The Color-blind Knight

Photo91719A few miles from my house here in Franklin County, Tennessee, there is a roadside marker I’ve driven by a thousand times and never bothered to look at until recently. Entitled “The Blind Knight,” it reads as follows:

4-½ mi. S.E., near Liberty, Francis Joseph Campbell lived as a boy. Blinded in 1836, when 4 years old, he was educated in the first class of the State School for the Blind, later in Boston and Europe. Settling in England, his success in educating the blind and making them self-reliant earned him knighthood. He died in 1914.

Francis Joseph Campbell is the second person I know of from Franklin County to be knighted; the other is Sir John Templeton.  Campbell’s achievements are worth mentioning more fully–from Tennessee, he went on to teach at the Wisconson School for the Blind, the Perkins Institute outside Boston, where he taught music.  Some years later, Campbell moved to England, where he helped to found the Royal Normal College for the Blind in London (later the Royal National College), which focused on vocational as well as general education, and prided itself on its careful job placement program.  A devout believer in physical education, Campbell was the first blind person to climb Mont Blanc, a feat he considered the crowning achievement of his life.  In recognition of his services to the blind, Campbell was knighted by King Edward VII in 1909.

In addition to his work on behalf of the disabled, this native Southerner was a dedicated anti-slavery advocate.  A letter he wrote in 1899 to Booker T. Washington, whom he had heard lecture in England, contains the following post-script:

I think it will interest you to know that I am a native of Tennessee, and lived there until 1856 when I was driven away, first because I taught coloured people to read, and next because I refused to vote for Buchanan; further, an anti-slavery paper was sent me from Boston, which was seized in the post office. In the first instance, I was to be hanged, but was afterwards ordered to leave and never return.

The “Blind Knight” was, evidently, a color-blind knight as well.  Campbell relates elsewhere that the roots of his abolitionist position lay in a childhood memory pre-dating his loss of sight (from “Light in Darkness,” Good Words 23 [1882] p. 51):

One vivid recollection just before I became quite blind influenced my whole life.  Wheat threshing was going on. I sat playing in the straw. Our old coloured nurse, Aunt Maria, Somehow got into disgrace. I heard the stern order, “Bring the cow hide!” I saw and shall never forget the instrument of torture, and poor aunt Maria kneeling before it, begging for mercy. I have been an abolitionist ever since, thank God!

Postscript, August 2019. An image of Campbell climbing Mont Blanc can be seen here.

 

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Stations of the Cross

It’s Good Friday, and in Sewanee that means that at noon a large cross will be slowly carried from the School of Theology to All Saints’ Chapel by various members of the university and community.  Following the Way of the Cross will be many people I know and admire, some of whom have provided me with spiritual solace at troubled times in my life.  Sometimes I go out to watch the procession. Other times I cringe at the public display of piety and remain in my office. Once or twice over the years I’ve joined in.

“I don’t believe in God, but I miss Him,” Julian Barnes famously remarked in a 2008 New York Times editorial. This statement might well be called the creed of Christian atheism, a concept I first heard about this summer at Oxford when I happened to be seated for dinner next to Brian Mountford, Vicar of the University Church in Oxford, who had written a recent book on the topic, Christian Atheist: Belonging Without Believing The book explores “the challenges that reason, science, doubt, and modernity throw at orthodox belief,” according to Mountford’s website.

I appreciate the honesty of Mountford’s engagement, and understand implicitly what Barnes means by missing God, the loss of context.  My son goes to a school where there is mandatory chapel, and my other son will join him there next year.  It will be up to them to decide if they believe, but I at least want them to miss God if they do not.  The religious service is simply a part of my son’s schooling, as is athletics.  He talks more about the latter, but I know he is paying attention to the former.

Yesterday , my son’s soccer team was playing an away game, and so I hopped into my car after work to go watch. I didn’t play soccer as a boy, nor did anybody I know, but I love watching him play.  It was an hour’s drive away through the Tennessee country, and my various radio presets had all begun to fade out the further I got from home. A spin around the dial wasn’t turning up much–some Bon Jovi here, a drippy country ballad there, nothing worth listening to.  It’s at times like this that I switch to AM radio.

When I was little, my father listened constantly to AM radio in the car, and the static in the reception was a part of the listening experience. There was always a sports talk-show on, and guys with heavy accents would be complaining about the latest atrocity.  On the weekends, there was Irish music.  Lots of the Irish Rovers, the Clancy Brothers, or Frank Patterson.  It all seems a long time ago, in some distant place.  When I was young, I tell my students sometimes, I never knew a Protestant.  Everybody in Boston, it seemed, was either Irish, Italian, Jewish, or Greek.  Our shared culture was the Red Sox, and we were all very devout about that. But to my students or my children, the local teams, the Irish music, the fuzzy reception–none of it makes much sense.

As I’m driving on the backroads, it’s nothing but static on the AM dial. Static, and preachers. Bible quotes jump out between bursts of surface noise. Crackle crackle so loved the world  crackle crackle the way, the truth and the crackle crackle kingdom of God. It’s Holy Week, and there is a sense of urgency and enthusiasm in the preachers’ voices.  I did not grow up around Evangelicals and the booming confidence of their testimony has always been foreign to me, though I’ve lived in the South for a long time now. Through the white noise, I strain to make out what they’re talking about. I flip around these stations of the cross, but each one sounds the same. I make my way down the road, to bold proclamations of truth, obscured by static. Crackle crackle, Who do you say that I am?

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Behind the Times in Sewanee

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This past Sunday morning, I went up into Breslin Tower here in Sewanee to watch the clock being re-set for Daylight Savings Time. Keith Henley, who has been overseeing the clock for the past two years and seems to know everything about clocks in general, was generous enough to show me around.  Below are some pictures I took, with a few a remarks, and following them, a video of the Breslin Tower bells themselves, ringing out noon.  The beautiful picture above, better than any of mine, is from a blog-post on Wildbloomyonder.com, with a very fine rumination on Sewanee time.

Breslin Tower, which sits beside Convocation Hall at the center of campus, was donated by Thomas and Elizabeth Breslin in memory of their daughter, Lucy, who had died at the age of eight in 1876.

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It was modeled after the tower at Magdalen College in Oxford, which you can see in the background in this photo taken in the Botanical Gardens.

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If you want to go up into the tower, you have to like climbing up really steep stairs.  It’s sixty feet up.  These iron ones at the top are reportedly from a decommissioned naval vessel.

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Once you get into the room, with its padded wool carpet, you can see the rather large clock mechanism.

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It was made by the Seth Thomas Clock Company, of Connecticut.  I love the original bronze plaque.

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The idea of being “behind the times” is just too much fun, like being the Great and Powerful Wizard of Oz.IMG_0918

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The gears of the clock are intricate, and fascinating. They also make a very satisfying sound.

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Sometimes pennies are put on the pendulum, to help adjust its swing. These particular pennies have been used for over half a century.

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An old hand in my hand–it’s quite light.  “Gotta be light,” I’m told. “Too much weight will throw off the gears.”  We can’t decide if it’s pine or balsa.

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Keith is good enough to take me up to see, and hear, the bells.  The print below is a framed copy from the 1907 Cap and Gown, Sewanee’s yearbook.

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The largest bell weighs 2003 lbs.  The inscription reads, “To the Glory of God and in Loving Memory of Charlotte Ferris Douglas, Anno Domini 1900.  Vae Mihi Si Non Evangelisavero.” The Latin comes from St. Paul: “Woe is unto me, if I preach not the gospel!” (1st Corinthians 9:16, KJV).  The worn spot below is from where the hammer struck the bell for 112 years.  “Seemed like that spot could use a break,” I was told.

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The views from the belfry, into Guerry Garth and across toward All Saints Chapel and Shapard Tower, are especially impressive.

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But of course what’s best is being able to listen to the chimes up close.

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The Unmoved Mover

About two decades fifteen years ago, my wife had given a brilliant talk on Henry V and, as a result, been offered a job at Sewanee.  One perk was that they would pay our moving expenses, and so it came to pass one June day that I was in our apartment watching a few professional movers packing all of our stuff–our heavy, heavy stuff–into boxes and putting them onto a truck.  This was an especially agreeable occasion, because it was very hot, and our apartment was very un-air conditioned, and it was they who were packing and moving all of these heavy, heavy things, and not I. And as they packed and moved, I sat and pondered.

I wondered, to whom did I owe this very real pleasure of not moving these heavy things that I had been moving around to and fro in a variety of locations now for several years, as most 20- and 30-somethings are wont?  It seemed to me that my very first debt of gratitude was to my wife, of course.  If she weren’t a brilliant exponent of Shakespeare, well, I’d be loading the boxes.  And naturally, Sewanee deserves thanks for being willing to foot the bill for the moving expenses. So those were the most immediate debts of gratitude, it seemed to me.

But what about more remotely?  I began to think even harder on the matter, as the moving guys grunted and sweated with my stuff.  Perhaps I can even thank Shakespeare himself, I thought, that here I am, comfortably seated and not lifting a finger to help out.  After all, had he not written Henry V, then my wife would not have lectured on it and so impressed the Sewanee faculty.  The lines about the baggage boys at Agincourt came floating into my mind, and the histrionics of Kenneth Branagh reacting to them (Henry V, Act 4, scene 7):

Kill the poys and the luggage! ’tis expressly
against the law of arms: ’tis as arrant a piece of
knavery, mark you, as can be offer’t.

The poor boys, I reflected, simply doing their job.  Not so different from the men putting my luggage and such into their truck. And then it occurred to me that perhaps I owed a still deeper debt  to King Henry himself, who defeated the French at Agincourt, since Shakespeare would not have written the play had the battle not been won, and then my wife would not have lectured on it, and I would be sweating and swearing as I loaded the van.

But of course, it was not me loading the van at that moment, and for this Shakespeare and Henry V were in some part responsible, as might also be  invention of the longbow and the tennis balls sent by the Dauphin. Still further back, perhaps I might even credit the longstanding enmity between England and France, the rivalry of nation with nation, or the simple mean-spirited propensity of humankind to compete and kill.  Who could say?

Perhaps, in the end, my comfort on that humid June afternoon was ultimately an unintended and distant ramification of the malice lurking in the human heart.  And what was it that had put this long line of contingent events into motion, that had set all these things along their way, but that First Cause whom Aristotle identifies at the center of all Creation, the Unmoved Mover?  O thou eternal Mover of the heavens, cries out King Henry’s son in a later play. Look with a gentle eye upon this wretch!  O movers, had I asked you that afternoon, what might you have said about all this?

Dedicated to a True friend, who suggested the title, and seems to like my moving tales.

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