Christmas Every Day

1660

Battle of the Long Sault

The continued existence of the colony of New France was always more than a little perilous. At risk from European powers when the home country went to war with the Dutch or the British, and under the constant threat of native resistance, particularly from the savage Iroquois Confederacy, the colonists lived in a state of perpetual tension.

Dollard des Ormeaux was a young man with some military experience before migrating to New France where he settled in Ville-Marie, what is now Montreal. Learning that an Iroquois force assembling on the Ottawa River was intent on raiding French settlements on the St Laurence, Dollard proposed taking a party inland and ambushing the hostile natives. With the agreement of the town’s leadership, Dollard gathered 17 settler volunteers and 4 Huron for the guerrilla task. In early May they reached the Ottawa and established themselves in an old Algonquian fort at the Long Sault, where they were joined by another 40 Huron warriors.

The Iroquois force they meant to ambush was far larger than anticipated, numbering perhaps 700, and Dollard and his men soon found themselves besieged. They held off the Iroquois for five days, despite the defection of many of the Huron. The crucial moment came when Dollard lit a barrel of explosives which he meant to hurl into the enemy ranks but at that moment he was shot and the gunpowder fell back into the fort, killing many of its defenders in the explosion. The Iroquois soon overran the palisades and found only 5 Frenchmen alive; 4 soon died and the other was taken prisoner along with a few Huron to be tortured to death and cannibalized.

The fact that the Iroquois, at this point, returned home and did not attack the settlements has led to Dollard and his men being treated as the saviours of New France. Recent historians have tried to downplay the heroic aspect, suggesting that Dollard was really intent on stealing furs, and that the Iroquois would not have gone on to imperil New France anyway. The debate continues.

A Big Day in Tudor History

1499

Heir to the Tudor dynasty of England, Prince Arthur, weds by proxy Spanish princess Katharine of Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella. Katharine is 13 and Arthur is 12; they will not meet until over two years later. They were married on November 14, 1501 but they may not have consummated the marriage — a matter of enormous consequence as Arthur died in April 1502 and Katharine was left a widow. Her claim to be a virgin sped the papal dispensation that allowed her to marry Henry VIII, Arthur’s brother, in 1509.

1536

Henry VIII divorced his wife Katharine of Aragon in order to marry his pregnant mistress Anne Boleyn. Unfortunately for Anne, she could not produce a male heir, giving birth only to a daughter Elizabeth, and suffering three miscarriages. Henry then decided to replace her with Jane Seymour and charged Anne with incest and adultery; she was beheaded on this date.

1568

Elizabeth, daughter of Henry VIII, was not the only claimant to the English throne. In the person of Mary, Queen of Scots, she faced another woman of Tudor blood, untouched by the accusations of bastardy which haunted Elizabeth, and supported by the princes of Catholic Europe. On this day, Elizabeth orders the arrest of Mary who had abdicated the Scottish throne and fled over the English border from rebellious nobles.

1164

The death of Héloïse

Chambers recounts the story of Peter Abélard (1079-1142), a brilliant but erratic theologian, and Héloïse, a scholar and nun (1090-1164). Abélard was a remarkable philosopher but not a good man, as you shall learn:

The story of Heloise and Abelard is one of the saddest on record. It is a true story of man’s selfishness and woman’s devotion and self-abnegation. If we wished for an allegory which should be useful to exhibit the bitter strife which has to be waged between the earthly and the heavenly, between passion and principle, in the noblest minds, we should find it provided for us in this painful history. We know all the particulars, for Abelard has written his own confessions, without screening himself or concealing his guilt; and several letters which passed between the lovers after they were separated, and devoted to the exclusive service of religion, have come down to posterity.

Not alone the tragic fate of the offenders, but also their exalted worth and distinguished position, helped to make notorious the tale of their fall. Heloise was an orphan girl, eighteen years old, residing with a canon of Notre Dame, at Paris, who was her uncle and guardian. This uncle took great pains to educate her, and obtained for her the advantage of Abelard’s instruction, who directed her studies at first by letters. Her devotion to study rendered her remarkable among the ladies of Paris, even more than her beauty. ‘In face,’ Abelard himself informs us, ‘she was not insignificant; in her abundance of learning she was unparalleled; and because this gift is rare in women, so much the more did it make this girl illustrious through the whole kingdom.’

Abelard, though twice the age of Heloise, was a man of great personal attraction, as well as the most famous man of his time, as a rising teacher, philosopher, and divine. His fame was then at its highest. Pupils came to him by thousands. He was lifted up to that dangerous height of intellectual arrogance, from which the scholar has often to be hurled with violence by a hard but kind fate, that he may not let slip the true humility of wisdom. ‘Where was found,’ Heloise writes, ‘the king or the philosopher that had emulated your reputation? Was there a village, a city, a kingdom, that did not ardently wish to see you? When you appeared in public, who did not run to behold you? And when you withdrew, every neck was stretched, every eye sprang forward to follow you. The women, married and unmarried, when Abelard was away, longed for his return!’ And, becoming more explicit, she continues: ‘You possessed, indeed, two qualifications—a tone of voice, and a grace in singing—which gave you the control over every female heart. These powers were peculiarly yours, for I do not know that they ever fell to the share of any other philosopher. To soften by playful instruments the stern labours of philosophy, you composed several sonnets on love, and on similar subjects. These you were often heard to sing, when the harmony of your voice gave new charms to the expression. In all circles nothing was talked of but Abelard; even the most ignorant, who could not judge of harmony, were enchanted by the melody of your voice. Female hearts were unable to resist the impression.’ So the girl’s fancies come back to the woman, and it must have caused a pang in the fallen scholar to see how much his guilt had been greater than hers.

It was a very thoughtless thing for Fulbert to throw together a woman so enthusiastic and a man so dangerously attractive. In his eagerness that his niece’s studies should advance as rapidly as possible, he forgot the tendency of human instinct to assert its power over minds the most cultivated, and took Abelard into his house. A passionate attachment grew up between teacher and pupil: reverence for the teacher on the one hand, interest in the pupil on the other, changed into warmer emotions. Evil followed. What to lower natures would have seemed of little moment, brought to them a life of suffering and repentance. In his penitent confessions, no doubt conscientiously enough, Abelard represents his own conduct as a deliberate scheme of a depraved will to accomplish a wicked design; and such a terrible phase of an intellectual mind is real, but the circumstances in which the lovers were placed are enough to account for the unhappy issue. The world, however, it appears, was pleased to put the worst construction upon what it heard, and even Heloise herself expresses a painful doubt, long afterwards, for a moment, at a time when Abelard seemed to have forgotten her. ‘Account,’ she says, ‘for this conduct, if you can, or must I tell you my suspicions, which are also the general suspicions of the world? It was passion, Abelard, and not friendship, that drew you to me; it was not love, but a baser feeling.’

The attachment of the lovers had long been publicly known, and made famous by the songs which Abelard himself penned, to the utter neglect of his lectures and his pupils, when the utmost extent of the mischief became clear at last to the unsuspicious Fulbert. Abelard contrived to convey Heloise to the nunnery of Argenteuil. The uncle demanded that a marriage should immediately take place; and to this Abelard agreed, though he knew that his prospects of advancement would be ruined, if the marriage was made public. Heloise, on this very account, opposed the marriage; and, even after it had taken place, would not confess the truth. Fulbert at once divulged the whole, and Abelard’s worldly prospects were for ever blasted. Not satisfied with this, Fulbert took a most cruel and unnatural revenge upon Abelard, [his men castrated Abelard] the shame of which decided the wretched man to bury himself as a monk in the Abbey of St. Dennis. Out of jealousy and distrust, he requested Heloise to take the veil; and having no wish except to please her husband, she immediately complied, in spite of the opposition of her friends.

Thus, to atone for the error of the past, both devoted themselves wholly to a religious life, and succeeded in adorning it with their piety and many virtues. Abelard underwent many sufferings and persecutions. Heloise first became prioress of Argenteuil; afterwards, she removed with her nuns to the Paraclete, an asylum which Abelard had built and then abandoned. But she never subdued her woman’s devotion for Abelard. While abbess of the Paraclete, Heloise revealed the undercurrent of earthly passion which flowed beneath the even piety of the bride of heaven, in a letter which she wrote to Abelard, on the occasion of an account of his sufferings, written by himself to a friend, falling into her hands. In a series of letters which passed between them at this time, she exhibits a pious and Christian endeavour to perform her duties as an abbess, but persists in retaining the devoted attachment of a wife for her husband. Abelard, somewhat coldly, endeavours to direct her mind entirely to heaven; rather affects to treat her as a daughter than a wife; and seems anxious to check those feelings towards himself which he judged it better for the abbess of the Paraclete to discourage than to foster. Heloise survived Abelard by twenty-one years.

2001

The death of Douglas Adams

Douglas Adams (1952-2001) was a British writer, educated at Cambridge, and known for his humour and wry observations on the human condition. His best-known work was The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, which appeared first as a radio series, then a television series, and then a worthless piece of cinematic junk. (However rotten the movie treatment of the Guide was, it was infinitely better than the unspeakably dreadful TV series made of his Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency. The fact that this series has been granted a second instalment is one of the more profound arguments against the existence of God.) Adams also wrote for, and appeared in, Monty Python skits, as well as authoring a number of Dr Who episodes. He died of heart failure in the United States.

Here are some of his lines:

In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and been widely regarded as a bad move.

Any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.

Space is big. You just won’t believe how vastly, hugely, mind-bogglingly big it is. I mean, you may think it’s a long way down the road to the drug store, but that’s just peanuts to space.

There is a theory which states that if ever anyone discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states that this has already happened. 

Anything that is in the world when you’re born is normal and ordinary and is just a natural part of the way the world works. Anything that’s invented between when you’re fifteen and thirty- five is new and exciting and revolutionary and you can probably get a career in it. Anything invented after you’re thirty-five is against the natural order of things.

 He hoped and prayed that there wasn’t an afterlife. Then he realized there was a contradiction involved here and merely hoped that there wasn’t an afterlife.

Douglas Adams was an outspoken atheist.

1799

The fall of Seringapatam

In the 18th century, India was divided into a multitude of princely states, many of whom were allied with the British East India Company, and others who were more jealous of their independence. One of the most important of the latter was the Kingdom of Mysore, ruled by Tipu Sultan, an energetic and innovative ruler who persecuted non-Muslims, despised the British and who had led several wars against them. He attempted to recruit the Turkish Empire and Napoleon’s French armies into an alliance against the East India Company. In the Fourth Anglo-Mysore War Tipu fell defending his fortress at Seringapatam. Chambers describes the situation thusly:

On the 4^th of May 1799, Seringapatam was taken, and the empire of Hyder Ally extinguished by the death of his son, the Sultan Tippoo Sahib. The storming of this great fortress by the British troops took place in broad day, and was on that account unexpected by the enemy. The commander, General Sir David Baird, led one of the storming parties in person, with characteristic gallantry, and was the first man after the forlorn hope to reach the top of the breach. So far, well; but when there, he discovered to his surprise a second ditch within, full of water. For a moment he thought it would be impossible to get over this difficulty. He had fortunately, however, observed some workmen’ s scaffolding in coming along, and taking this up hastily, was able by its means to cross the ditch; after which all that remained was simply a little hard fighting. Tippoo came forward with apparent gallantry to resist the assailants, and was afterwards taken from under a heap of slain. It is supposed he made this attempt in desperation, having just ordered the murder of twelve British soldiers, which he might well suppose would give him little chance of quarter, if his enemy were aware of the fact.

It was remarkable that, fifteen years before, Baird had undergone a long and cruel captivity in this very fort, under Tippoo’ s father, Hyder Ally. The hardships he underwent on that occasion were extreme; yet, amidst all his sufferings, he never for a moment lost heart, or ceased to hope for a release. He was truly a noble soldier. As with Wellington, his governing principle was a sense of duty. In every matter, he seemed to be solely anxious to discover what was right to be done, that he might do it. He was a Scotchman, a younger son of Mr. Baird, of Newbyth, in East Lothian (born in 1757, died in 1829). His person was tall and handsome, and his look commanding. In all the relations of his life he was a most worthy man, his kindness of heart winning him the love of all who came in contact with him.

An anecdote of Sir David Baird’s boyhood forms the key to his character. When a student at Mr. Locie’ s Military Academy at Chelsea, where all the routine of garrison duty was kept up, he was one night acting as sentinel. A companion, older than himself, came and desired leave to pass out, that he might fulfil an engagement in London. Baird steadily refused— ‘No,’ said he, ‘that I cannot do; but, if you please, you may knock me down, and walk out over my body.’

The taking of Seringapatam gave occasion for a remarkable exercise of juvenile talent in a youth of nineteen, who was studying art in the Royal Academy. He was then simply Robert Ker Porter, but afterwards, as Sir Robert, became respectfully known for his Travels in Persia; while his two sisters Jane and Anna Maria, attained a reputation as prolific writers of prose fiction. There had been such a thing before as a panorama, or picture giving details of a scene too extensive to be comprehended from one point of view; but it was not a work entitled to much admiration. With marvelous enthusiasm this boy artist began to cover a canvas of two hundred feet long with the scenes attending the capture of the great Indian fort; and, strange to say, he had finished it in six weeks. Sir Benjamin West, President of the Royal Academy, got an early view of the picture, and pronounced it a miracle of precocious talent.

When it was arranged for exhibition, vast multitudes both of the learned and the unlearned flocked to see it. ‘I can never forget,’ says Dr. Dibdin,’ its first impression upon my own mind. It was as a thing dropped from the clouds,—all fire, energy, intelligence, and animation. You looked a second time, the figures moved, and were commingled in hot and bloody fight. You saw the flash of the cannon, the glitter of the bayonet, and the gleam of the falchion. You longed to be leaping from crag to crag with Sir David Baird, who is hallooing his men on to victory! Then again you seemed to be listening to the groans of the wounded and the dying—and more than one female was carried out swooning. The oriental dress, the jewelled turban, the curved and ponderous scimitar—these were among the prime favourites of Sir Robert’s pencil, and he treated them with literal truth. The colouring was sound throughout; the accessories strikingly characteristic The public poured in thousands for even a transient gaze.’

May 2

The sinking of the “Admiral Belgrano”

In April 1982, the Argentinian military junta was not doing well, plagued by civil unrest, human rights atrocities, and economic distress. In order to distract the public’s mind from their dictatorial government’s failures, the ruling generals decided to invade the Falkland Islands, a British colony populated almost exclusively by sheep farmers. The islands had been briefly occupied by Argentina in the early nineteenth century and it was a long-standing myth that these Islas Malvinas had been cruelly ripped from their rightful owners by nasty British imperialists. The generals reckoned that the military might of the British lion had grown toothless and that a female leader (Margaret Thatcher) would lack the martial spirit required for a fight; accordingly, Argentinian commandos were landed on the Falklands and other British possessions in the southern Atlantic. Big mistake. Thatcher ordered a military task force to retake the islands, an enormously difficult undertaking carried out over thousands of miles.

Among the ships dispatched south was the nuclear submarine HMS Conqueror carrying ship-killing torpedoes. When it reached the combat area it was particularly on the lookout for the Argentinian aircraft carrier Veinticino de Mayo but what it spotted first was the Admiral Belgrano, an American-built cruiser that had survived the attack on Pearl Harbor and was later sold to Argentina. Conqueror launched three torpedoes at the cruiser, two of which exploded, tearing holes in the ship and causing it to rapidly sink with the loss of 323 crewmen. Even more significant than the destruction of the Belgrano was that its sinking persuaded the Argentinian navy to withdraw to port, leaving the job of attacking the British fleet to land-based aircraft.

The sinking of the Belgrano was immediately controversial, partly because of a tasteless headline in a London tabloid (see below) but also because the ship was outside the maritime exclusion zone and not heading toward the Falklands. Neither of the latter factors mattered militarily and the Argentine navy has always regarded the attack on the cruiser to have been a legitimate act of war.

By the famed Dr. Albertus Boli (no relation):

The Worker! How we love to sing his praises!
The Worker! How we hate to give him raises!
We praise him as the fount of every virtue,
And also ’cause his union pals can hurt you.

The Worker! He’s the hero of our story!
The Worker! His the fame and his the glory!
We gladly pay him tribute every Mayday,
As long as we don’t have to every payday.

It’s really best, although it may seem funny,
That he should work, and we should get the money:
For ’tis a truth that cannot be ignored
That Virtue ought to be its own reward.