After returning from the holidays in California, I am duty-bound to post a testimonial squib on behalf of a marvelous attraction for history buffs in the San Francisco Bay area. That is Coit Tower, standing atop Telegraph Hill. The tower was erected in 1933, thanks to a bequest by the eccentric Lillie Hitchcock Coit. As a girl Lillie lost two playmates in a fire and as a teenager developed close connections with the fire fighters in Knickerbocker’s Engine Company No. 5. Over the years she not only joined in their street parades as a mascot but often dressed in men’s clothes and smoked cigars when she went out with the boys for an evening of poker or other games of chance at the hangouts along North Beach. Eventually she married a wealthy businessman, Howard Coit, and when she died, left a third of her fortune to the city of San Francisco to augment its beauty in some appropriate manner. Coit Tower is the result. The tower itself provides a magnificent view of the city, reached by elevator; but the real attractions, for my money, are the numerous murals on the tower’s interior walls. They were created by over two dozen artists during the Great Depression, through a project sponsored by the federal Public Works of Art (PWA). The murals are frescoes evoking scenes of California life: busy ferry scenes, lush orchards, canneries and construction sites, cable cars, farmworkers, lawyers, business leaders, architects, librarians, pickpockets, athletes, FDR and Eleanor, boys with ice cream cones and much more. A wonderful book displays the artists' handiwork, Coit Tower San Francisco: Its History and Art, by Masha Zakheim Jewett, the daughter of one of the artists. My wife and I have visited the tower several times, but on this occasion we were delighted to discover that the delicate frescoes had been recently cleaned. Most are visible on the first floor. We had also learned from the Coit Tower website that small groups could arrange for a tour of the spiral staircase, not generally open to the public, where additional murals are located. We had tried without success to contact the tower in advance in order to arrange a tour; but when we arrived, someone kindly agreed to show our party of six or seven the murals alongside the stairs. San Francisco, of course, is famous for its steep hills and cable cars; and fittingly, the primarily mural on the stairs was of Powell Street, one of those steep thoroughfares and also, as it happened, exactly where we were staying for our time in the city. Our guide pointed out various details of the mural with a flashlight in the dimly lit passageway. (The tight quarters are why the stairs are not used by the public now: too great a danger of brushing up against the frescoes and degrading them.) The top of the stairway had an additional set of paintings, Home Life, by Jane Berlandina, which were quite different in style. Most of the artists were students of Diego Rivera, the influential Mexican painter of murals. But Berlandina had been taught by Raoul Dufy, a French Post-Impressionist. Her creations are more schematic and limited in their color palette to reds and browns, their figures outlined in white. A stunning contrast to the other works. Take plenty of time to seek out the details. The artists loved in-jokes, used each other and their wives, husbands and friends as models. Squint at the books in the law library and you’ll see ironic copies of Das Kapital painted in next to volumes such as Law of Bankruptcy; tongue-in-cheek headlines in newspapers, including ART COMMISSION AWAKENS FROM ITS DEEP SLEEP; copies of The Daily Worker and The Masses on the newsstand next to the more staid Time magazine; or a banner exhorting, “Demonstrate on May 1st against Hunger War Fascism.” On your way to the tower, enjoy the hike up Telegraph Hill along walkways and paths that lead past pleasant residential gardens. A great spot to spend several hours!
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“I think there are two Donald Trumps,” said the Donald, after former rival candidate Ben Carson endorsed him for president. Carson claimed to have seen a new and different Trump beyond the one “on stage.” The second version, said Carson, was “very cerebral, sits there and considers things very carefully.”
We are now beginning to get glimpses of this second Trump. In the most recent Republican debate (March 10), an almost eerie calm descended, quite striking after the no-holds-barred mud wrestling displayed in previous outings. Partly this was the exhaustion of Trump’s rivals, especially poor Marco Rubio, who concluded he had gained little by jumping into the gutter and matching Trump insult for insult. But Trump restrained himself too. He was given plenty of opportunities to stir the pot and didn’t. His new demeanor suggested that pundits were wrong to dismiss him as little more than an unmodulated showman who wore his ego on his sleeve and worshiped the sound of his own voice. To be sure, the Donald’s ego is outsized enough to weigh down any sleeve. “I’m a big thinker,” he maintained, responding to Carson’s compliments. “And I have my ideas and they’re strong, and typically they worked out.” At times, that ego can quite firmly control what appears to be an unconstrained id. Trump has a way of modulating his anger, ramping it up and pulling it back, condemning violence and then excusing it, alternating praise (“I love Ted, I really do”) with slander (“And as for Lying Ted… ”) There is indeed a kind of wild Mr. Hyde and dignified Dr. Jekyll that reflects the two Trumps, if you will. And the candidate can slip easily in and out of both personae. Sometimes the switch seems well controlled, as at the calmer debate—not made in the heat of the political moment. But that control makes it all the more worrisome Bernie Sanders is “lying” that he has not encouraged his supporters to go protest at Trump’s rallies, Donald tweets. “Be careful Bernie, or my supporters will go to yours!” One begins to imagine a “very cerebral” Trump considering tactics, musing whether to let loose his “disruptors” upon his rivals. Dr. Jekyll wished to believe he had nothing to do with Mr. Hyde, but the two were inescapably connected. Perhaps Trump is entirely calculating in the manipulation of his fans. But the New York Times did a penetrating background piece on events driving the billionaire realtor to launch his political career. A major turning point, the article alleges, occurred at the 2013 White House Correspondents dinner, when President Obama, himself the butt of Trump’s repeated aspersions about an alleged African birth, turned round and mocked Trump at the dinner, who was in the audience. That same night that the president gave the order launching the SEAL raid against Osama bin Laden, which burnished the president’s reputation and prompted jubilant crowds to gather in front of the White House and chant “USA! USA!” America seemed to have been made great not by the man in the red cap but by the very rival who had put him down a day or two earlier. To suppose now that Trump, with cold calculation, cerebrally incites crowds of Americans who feel scorned and left behind, underestimates how much he may have felt scorned himself. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde existed within the confines of a single body, reflecting aspects of a single personality. And when reporters pressed Trump on his supposed twin identities, he concluded, “I don’t think there are two Donald Trumps. I think there’s one Donald Trump.” A sage but frightening conclusion. Stevenson is most often associated with his swashbuckling Treasure Island or the macabre Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But he spent a considerable time in the United States and I've been reading Across the Plains, his account of his first traverse of the country by rail. Stevenson had a bit of Jekyll/Hyde in his own life, for though he came from an upper-middle class Scottish family which afforded him considerable income, he did like to slum, and may have had to do so on this particular occasion, because his first journey to America in 1879 was taken without the knowledge of his parents, in order to reach Mrs. Fanny Osbourne, an unhappily married woman he had fallen in love with, living then in California. Crossing the Atlantic, and then taking a ferry from New York to Jersey City, Stevenson found himself packed together with a mob of other new arrivals, who once on shore commenced "a stampede" for the train station. "People pushed and elbowed, and ran, the families following how they could. Children fell, and were picked up to be rewarded by a blow. One child, who had lost her parents, screamed steadily and with increasing shrillness, as though verging towards a fit...I was so weary that I had twice to make a halt and set down my bundles in the hundred yards or so between the pier and the railway station, so that I was quite wet by the time that I got under cover." He then traveled, by one train or another, as far west as the Missouri River. There, he was herded aboard what was known as an emigrant train. No Pullman Palace cars or other luxuries for this lot! "A white-haired official, with a stick under one arm, and a list in the other hand, stood apart in front of us, and called name after name in the tone of a command. At each name you would see a family gather up its brats and bundles and run for the hindmost of the three cars that stood awaiting us, and I soon concluded that this was to be set apart for the women and children. The second or central car, it turned out, was devoted to men travelling alone, and the third to the Chinese." Stevenson, with the other solo travelers, found himself in a "long, narrow wooden box, like a flat-roofed Noah's ark, with a stove and a convenience [bathroom], one at either end, a passage down the middle, and transverse benches upon either hand. Those [trains] destined for emigrants on the Union Pacific are only remarkable for their extreme plainness, nothing but wood entering in any part into their constitution, and for the usual inefficacy of the lamps, which often went out and shed but a dying glimmer even while they burned. "The benches are too short for anything but a young child. Where there is scarce elbow-room for two to sit, there will not be space enough for one to lie. Hence the company [has]...conceived a plan for the better accommodation of travellers. They prevail on every two to chum together. To each of the chums they sell a board and three square cushions stuffed with straw, and covered with thin cotton. The benches can be made to face each other in pairs, for the backs are reversible. On the approach of night the boards are laid from bench to bench, making a couch wide enough for two, and long enough for a man of the middle height; and the chums lie down side by side upon the cushions with the head to the conductor's van and the feet to the engine. When the train is full, of course this plan is impossible, for there must not be more than one to every bench, neither can it be carried out unless the chums agree. It was to bring about this last condition that our white-haired official now bestirred himself. He made a most active master of ceremonies, introducing likely couples, and even guaranteeing the amiability and honesty of each. The greater the number of happy couples the better for his pocket, for it was he who sold the raw material of the beds. his price for one board and three straw cushions began with two dollars and a half; but before the train left, and, I am sorry to say, long after I had purchased mine, it had fallen to one dollar and a half."
Stevenson's trip is definitely worth a read. Unlike quite a few other train travelogues of this era, he describes conditions of travel for poor folk. The full text can be found on Google Books. I have not posted much for a while, partly because of a cold/flu that has hung on longer than I’d like, but partly due to the shootings at San Bernardino, California. The event was deeply dispiriting in so many ways. To begin with, of course, there was the savagery of the attack. So many lives cut short by a violence made even more macabre by the identity of the perpetrators: a young husband and wife with a baby they seemed ready to abandon, along with their own lives—for what? What anger and frustration ran so deep? What long days, growing up in Saudi Arabia, Pakistan and in the United States, led the two of them to embrace such nihilistic dreams? For the victims of these attacks and for their families, death must have seemed to rain down from some random and cruel celestial lottery, the product of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. An act so senseless mocks the daily care, devotion and hard work that goes into building lives around families, careers and a future sustained by—it seems almost pompous to say this—civilization. That is, sustained by the structures of an orderly civil society that both encourages dreams and, more simply, allows life to go on in predictable ways. Terror is the weapon of the weak. It has an outsized effect in proportion to the power of those wielding it. I remember being asked by an interviewer from the Wall Street Journal for a historical analogy that came to mind after the events of 9/11. Pearl Harbor had been much talked about, for 9/11 was the first such major attack on American soil since 1941. True enough, but for me what came to mind was Tet, the Vietcong attack on American forces during Vietnamese New Year in 1968. In the wake of the Tet offensive, General Westmoreland complained bitterly that the media had not made clear how much the United States had repulsed the attacks and how dearly the North Vietnamese and Vietcong had paid for their assault. Technically he was correct, but in the end it was Tet’s psychological shock that most mattered. We had been told for so long that the light was at the end of the tunnel, that the Vietcong was on its last legs. And these attacks, including a breach of the the U.S. embassy walls in Saigon, shocked Americans. The war was not nearly over, despite half a million troops sent there. And we were not really winning it. The shock of San Bernardino has reverberated beyond the personal tragedies of the victims and their families. Like Tet, it has jolted and frightened the nation. The prospect of a war of random attacks by frustrated individuals, inspired by terrorist propaganda over the web, and carried out using weapons all too easy to obtain in a nation that is more gun-obsessed than most—the prospect of a wave of such attacks is immensely dismaying. Because no easy solution presents itself. After the Wall Street bombing, September 1920 Terror is the weapon of the weak. It seeks to turn the strength of its much larger opponent against itself, by frightening, inflaming passions, inciting violence, turning Americans against themselves. Tearing down the fabric of a civil society in a rush to stand tall, demonstrate strength, threaten more, bomb more, do something. Similar hysterias have swept the United States before: the Red Scare of 1919, the McCarthyite hunt for Communists said to be skulking in high places and low. In the past, the structures of our civil society have been strong enough that, over time, such fevers have passed. One hopes this may be the case again.
But today’s world is so interconnected that it is harder to wall off the instabilities and passions of the wider world. Isolationism is no longer a solution. Walling out, in an attempt to remain pure, has never been successful. What is called for is a disciplined approach abroad, inspired not by panic and fear but resolve. And at home, the conviction that ultimate safety is not rendered by arming every citizen and weaponizing our world. Our vision of the ideal life in the end is not derived from the lone individualism of the Western, a guy holed up with a six-shooter in some box canyon, tending his ranch and fighting off evil intruders. We live in a civil society of millions and we have to work to keep it safe through civil measures, calm determination and a democratic rule of law. But the guns continue to fly off store shelves. Fear is instinctive and terror an effective weapon, even of the weak. When opinion surveys ask the public to rank the presidents, John F. Kennedy does extremely well. A swirl of positive images crowd in on his biography: the nation’s youngest president, touch football games on the White House lawn, the comparison to King Arthur’s Camelot. No doubt the tragedy of his assassination lends further sympathy. Historians have been harder on Kennedy, judging his accomplishments as relatively meager. They cite his reluctance to support the civil rights movement for fear of alienating white Democrats in the segregated South (a key component of FDR's Democratic coalition); and they debate whether Kennedy's willingness to become involved in anti-Communist “wars of liberation” led to the American quagmire in Vietnam, though it was Lyndon Johnson who sharply escalated the conflict. These demerits certainly dim the president’s luster. Yet I rank Kennedy more highly than many historians do, simply because of those thirteen days in October 1962. The Cuban missile crisis is hardly ignored in histories of the era, but its peaceful resolution perhaps softens the realization of what almost occurred. In one of his most famous cases, Sherlock Holmes calls attention to “the curious incident of the dog in the night-time.” When Scotland Yard's Inspector Gregory responds that “the dog did nothing in the night-time,” Holmes rejoins, “That was the curious incident.” Because the missile crisis ended well, the implications of the near miss fail to sink in. Surely World War III would have followed if events had fallen out slightly differently, and the world's civilizations would not have recovered even today. In the tense face-off, Kennedy as well as Khrushchev compromised, despite Dean Rusk’s famous boast that “the other fellow blinked.” Over time, our knowledge of the crisis has deepened considerably, especially once the end of the Cold War opened Soviet archives to scholars. Michael Dobbs, One Minute to Midnight, provides a gripping narrative. Especially insightful on Soviet perspectives is Aleksandr Fursenko and Timothy Naftali, One Hell of a Gamble. But for those interested in the intricate details, I highly recommend Ernest R. May and Philip D. Zelikow, eds., The Kennedy Tapes. These are transcripts of the secret recordings made of the ExComm committee meetings Kennedy convened to hammer out a response to the Soviets. For a flavor of the intense back and forth, consider the following excerpt from the first ExComm meeting, held on Tuesday October 16, 1962. Secretary of State Dean Rusk outlined two possibilities for dealing the with missiles. The first was military: to make a surprise “quick strike” to take out the nuclear missile sites in Cuba without announcing American intentions in advance. The second alternative charted more of a diplomatic route, first announcing knowledge of the bases, then consulting with American allies and calling upon the Organization of American States (OAS) to assemble and demand that the Soviets remove their missiles.
Why bomb the Cuban air force? Well, it was impossible to discount the possibility that the Soviets had loaded a few nuclear bombs onto Cuban planes, which would be able to reach at least some coastal areas of the United States. But then—if you included the Cuban air force bases in the bombing campaign, the “quick strikes” became a much larger project and, as Deputy Defense Secretary Roswell Gilpatric noted, the Russians and Cubans could logically assume that a strike that large signaled the preparation of a full U.S. invasion of Cuba: ”and it would seem to me that if you’re talking about a general air-attack program, you might as well think about whether we can eradicate the whole problem by an invasion just as simply, with as little chance of reaction.” So—literally within minutes—the discussion has moved from the notion of a quick, surgical air strike to a full-blown invasion of Cuba, with the knowledge that nuclear retaliation by the Soviets remained a strong possibility. Kennedy saw this, though that first day he still assumed that somehow, the United States would have to launch a military strike to take out the missiles. By the climax of the crisis, however, he had changed his views—unlike the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who to the very end recommended a large air strike. It was Kennedy’s finest hour that he stood up to that pressure to launch an attack that would almost certainly have ended civilization as we know it. And so, in the depths of one dark Saturday night, the dog did not bark. Given the current instabilities in the Middle East and in Europe (with breaking news of a Turkish jet shooting down a Russian warplane as I post this), Kennedy's deliberative caution is a lesson worth remembering. "Quick strikes" and counter-punches are always more complicated than they first seem. I was working on a study guide for A Little History of the United States and returned to an entertaining volume published by an English traveler, T. S. Hudson, A Scamper Through America or, Fifteen Thousand Miles of Ocean and Continent in Sixty Days. (Click here to read the whole thing on Google Books.) Hudson was traveling in 1882, when times were still calculated locally, noon being when the sun was highest in the sky. Hudson directly encountered the problems that this system entailed for railroads:
Hudson notes speculation that the nation might be divided into three time zones, with clocks set to New York, St. Louis and San Francisco’s local noon. In fact, only a year later the United States adopted its four zones, in November 1883.
These travel accounts are great fun to read, and British travelers of the era published more than a few. For additional information, see “The American West through British Eyes, 1865-1900.” I was working on an informal study guide for A Little History of the United States when I came across one of my favorite stories in Charles Grandison Finney's Memoirs. Finney was a revivalist preacher who traveled along the canal through upstate New York in the mid-nineteenth century. Perhaps his biggest revival campaign took place in Rochester during the autumn and winter of 1830-1831. The drawing above, by Gordon Allen, shows the canal a few decades later, where it bends and actually passes over the Genesee River (seen at the left side of the drawing, flowing under the aqueduct arches of the canal). Rochester looked a bit less industrial in 1830, though it was still bursting at the seams. Basil Hall, an English traveler, passed through three years earlier and commented that all was in motion. "The very streets seemed to be starting up of their own accord, ready-made...the lime seemed hardly dry in the masonry of the aqueduct, in the bridges, and in the numberless great saw-mills and manufactories. In many of these buildings the people were at work [at their regular jobs], while at top the carpenters were busy nailing on the planks of the roof...In the centre of the town the spire of a Presbyterian church rose to a great height... I need not say that these half-finished, whole-finished, and embryo streets were crowded with people, carts, stages, cattle, pigs, far beyond the reach of numbers;—and as all these were lifting up their voices together, in keeping with the clatter of hammers, the ringing of axes, and the creaking of machinery, there was a fine concert, I assure you!" And it was here that Finney came in 1830 and went to work at First Presbyterian Church:
The church didn’t collapse, though its walls did continue to spread, so the revival was moved to the nearby “Brick” church—which, as it happened, was where my family worshiped over a century later when I grew up in Rochester.
When my son and daughter were growing up, I read them bedtime stories from a wide variety of children’s books, some newly issued, others that were classics still available decades after their first issue. A game I played with myself while reading was to try to guess the year of original publication (or at least the decade) by the style of illustrations, the layout and content. Color schemes were often a giveaway: older books were in 2-color. Illustration style was another clue; books from different periods had decidedly different looks. The same is true for illustrations in American history. Having had to do picture research for several survey textbooks, I’ve found it interesting to note changing styles and conventions. In today’s full-color texts, making good use of color is always a plus. Paradoxically, the search for color becomes harder as you march into the early twentieth century. Photographs more frequently replace color paintings, but the photos are in black and white…and largely continue that way until newspapers and magazines began printing in color (and therefore demanding color from their news photographers). Of course, the Great Depression seems tailor-made for black and white. The haunting photo of “Migrant Mother” by Dorothea Lange nicely echoes the bleak times. One of my favorites along the same line is a shot taken by Arthur Rothstein, working for the Farm Security Administration, of a jalopy crossing the Texas panhandle as a dust storm comes barreling along behind it. (Library of Congress) But toward the end of the Depression, Kodachrome color slides began to enter the scene; and quite a few such transparencies are displayed from the Library of Congress in Bound for Glory: America in Color, 1939-1943 (2004). They are also available on the Web in the LC’s Farm Security Administration/Office of War Information Collections. Browsing the transparencies, after seeing so much in black and white, is a bit like watching The Wizard of Oz--which first appeared in 1939 too. As you move from dusty Kansas to colorful Oz, it’s like entering a whole different world! On the main street of Cascade, Idaho. Russell Lee, July 1941 Faro and Doris Caudill, homesteaders, Pie Town, New Mexico. Russell Lee, October 1940 Boy near Cincinnati, Ohio. John Vachon, 1939-1943
One of the themes in A Little History of the United States is how much the American story has been shaped by a succession of economic booms, sparked by the first sustained contact after 1492 between the Americas and Eurasia/Africa. As I note in Little History:
One boom after another would transform the Americas as Europeans looked to control new resources: furs trapped in North America; tobacco grown in Virginia and Maryland; sugar plantations in Central and South America and later Louisiana. The biggest commodity was of course cotton, the principal driver of economic expansion in both the South and North during the first half of the nineteenth century. The South grew the cotton but northern factories (as well as those in Europe) spun it into ready-made clothing bought by millions.
Few people today are aware of one of the earliest of booms in post-Contact America, that of pearls. On his third voyage of 1498, Columbus traded beads, hawks’ bells and sugar for pearls collected by natives along the coast of Venezuela. Soon Spain built a fort on the “Coast of the Pearls” to harvest the commodity more systematically, principally from the island of Cubagua. Relations between the Guayaquer Indians and the newcomers were amicable at first, for the Spanish didn’t want to repeat their disastrous experience on Hispaniola, where the native Indian work force was virtually exterminated through enslavement, war, maltreatment and disease. The Spanish protected the Guayaquerí from their hostile Carib neighbors; in return, Guayaquerí divers brought up oysters from the ocean floor and the pearls within, “some as large as hazelnuts, very clear and beautiful.” But within a few years, the desire to make a fortune led the Spanish to enslave their Indian laborers, import more from the Bahamas and other islands and push laborers beyond their limits. Slaves were branded on the face and arms with the letter C and sent to work, six divers to a canoe. They worked in pairs, one man weighed down with stones to dive to a depth of up to 8 fathoms (43 feet) or even more to gather oysters; the other man to pull his partner back to the surface. Divers had little time to rest between plunges. If they dawdled, an overseer threw them into the water and whipped them until they agreed to continue. Many died after attacks by sharks or internal bleeding from such deep dives. At night the divers slept in chains. Each boat could net around 35,000 oysters in the space of a few weeks. Profits were high; and the usual boom country atmosphere prevailed, with drinking, gambling, quarreling and killing. The Spanish governor was ruthless, at one point subduing a native revolt by capturing and executing two chieftains, one by hanging and the other, a younger boy, by strapping him “to the muzzle of a cannon, [blowing] his head off, [and] throwing his body to the dogs.” Eventually excess harvesting and the new practice of dredging the sea bottom took its toll. One modern estimate suggests that as many as 100 billion oysters were collected over a thirty-year period. By the 1530s the pearl boom was finished. Details of this early example of environmental degradation can be found in an excellent article by Aldemaro Romero, Susanna Chilbert and M. G. Eisenhart, “Cubagua’s Pearl-Oyster Beds: The First Depletion of a Natural Resource Caused by Europeans in the American Continent,” Journal of Political Ecology (6:1999) found on the web at http://bit.ly/1LSyyce. Writing about rough drafts in the previous post brought to mind a similar phrase, rough music. It is fortunately now archaic, but found quite common use in the eighteenth-century Anglo-American world. It did not refer to an orchestra out of tune. Rough music was the fate meted out by a mob to someone it disdained, despised, or feared. Robert Shoemaker describes the custom in The London Mob: Violence and Disorder in Eighteenth-Century England (2007):
Rough music, Shoemaker notes, became “part of the vocabulary of urban protest” in America as well as in England. Two hundred-fifty years ago, in 1765, Parliament’s Stamp Act met with widespread protests in the American colonies, during which ‘rough music’ was administered either to the administrators of the stamp tax or, if they had fled, to effigies representing them. In November 1765, a mob in New York City coursed through its narrow streets with torches protesting the “death of Liberty.” Prominent among them was a seaman who bore on his shoulders a chair with a large paper effigy of the royal governor, Cadwallader Colden. Onlookers took potshots at the figure with pistols and shouted insults.
And then the mob decided it wanted more. Rowdies peeled off to the governor’s stable and fetched his fancy carriage to use in the parade as a representation of a papal throne. For in those days Protestants regarded the Roman Catholic pope as a symbol of tyranny. Indeed, for years in Boston an anti-Catholic celebration known as Pope’s Day was held annually, with rival mobs from the North and South Ends vying for the honor of getting up the more lively procession. Lanterns and torches surrounded carts bearing competing effigies of the Pope and Satan, as young boys with blackened faces paraded as devil’s imps. Two hundred and fifty years later, the music will be sweeter, one can only hope, when Pope Francis makes his arrival in New York. |
James West Davidson
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May 2019
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