, in the Soviet Union the all-caring state was in the saddle, “informed battalions of statistics” and heroically aided by Communist Party officials who need “no further incentive than the burning zeal to create a new heaven and a new earth which flames in the breast of every good Communist.”

Call Sherrod Brown what you wish but he calls himself a Progressive and by definition I’ll stick with identifying him as a Communist. With a wink, a nod, and a multitude of Internet advertising Senator Sherrod Brown of Ohio is helping to lead the way from the US Constitution with his own attempt to expand the progressive direction of the Democrat Party and to gain more power for himself in the process.

Fighting against the Progressives is really no different than fighting the War on Terror only in domestic terms. They must be stopped!

Injun Summer

Yep, sonny, this is sure enough Injun summer. Don’t know what that is, I reckon, do you?

Well, that’s when all the homesick Injuns come back to play. You know, a long time ago, long afore yer granddaddy was born even, there used to be heaps of Injuns around here – thousands – millions, I reckon, fas as that’s concerned. Reg’lar sure ‘nough Injuns – none o’ yer cigar store Injuns, not much. They wuz all around here – right here where you’re standin’.

Don’t be skeered – hain’t none around now, leastways no live ones. They been gone this many a year.

They all went away and died, so they ain’t no more left.

But every year, ‘long about now, they all come back, leastways their sperrits do. They’re here now. You can see ‘em off across the fields. Look real hard. See that kind o’ hazy, misty look out yonder? Well, them’s Injuns – Injun sperrits marchin ‘ along an’ dancin’ in the sunlight. That’s what makes that kind o’ haze that’s everywhere – it’s just the sperrits of the Injuns all come back. They’re all around us now.

See off yonder; see them tepees? They kind o’ look like corn shocks from here, but them’s Injun tents, sure as you’re a foot high. See ‘em now? Sure, I knowed you could. Smell that smoky sort o’ smell in the air? That’s the campfires a-burnin’ and their pipes a-goin’.

Lots o’ people say it’s just leaves burnin’, but it ain’t. It’s the campfires, an’ th’ Injuns are hoppin’ ’round ‘em t’ beat the old Harry.

You just come out here tonight when the moon is hangin’ over the jill off yonder an’ the harvest fields is all swimmin’ in the moonlight, an’ you can see the Injuns and the tepees jest as plain as kin be. You can, eh? I nowed you would.

Jever notice how the leaves turn red ’bout this time o’ year?” That’s jest another sign o’ redskins. That’s when an old Injun sperrit gits tired dancin’ an’ goes up an’ squats on a leaf t’ rest. Why, I kin hear ‘em rustlin’ an’ whisperin’ an’ creepin’ ’round among the leaves all the time; an’ ever’ once’n a while a leaf gives way under some fat old Injun ghost and comes floatin’ down to the ground. See – here’s one now. See how red it is? That’s the war paint rubbed off’n an Injun ghost, sure’s you’re born.

Purty soon all the Injuns’ll go marchin’ away agin, back to the happy huntin’ ground, but next year you’ll see ‘em troopin’ back – th’ sky jest hazy with ‘em and their campfires smolderin’ away jest like they are now.

NOTE: John T. McCutcheon’s “Injun Summer” was first published in 1907. The original of the cartoon hangs in the museum of the Chicago Historical Society.

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“It was Indian summer, a bluebird sort of day as we call it in the north, warm and sunny, without a breath of wind; the water was sky-blue, the shores a bank of solid gold.” — Sigurd F. Olson