Kingsley Martin

Kingsley Martin

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Kingsley Martin, the second of four children of Basil Martin and Margaret Turberville, was born in Ingestre Street, Hereford, on 28 July 1897. Kingsley father had initially been a Congregational minister but later he became a Unitarian. The Rev. Martin was a pacifist and in 1899 campaigned against the Boer War. He was also a socialist and a active member of the Labour Party.

Martin later wrote: "I was proud of holding my father's opinions. I was a pacifist and socialist among conservatives without knowing what these labels meant. This was bad for me. All boys in adolescence must break with their parents. My trouble was that my father gave me no chance at all to quarrel with him. If he had been a dogmatic Christian, I should have reached my later humanism long before I did. If he had been an atheist I might have relapsed into some form of Christian faith. But he was ready to discuss everything and to yield when he was wrong. I could not quarrel. On the contrary, I fought side by side with him, and was a dissenter, not against his dissent, but with him against the Establishment. His causes became my causes, his revolt was mine."

Martin's biographer, Adrian Smith, has argued: "His father was known locally as a man of the highest integrity who stuck fast to his Christian socialist principles, not least his belief in absolute pacifism. He attracted grudging respect but often harsh criticism, not just from the respectable burghers of Hereford but also from the elders in his own church. His was a stormy and demanding ministry, borne with good grace and fortitude, and setting an example the adult Kingsley endeavoured to match, albeit with only partial success."

Basil Martin was also involved in the campaign against the 1902 Education Act introduced by Arthur Balfour. The previous Education Act had been popular with radicals as school boards were elected by ratepayers in each district. This enabled nonconformists and socialists to obtain control over local schools. The Balfour legislation abolished all 2,568 school boards and handed over their duties to local borough or county councils. These new Local Education Authorities (LEAs) were given powers to establish new secondary and technical schools as well as developing the existing system of elementary schools.

Nonconformists and supporters of the Liberal and Labour parties campaigned against this legislation. John Clifford formed the National Passive Resistance Committee and by 1906 over 170 men had gone to prison for refusing to pay their school taxes. This included 60 Primitive Methodists, 48 Baptists, 40 Congregationalists and 15 Wesleyan Methodists.

Martin later explained in Father Figures (1966): "My father was involved in the passive resisters' fight against Balfour's Education Act of 1902. Each year father and the other resisters all over the country refused to pay their rates for the upkeep of Church Schools. The passive resistors thought the issue of principle paramount and annually surrendered their goods instead of paying their rates. I well remember how each year one or two of our chairs and a silver teapot and jug were put out on the hall table for the local officers to take away. They were auctioned in the Market Place and brought back to us. Mother and I were taken for our first motor ride to one of these village auctions where father would explain the nature of passive resistance before the sale began. We drove to a village some fifteen miles away, sometimes travelling at the frightening speed of twenty miles an hour. In those days roads were deep in dust, and you could tell if a car had passed because the hedges were white. I remember three small boys running behind each other pretending to be a motor. The first said he was the driver, the second a car, and the third the smell."

Kingsley won a scholarship to Mill Hill, a nonconformist public school. He was still at school when he was called up to the British Army in 1916. As a pacifist he was totally opposed to Britain's involvement in the First World War. A conscientious objector, he refused to serve in the armed forces but was willing to carry out non-military duties. After a few months working as a medical orderly in a British hospital treating wounded soldiers, Martin joined the Society of Friends' Ambulance Unit (FAU) and later that year was working on the Western Front.

He later wrote: "In my ward, there were twenty-five men who were literally half dead. They were very much alive in their top halves, but dead below the waist. The connection between their brain and their natural functions were broken. They could feel nothing in their hips or legs, and in spite of being constantly rubbed with methylated spirit, they had bedsores you could put your hands in."

In 1919 Martin took up his place at Magdalene College that he had won at Cambridge before the war. While studying at university he joined the Union of Democratic Control and the Fabian Society where he met George Bernard Shaw, Graham Wallas, John Maynard Keynes, Douglas Cole and Sidney Webb and Harold Laski. Beatrice Webb wrote in her diary: "Kingsley Martin was unkempt and with the appearance of being unwashed, with jerky, ugly manners, but tall and dark - with a certain picturesque impressiveness of the Maxton type. He is a fluent and striking conversationalist - intellectually ambitious - with a certain religious fervour for social reconstruction. One of the promising younger members of the Fabian Society."

After obtaining a first-class degree at Cambridge University, Martin taught at Princeton University (1922-23) in the United States. When Martin returned to England, Maynard Keynes employed him as a book reviewer for his journal, The Nation. Keynes also persuaded William Beveridge, to give Martin a teaching post at the London School of Economics (1924-27). During this period he published The Triumph of Lord Palmerston (1924) and French Liberal Thought in the Eighteenth Century (1929).

At first Kingsley Martin enjoyed life as an academic: "The London School of Economics... was then, as it always has been, a wonderful home of free discussion, happily mixed race, and genuine learning. It seemed my natural home. My socialist views were vague, but not my sympathies. Like my friend Harold Laski, I believed passionately that capitalism was evil and doomed, and that it was useless to talk of liberty unless it was based on a large measure of social equality. I came into contact with most of England's leading Socialists, who completed my conversion."

However, Martin clashed with William Beveridge, the director of the LSE but fell in love with Eileen Power: "I never hit it off with Beveridge, though I recognised from the beginning that he was a man of extraordinary ability. I once, and only once, pleased Beveridge. I said that he 'ruled over an empire on which the concrete never set'. He was so delighted with this remark that he constantly quoted it, always attributing it, however, to Eileen Power, with whom, like everyone else, I assume was more or less in love. Eileen, indeed, was one of the most attractive women I have ever known. She was good-looking, and carried her erudition as a medieval scholar with wit and grace. She wrote delightfully, her account of the domestic life of nunneries would never bore anyone, and her Medieval People showed that careful scholarship can be made popular and achieve large sales."

Harold Laski suggested to C. P. Scott, the editor of the Manchester Guardian, that Martin would make a good replacement for C. E. Montague, the chief leader writer, who wanted to retire and write novels. He later wrote: "C. Scott wrote he had long been looking for a leader writer and would I take C. Montague's place on the Manchester Guardian at a salary commencing at £1,000 a year. This was an extraordinary offer from C. Scott, who usually thought anyone should pay for the privilege of writing for the Manchester Guardian." In the autumn of 1927 Martin accepted Scott's offer of £1,000 a year and ended his career as an academic.

Adrian Smith has pointed out: "Writing leaders for the legendary editor–proprietor C. Scott would have seemed the ideal appointment for someone so firmly rooted in the nonconformist tradition, but again Martin found himself at odds with his superior. He quickly encountered difficulties in reconciling an unbridled faith in democratic socialism with the Scott family's enthusiasm for the Liberal revivalism of a rejuvenated Lloyd George. Leaders were regularly rewritten in more temperate language, or simply spiked, and after three turbulent years in Manchester Martin learned that his contract would not be renewed. At the end of a decade of sharply contrasting fortunes he returned to London in 1930 desperate to revive a flagging career."

Martin left the Manchester Guardian in 1930. Soon afterwards, Arnold Bennett, one of the directors of the New Statesman, asked him to become editor of the journal. Under Martin's guidance the journal became Britain's leading political weekly. He admitted in his autobiography: "In general we supported the Left Wing of Labour. Our independence was infuriating to the leaders of the party. Politicians think in terms of votes, and do not understand that in the long run it is the climate of opinion that matters."

Adrian Smith points out: "Kingsley Martin set out to make the New Statesman and Nation the flagship weekly of the left, articulating a brand of democratic socialism compatible with mainstream Labour thinking, while at the same time reserving the right to question and provoke. Thus, the paper remained loyal to Labour, but at the same time constituted a valuable forum for dissent. Indeed Martin positively relished being a perpetual critic of the Labour leadership, in or out of office. This refusal to follow a narrow party line was in many respects the key to the New Statesman's success, witness its close association from the mid-fifties with the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament, of which Martin was a founding father."

Kingsley Martin later recalled: " I combined in myself many of the inconsistencies and conflicts of the period which long tried to reconcile pacifism with collective security, and a defence of individual liberty with the necessity of working with Communists against Fascists. I suppose my prime attitude was a dissenter's. A dissenter sees the world is bad and expresses his moral indignation.... I tended to be angry. War was always the ultimate horror, and I could not bear to be silent about the sufferings of minorities and cruelty inflicted on individuals, even when the aggressors were my friends. At times the paper became more than anything else the voice of the minorities and a vehicle of protest. It also had a constructive, Socialist side."

The author of New Statesman: Portrait of a Political Weekly (1996) has pointed out: "When, with reluctance, he (Kingsley Martin) handed over the editorial reins in December 1960, the paper's weekly sales had increased sixfold to 80,000, the circulation in January 1931 having stood at a mere 14,000. Advertising revenue in 1960 had grown to a remarkable £100,000 per year, ensuring a healthy return for those directors who a generation earlier had gambled on an unproven young journalist turning their paper round. As chairman until his death in 1946, Keynes applauded evidence of commercial enterprise while sensibly bowing to editorial integrity in matters of potential conflict. The Keynes–Martin partnership was not always harmonious, but it proved remarkably productive."

After leaving the New Statesman Kingsley Martin produced two autobiographical works, Father Figures (1966) and Editor (1968). A keen chess player, he also rediscovered a passion for oil painting. He also spent a great deal of time travelling and suffered a stroke while in Egypt. He was rushed to the Anglo-American Hospital in Cairo, where he died of a heart attack on 16th February 1969. He donated his body for medical research.

I was proud of holding my father's opinions. His causes became my causes, his revolt was mine.

My father was involved in the passive resisters' fight against Balfour's Education Act of 1902. They were auctioned in the Market Place and brought back to us.

Mother and I were taken for our first motor ride to one of these village auctions where father would explain the nature of passive resistance before the sale began. The first said he was the driver, the second a car, and the third the smell.

We agreed it was no good calling yourself a Christian, promising to return good for evil and love your enemies, if you took part in a vast horror of lies, hatred, and slaughter.

I appeared before a tribunal while I was still at school. This had an unpleasant side. I was turned out of the study which I shared with other prefects, and the boys would hit me on one cheek and ask whether I would offer the other. This mild persecution rather flattered my vanity.

I wrote a defence in the school magazine, which was refused because it was thought to reflect badly on the school's reputation. It was passed round, and some of the older boys read it and treated me with a kind of deference. One simple-minded athlete looked at me with genuine contempt.

Since then I have often asked myself whether he was right, whether the men who became C.Os. were really those who were, consciously or subconsciously, more afraid of a bayonet in their guts than other people. Analysis might show that C.Os. had more than the usual repulsion from pain and death. But the matter was more complicated than that. The demand for courage came in France, not in England, where the herd, and particularly one's womanfolk, usually made it difficult to refuse a uniform.

For my part, my predominant fear was that I might miss the war. No doubt I was glad that I was less likely to be killed than other people, but though I was in many ways a coward I have no memory of being frightened of death. Physical courage scarcely enters the question when one is eighteen.

In my ward, there were twenty-five men who were literally half dead. They could feel nothing in their hips or legs, and in spite of being constantly rubbed with methylated spirit, they had bedsores you could put your hands in.

I tracked down my ambulance train at Sootteville railway siding, not far from Rouen. It was an ancient train, with modern coaches only in the centre, and coaches and fourgons without corridors at both ends.

Two of us worked in the ward, a couple of doctors and two or three nurses lived in the central coaches. Each coach was arranged to take twenty lying patients, with floor-space on which to dump five more on stretchers if necessary. Alternatively, forty or fifty men would sit in the coach if they were walking cases.

There were two pails for soup or cocoa or tea, a brass urn for drinking water. A primus stove was the most important object; a good deal of life turned on the question of whether one could get enough paraffin by fair means or foul. Another major objective was to get as many decent blankets as possible. If you could steal a soft khaki blanket of the type used for officers you were proud of yourself. At each hospital base you swiftly and surreptitiously swapped new blankets for the bloodstained and muddy ones that came into the ward.

The front was comparatively quiet when I first joined the train. The Battle of the Somme was over, and we travelled up that stricken valley without incident. Everywhere shell-holes, barbed wire and stumps of trees. Places like Ypres, and many villages whose names we saw on the railwayside, had disappeared. Arras had a line of latticed ruins, and a church which looked as if it was still a place for visitors - until one got closer and found it was a shell.

We would load at a casualty clearing station behind the lines, and travel down very slowly indeed to Rouen or Etaples. Perhaps it would be four in the morning when we loaded. We would reach our base at seven at night, unload, sweep out, clear up, and would be preparing for some sleep about ten, when a message would come that we were evacuating a load of Blighty convalescents from Boulogne at five a.m. Then we got out our disgusting groundsheets again, lowered the beds for the sitting cases and dozed until the load arrived of cheerful patients bound for England, with arms in slings, legs in bandages, or head-wounds that weren't too serious. We would take them to Boulogne, unload them, scrub out the ward, shake out the blankets, ready for another slow progress to the back of the front.

I recall the wounded as being incredibly patient and unhappy. The one thing they asked, hopefully, prayerfully, was whether they'd caught a "Blighty" this time. Was their wound bad enough to get them home? Did I think it might get them out of the war altogether? That was perhaps too much to hope for. After all, they were damned lucky to be wounded. Most of their company or battalion would never come home.

A common dodge was to shoot your foot through a sandbag so that the powder did not show. A guard was put to watch anyone who damaged himself. What I recall most from that time is the total loss of belief that the war had any object; it was just an incredible calamity that had to be endured. They were men without faith or hope. They were bitterly critical about people at home. They never grudged your comparatively cushy job. They would give you a dig in the ribs, "Oh, you're a Quaker, are you? Good luck to you. I wish I'd thought of that dodge myself." You'd been smarter than they had. A disconcerting view as long as you remained any kind of idealist.

It was our first experience of mustard gas. The men we took were covered in blisters. The size of your palm most of them. In any tender, warm place, under the arms, between the legs, and over the face and neck. All their eyes were streaming, and hurting in a way that sin never hurts.

Suddenly, as we were arranging our game of football, someone noticed that an engine was arriving for our train. We bundled in, and up to the casualty clearing station. Something new. The Germans had broken through. No one who did not know the stability of trench war can realise the astonishment of the German push. Thousands and hundreds of thousands of men had died pushing the line forward a hundred yards; that had been the rule for the past two years. And here was a push of thirty miles and an army crumpled up in a day or two. French soldiers shouted at us, "What's happened to the bloody Fifth Army?" The British had lost the war. It was said not to be safe to go out because the French were so angry.

Up at the line again we became aware in the early morning mist - I remember it vividly today - of thousands of bodies, acres and acres of them, lying out on the ground, with scraps of German grey or British khaki hanging out over the stretchers. They were very few bearers, and so we loaded the train ourselves, making no distinction between England and Germans; every inch of the train was full.

The British army, like the French, might have followed the Russians and mutinied in 1917-18. The arrival of the American army - brash, unpopular as it was - meant a change in mood. The Allied counter-offensive seemed astonishingly well organised and tidy.

Delays in demobilisation and lack of jobs brought disillusion. Before long the men were singing 'Homes for Heroes' and cursing Lloyd George. The Canadians and the Australians fought in their camps. The only time in my life when revolution in Britain seemed likely was in 1919.

Kingsley Martin was unkempt and with the appearance of being unwashed, with jerky, ugly manners, but tall and dark - with a certain picturesque impressiveness of the Maxton type. One of the promising younger members of the Fabian Society.

In the autumn of 1924 I started work at the London School of Economics. It was then, as it always has been, a wonderful home of free discussion, happily mixed race, and genuine learning. I came into contact with most of England's leading Socialists, who completed my conversion.

Sir William Beveridge was director when I joined the staff in 1924. He accepted me first on a part-time basis. I never hit it off with Beveridge, though I recognised from the beginning that he was a man of extraordinary ability. I said that he "ruled over an empire on which the concrete never set". She wrote delightfully, her account of the domestic life of nunneries would never bore anyone, and her Medieval People showed that careful scholarship can be made popular and achieve large sales.

We used to speculate on whether she would marry; on the whole the betting was that an air ace would carry her off her feet, but in the end it was the excellent historian, Michael Postan, on whom the choice fell. There was no one who did not deeply regret her loss when she died suddenly of heart failure.

C. Scott, who usually thought anyone should pay for the privilege of writing for the Manchester Guardian.

Leonard Woolf had a powerful influence on the policy and character of the New Statesman. He had been literary editor of the Nation, to which I had often contributed in the past. I had known him and Virginia Woolf ever since the First World War, and found him, as I still do, the most companionable of men. He was already to advise me and became, I think, something of a Father Figure to me. No one was ever so ready for argument and, I must add, so obstinate and lovable.

Arnold Bennett was a director of the New Statesman and immensely proud of being a director of the Savoy Hotel as well. He was one of the very kindest of men, with a formidable stutter. He would begin a sentence and stop. If you looked at him you found yourself staring straight down his gullet. He gave a lunch party to the other directors at the Savoy, at the same time rather embarrassingly putting me through my paces.

"What are your... p-p-politics?"

I said, rather too timidly, for I did not know his politics, that I should call myself a Socialist. "I should hope so," said Bennett, as if it would be disgraceful to be anything else.

I was appointed editor only just before Arnold Bennett died, unexpectedly and I believe unnecessarily. I persuaded the board to appoint David Low in his place; that was the beginning of a long friendship.

My own contribution, it seems to me looking back today, was first high spirits and second "a concern for fine and often unpopular causes". Clifford Sharp once said that the New Statesman should have an 'attitude' to public affairs rather than a 'policy'. That suited me. I was a political hybrid, a product of pacifist nonconformity, Cambridge scepticism, Manchester Guardian Liberalism, and London School of Economics Socialism.

Always a poor man, I combined in myself many of the inconsistencies and conflicts of the period which long tried to reconcile pacifism with collective security, and a defence of individual liberty with the necessity of working with Communists against Fascists. A dissenter sees the world is bad and expresses his moral indignation.

This was rather the Nation aspect of my training than the New Statesman part. Like Massingham, I tended to be angry. It also had a constructive, Socialist side.

In general we supported the Left Wing of Labour. Politicians think in terms of votes, and do not understand that in the long run it is the climate of opinion that matters. Herbert Morrison, whom I backed wrongly as I realised later, against Attlee as leader of the party in 1935, was often very angry with me; he thought a Socialist paper ought to be putting the case for the Labour Party without reservation and bringing people along to the polls. He didn't see that it was the teachers and preachers of all types who as a result of steady reading of the paper were converted to Socialism. It was they who became the real backbone of the party, and not the mass who could be swayed one way or the other by propaganda.


In July 1869 Cooley persuaded a few companions to help him search for the treasure. Their departure point was Zuñi, New Mexico. In August Cooley acquired the help of Miguel, the one-eyed chief of the "Coyoteros" (White Mountain Apaches). Miguel guided them to what is now called Sombrero Peak (near the Sierra Anchas, north of Globe). They were unsuccessful in finding any gold. Miguel then suggested they go further south--to the Pinal Mountains. When they approached the mountains, however, Pinal Apaches warned them to proceed no further. Cooley's parthy then doubled back to the Black River, where they met a cavalry troop commanded by Colonel John Green (shortly thereafter Green established Fort Apache). Green allowed some of his troopers to accompany Cooley to Fort McDowell, and then Cooley continued on to Swilling's Ranch (which later became Phoenix). At Swilling's Ranch Cooley prepared another expedition into the region.

In the meantime, another prospecting party, headed by a saloonkeeper named Calvin Jackson, left Prescott on September 8. This party also intended to prospect in the same region. Both Cooley's and Jackson's parties were attacked by Apaches, and a cavalry patrol out of Fort McDowell, headed by Colonel George B. Sanford, therefore decided that the two parties should be united for their own safety. The two parties joined on 26 September 1869 near the mouth of Canyon Creek. The prospectors then explored up the Salt River for about thirty miles, but found no gold. It was about this time that Cooley decided that Thorn's story was "unreliable." He returned to Swilling's Ranch before November.

Calvin Jackson, however, continued to prospect in the Pinal Mountains. He was joined by a former member of Cooley's expedition, William A. "Hunkydory" Holmes. Holmes was later to become a prominent citizen of Globe. (He died, apparently of a heart attack, at the time of the Apache Kid outbreak at Ripsey Wash in October 1889.) The Pinal Mountain prospectors began to be harassed by Apaches, and so they set up a rude fort in late October 1869 at Big Johnny Gulch, two miles north of what was later to become Globe. The fort still exists, testimony to a tenacious bunch of gold hunters. They hadn't found gold, but they did find silver. Jackson's party returned to Prescott in November 1869. For the next year Jackson was too occupied around Prescott to return, but he finally did in November 1870. This time a number of others were with him, and fifteen claims were staked--the first claims in what was to become one of the richest mineral districts in the nation. However, as the Apaches did not like all this activity, they let their displeasure be made known to Jackson, and he quickly retreated to the safety of Prescott.

By this time the Pinal Mountain region was becoming a true "bone of contention." The U.S. Army was sending many expeditions into the area to suppress the Apaches, and they responded in kind. The presence of treasure seekers made the situation considerably more complex. Something had to give, and it was at this time, 30 April 1871, that the horrendous Camp Grant Massacre occurred. This was the first truly serious defeat the Apaches (San Carlos) were to suffer.

Still another prospecting expedition entered the Pinal Mountain area in August 1871. It was a huge one, consisting of over 300 individuals, including the governor of the Territory of Arizona, Anson P.K. Safford. They were led by Thomas Miner, who claimed he had found a gold placer in the Pinal Mountains a decade before. The expedition wandered all over the area--from old Camp Grant (near the Gila River) to the top of the Sierra Anchas. It was a true comedy of errors, with wild claims made by Miner, disagreements over routes, contentions about food, etc., etc.

Eventually, Miner was completely discredited, and the prospectors returned to their homes in Prescott, Florence, Tucson, etc. However, Hunkydory Holmes, who was also in the expedition, and a few of his companions simply returned to their claims at Big Johnny Gulch. They had never really believed Miner in the first place, but had gone along for the adventure. On 28 September 1871 they organized themselves into the Pinal Mining Company, at a place they called "Cottonwood Springs, Arizona Territory." Soon other prospectors also began making claims throughout the region. The miners intended to stay.

Of course, the San Carlos Apaches tried again to prohibit these excursions into their territory. They were successful for about a year, but in the fall of 1871 General George Crook began his Tonto campaigns. These were very complex and bloody, and will not be discussed at this point. More information can be found on my Apache Warspage. Nevertheless, by the spring of 1873 Crook's campaign had terminated nearly all San Carlos Apache resistance. Nothing could now hold back the miners. David and Robert Anderson of Florence led still another prospecting expedition into the Pinal Mountains in September 1873. These individuals were the first to file the "Globe Ledge" claims. Among those making these claims were: David Anderson, Robert Anderson, Benjamin Reagan, Isaac Copeland, william Long, J.E. Clark, T. Irvine, William Folsom, P. King, M. Welch, M. H. Samson, B. Edwards, and J. Riley. Several of these individuals later were prominent in Globe affairs.

By the fall of 1875 some of the many mining claims in and around the Pinals had been visited by the 22-year-old San Carlos Indian Agent John Clum. In late October Tucson citizens drew up a petition asking the Secretary of Interior to restore the mineral region to public lands (removing them entirely from the already-established San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation). Clum agreed, and recommended the proposition to the Secretary. Thus, the region was cut off from the reservation and became the "Globe Mining District." The Mining Act of 1872 was adopted as the law governing the district. Officers were elected, and everything was legally lock-tight. Silver was soon found in many places: the Globe Ledge (then called Andrew Hammond's Camp), Richmond Basin, the Stonewall Jackson, Pioneer, Ramboz Camp, etc. Miners poured into the area. The townsite of "Globe City" was laid out in July 1876, officials wer elected, and even retail stores began to appear. "Civilization" had arrived.

Mining interests took a large leap forward in early 1877 when James F. Gerald became the Mine Superintendent of the Globe Mining District. Reduction works were begun at Miami Wash, and larger scale production began. Mrs. A C. Swift opened the first school in December 1877 with 20 pupils. A stage was operating between Silver City, New Mexico, by 1878, and on 2 May 1878 the first issue of the Arizona Silver Belt , Globe's newspaper, still in operation, was begun by the colorful "Judge" Aaron Harrison Hackney. M.W. Bremen began operating a sawmill in the Pinal Mountains in 1879 (In Six Shooter Canyon--named for the miners who wore pistols for protection--where this author lives), and Reverend J. J. Wingar began St. Paul's Methodist Episcopal Church in April 1880 (also still located in Globe). In February 1881 Globe became the seat of a new Arizona county: Gila County and the future six-term governor of Arizona, George Wiley Paul Hunt, began waiting on tables in one of Globe's saloons--his first job to eventual success and fame.

By 1881 interest in copper increased because of a silver glut. Globe then embarked upon its most profitable adventure: copper mining--still very much alive today. The Old Dominion mining company began building a 30-ton furnace at Bloody Tanks in March 1882. The furnace was moved to Globe in May, and the Old Dominion Copper Mining Company was begun. Silver mining in the Globe area virtually ceased by 1887.

Although the area was incredibly changed by the 1880s, there were, however, many instances of behavior indicative of Globe's frontier nature. It was extremely isolated, about a hundred miles from anywhere else that could be considered "civilization." Isolation bred outlawry. The proximity ot the Apache Indian Reservation also invited trouble. Such trouble occurred many times in Globe's history. In fact, in some ways, to this day that trouble reappears. In July 1882 a rebel Apache, Na-ti-o-tish, broke out of San Carlos and headed north with about 50 others. They attacked ranches and mining camps along the way. This author, when he was young, was told by an elderly lady ("Mollie" Griffin) that she and other children were placed in a mining shaft for protection at the time of this outbreak. It was a terrifying time to her.

In August 1882 a stage to Florence was robbed, and two men, Lafayette Grimes and Curtis B. Hawley, were legally lynched downtown on a tree (which remained many years in Globe--a monument to the tree has just recently been placed where it was located [January 1997]). Before Grimes was hung, he sat down in the middle of the street, took off his boots, and exclaimed, "Damned if I'll die with my boots on!" So it was. The same lady I mentioned above regarding the Na-ti-o-tish outbreak also remembered that tree. She told me she went downtown once to buy some meat. When she asked a man where she could buy some, she was told there was some meat hanging on that cursed tree--the two dead bodies of Grimes and Hawley. Of course, she never forgot that incident.

Still another famous killing took place that year (1882) on the south side of the Pinals, at the little mining settlement of Pioneer. On Christmas Day, Tom Kerr got himself drunk. Being quite inebriated, he got to picking on a tenderfoot cowboy, William Hartnett, and then killed him. The enraged citizens of Pioneer strung up the culprit on an old sycamore tree. Before he died, Kerr defiantly exclaimed, "Well, here goes Tom Kerr's Christmas present to the devil." Thus ended that difficult year.

The fortunes of mining in Globe took an upswing when a Swiss mining engineer, Alexander Trippel, arrived in 1884. Although a depression was in progress throughout the nation, Trippel was able to keep the Globe mines operating and even make them quite profitable by 1888.

Of course, the 1880s also saw the continued uproar about Geronimo's escapades. Many incidents regarding Geronimo were reported in Globe's newspaper, the Arizona Silver Belt , The issues have been microfilmed and are now available in the major universities of the state. They remain as a colorful reminder of Globe's importance in the early history of Arizona. More can be read about Geronimo's story at my Apache Wars page.

About the time of Geronimo's last breakout (1886) there was yet another interesting incident near Globe, involving two cowboys. A Scotsman named Andrew Pringle had his ranch headquarters located near a spring north of Wheatfields (the spring is now called Pringle Spring). Jeremiah Vosburgh also owned a ranch in the area--the Flying V. It was Pringle's custom in late May to drive large herds of his cattle onto the Flying V range, and Vosburgh hated the intrusion. On 28 May 1886 Pringle grabbed the blanket of one of the Flying V cowboys, John Thomas, in order to annoy him. Of course, Thomas grew angry, and Pringle responded by chasing him with a knife. Thomas then shot and killed Pringle. On 16 December 1886 Thomas asked for a mistrial, but he went to prison anyway--on Christmas Day. He was, however, unconditionally pardoned by Governor John N. Irwin on 15 June 1892.

Still another interesting individual connected with the saga of Geronimo was the "Apache Kid. There are so many legends about the Kid that it is hard to determine fact from fiction. What is known, however, is truly remarkable. His final trial was held in Globe on 23 October 1889. His story can be found on my Apache Kid page.

In January 1892 there was yet another stagecoach holdup out of Globe. King Ussery and Henry Blevins held up the Globe-to-Florence stagecoach (traveling the Howard and Reduction Toll Road) at Cane Spring in the Dripping Springs Mountains, just south of the Pinals. They netted two bars of silver bullion at $1500 each, a dozen gold breastpins at $20 each, and six gold eardrops valued at $90, as well as $200 in cash. Ussery was convicted and served some time in the Yuma Territorial Prison, but the jury wasn't sure about Blevins. The lawyers of the two men were paid in cattle for their retainer fee. As it turned out, both Ussery and Blevins then stole back their cattle from their lawyers, claiming that the fees were too high. This time both men were convicted and sent to Yuma.

In 1894 one of the Clanton men, who had survived the infamous Earp-Clanton/McLaury feud in Tombstone and had moved to Globe, became involved in yet another violent incident. After the battle at the O.K. Corral, the surviving Clanton brothers Ike and Phineas fled to Apache County. Ike was killed in a gunfight by Deputy Sheriff Commodore J. V. Brighton on Eagle Creek, near Blue River, and Phineas was imprisoned. After prison, Phineas moved to Globe and began raising goats for a living. His lands surrounded what is now Sleeping Beauty Mountain. In the winter of 1893-1894 Phineas robbed Sam Kee, a Chinese gardener in Wheatfields, at gunpoint. Clanton, however, was acquitted on 22 May 1894. Later, Phineas married a Mrs. Bohme, whose husband had died. She had a 12-year-old son--William Bohme. On 5 January 1906 Phineas was involved in a wagon accident, and his exposure to the weather caused him to get pneumonia, from which he died. He is buried in Globe.

Grave of Phineas Clanton

As the Pinal country slowly evolved into the twentieth century, still other remarkable scenes took place in and around them. One of them concerned a fascinating white woman: Pearl Hart--the last stagecoach bandit. She robbed a stagecoach out of Globe on 29 May 1899. Her story can be found on my Pearl Hart page.

Yet another dramatic event occurred in Globe about the turn of the century. Zachary Booth was hung behind the old courthouse in 1905. The circumstances behind the hanging were quite bloody. A Mormon by the name of William Berry decided that he should move his sheep ranch from St. Johns to Thatcher in 1903. As he worked out some details in Thatcher, his head sheepherder, Santiago Vigil, on December 22 was herding his 500 sheep through Brushy Basin, near Gisela. Santiago came upon some cowboys who were indignant about having sheep on their range. Without warning the cowboys shot William Berry's son, Wiley, and Santiago Vigil's seventeen-year-old boy, Juan. When Santiago Vigil ran to see what had happened to the boys, he saw a bullet hole burning in his son's sweater where he had been shot. Extremely enraged, Santiago rode into Payson and informed some deputies. Shortly afterwards, Wiley and Juan were buried in Gisela. On Christmas Day 1903 there was a party in the "16 to 1" Saloon in Payson, and many people were in attendance, including Santiago Vigil. As it just happened, so were his son's murderers: John and Zachary Booth. Santiago pointed the men out to the deputies, and they were arrested and placed on trial in Globe. In the trial Zachary Booth insisted that his brother John had not been present at the murders, even though Santiago insisted that he had been there. Nevertheless, John Booth was eventually released and continued to live in Gisela. (The Booth family was still living in Gisela in the 1960s.) Wiley Berry's body was later re-buried in Thatcher, and Juan Vigil's body was reburied in a different plot in Gisela--right next to where John Booth was later buried. Zachary Booth was hung in Globe on 15 September 1905, and buried in the old Globe Cemetery.

The year 1907 was also very eventful in the history of Globe. Most of the incidents revolved around the famous old scout Al Sieber. Even in his later years Sieber managed to be involved in dramatic incidents. On 31 January 1907, a woman named Laura Morris and her daughter, Arminta Ann (age 4 and a half) were brutally murdered with a knife near Roosevelt Dam (then under construction--begun in 1905 and finished in 1911). Arizona Ranger Jim Holmes was notified, and he called on Al Sieber to help. Two Apaches who had been scouts with Sieber, a man named "Rabbit" and another named "Yesterday," were called on to assist. As it had recently rained a lot, the scouts were able to follow the killer's footprints until they came to a pool of water near the river, where the killer had washed his hands. They noticed in the pool someone had dragged his right foot a little. Knowing scouting lore, they knew that the killer must have thrown something from that point, because when a man throws something he tends to drag his right foot. They then threw some rocks in the same direction as the man's footprints. When they inspected where they fell, they found the original murder weapon. They knew that the knife belonged to William Baldwin, and so he was quickly arrested. He was placed in the jail behind the newly-erected courthouse, which had been built in the same location as the old one, in Globe. (The "new" courthouse is now called the "old courthouse.")

Anger spread quickly through Globe when it was found out that Baldwin was in the jail. A mob formed and rushed onto the courthouse steps, where it was stopped by Sheriff John Henry Thompson ("Rimrock Henry"), who was holding a Winchester rifle. Thompson told the men (a significant proportion of the grown male population of Globe) that he would allow no lynching, and that they would have to pass by him first. He continued to talk to the mob and then threw the cell keys to them, acting as if he had given up. He told the people to "Go get him--if you can." In the meantime Baldwin had been spirited out the back of the jail by Deputy Jack Knight and was hidden on a train that was going to Solomonville. The mob swarmed over the courthouse, even up onto the copper roof, but were unable to find Baldwin. In Solomonville William Baldwin received his trial and was hung there on 12 July 1907.

A poker game was the cause of another murderous incident that occurred near the end of 1907. John Cline and Charley Edwards (who had helped Sheriff Thompson prevent the Baldwin lynching) had some heated words as they were engaged in a poker game in Tonto Basin. Later in Globe Edwards was overheard to say that he would kill Cline. The sons of John--Joe and James- -heard of the threat and so rode out to the Basin to warn their father. Edwards was later found murdered. John Cline had a brother, George, who just happened to be in Phoenix at the time and was able to acquire a brilliant attorney. Sympathy quickly grew for John and, as the prosecution could find no witness, the attorney was able to get him released. Descendants of Charley Edwards to this day are still bitter about this incident, but John lived a full life in the Basin. George Cline was still living in 1968--a champion rodeo rider.

It is interesting to know that in 1909 Globe acquired a famous resident from South America. When the man came to Globe he called himself "William T. Phillips," and he had just recently married Gertrude Livesay in Iowa. Mr. Phillips' true name (as some historians believe, though not all) was Richard Leroy Parker--"Butch Cassidy." He had come to Globe to make certain that his new alias would be permanent. It is believed by many that after the shoot-out in San Vicente, Bolivia, about 1908, that "Cassidy" survived and returned to the U.S. to make a new life for himself. He lived in Globe working on ranches and at construction. By late summer 1910 he had left Arizona for Washington, where he died in Spokane on July 20, 1937. Was "Phillips" the famous Butch Cassidy? It is possible, although recent research discredits the identification of Phillips with Cassidy. (See Meadows, Anne and Daniel Buck. "The Last Days of Butch & Sundance." Wild West 9 (February 1997):36-42.)

Two more dramatic murderous incidents occurred in the Globe area in 1910. The first was the murders of twelve-year-old Myrtle and fourteen-year-old Lou Goswick, sisters, on 23 June 1910. They were murdered at Horseshoe Bend on the Salt River. The circumstances for the murders were as follows:

Myrtle and Lou were the children of rancher Wesley Goswick, who lived four miles north of Globe. On the day of the murders, hired hand Kingsley Olds was told to take a wagon to Horseshoe Bend to pick up a gasoline engine that was located there. He was allowed to take the two girls, as they wanted to have a picnic lunch there. Olds had a shotgun with him to protect them. About 10 o'clock the girls went swimming. A cowboy, J. R. Haskell, just happened to pass by at the time and saw three people swimming in the river clad only in their underwear. The cowboy thought it was a family outing. But, later that night the girls had not yet returned home. Neither had Olds. Mr. Goswick got extremely worried and decided to go out to Horseshoe Bend himself. He arrived just as darkness was closing in. He found bloodstains everywhere. Kingsley Olds, in the meantime had gone to "Nigger Cabin," with a gunshot wound in the chin. He was found, and public sentiment quickly became inflamed against him. Although there was no indication on the girls' bodies that they had been choked or mishandled, many people were convinced that Olds was guilty. He, however, claimed that a man had tried to shoot him and the girls as they were in the river, and the girls had become frightened and drowned. There were also many witnesses who vouched for the character of Olds, saying that he had always been very proper with the girls and family, and that he could be trusted to tell the truth. He himself said, "I never hurt those little girls." Nevertheless, there was talk of mob violence, and it was difficult to maintain order in the town. A trial was quickly held, and the jury held that the girls' drowning was a direct result of Olds's conduct, although he may not have actually murdered them. He had, nevertheless, been responsible for them.

Late Sunday night, 2 July 1910, someone gained entrance to the "new courthouse" and could see Olds in his cell in the Sheriff's Building just east of the courthouse. (The same buildings stand there today.) Olds was shot and killed, and the murderer was never found. In the criminal records of Gila County the cases of Lou and Myrtle Goswick and Kingsley Old are still marked "unsolved." (NOTE: I have just been recently been informed by the granddaughter of Mr. Goswick that he, in fact, was the murderer of Olds.)

The second murderous incident of 1910 was the violent murders of two men who had gone onto the San Carlos Reservation to hunt deer. Two friends, Fred Kibbe and Albert Hillpot, had reached Tuttle Station (a stagecoach station between San Carlos and Fort Apache), near Mount Santos and Black River Crossing, on 14 September 1910. There were two men who ran the station, James H. Steel (whose real name was John B. Goodwin) and William Stewart, for the owner Mr. W. O. Tuttle of Rice. Goodwin and Stewart had previously been in the army at Ft. Apache but had deserted, as they did not want to go to Wyoming when their company was transferred there. That evening Stewart's dog bit Hillpot on the leg, and Hillpot kicked it. Stewart was very angry, but kept still about it.

The next morning (September 15) Kibbe and Hillpot went hunting and then returned to the station at night. Goodwin and Stewart were not there when the hunters arrived, but they later kicked the door open and started firing upon Kibbe and Hillpot. Hillpot tried to fight back, but was brutally slaughtered. Blood spurted around the cabin everywhere, and when others later arrived they witnessed a horrific scene. Both Kibbe and Hillpot were dead, and the two ex- soldiers had started toward Holbrook. Sheriff John Henry Thompson pursued them and thought the killers would try to go to the railroad station of Adamana, near Holbrook. He was right, and he arrested Goodwin and Stewart there. The trial was on 28 November 1910, and the townspeople in Globe were very angry. A lawyer by the name of Thomas W. Flannigan became their attorney. The two men were convicted on 10 December 1910, and were given life, but then Flannigan thought he could get them lighter sentences. He had read a lot of law about the fact that Indians should be tried in territorial courts if their crimes were committed on reservations, but he had never seen a case about white men committing crimes against other white men while on the reservation. Flannigan thought if his clients were tried again he could get a lighter sentence. The defendants agreed to a new trial, and on 22 November 1911, the jury stated that Goodwin should die on the gallows, while Stewart should get life imprisonment. Subsequently, many court battles were fought regarding the jurisdiction of the case. The case went even as far as the President, but he decided not to commute the case. Consequently, on 13 May 1913 John B. Goodwin was hung in Globe. The hangman was Bill Cunningham. A Mrs. Margaret Sharp and her daughter, also called Margaret, being opposed to capital punishment, curbed Goodwin's grave in the Globe Cemetery with concrete. For other legal reasons, Stewart was again put on trial in Globe, and this time he was sentenced to be hanged. On 29 May 1914 his execution was performed. Stewart told the hangman, again Bill Cunningham, "I'll meet you in Hell, and before you come to be with me, I hope you choke to death!" Cunningham later died of cancer of the throat. Stewart was buried near Goodwin, and the two graves can still be identified today (west of the cemetery main gate, outside the general burial area).

By the time of World War I the Pinal Mountain area was slowly becoming more "civilized" and leaving some of its more violent traditions behind. However, this was not entirely the case. In 1917 much of the worker population of the Globe-Miami area was suspected by many people in the rest of the United States as being traitorous. This was because of the heavy unionization of mining employees. The employees had seen copper companies reap the reward of high prices because of the need for copper in the war, but they themselves had seen few wage increases. A strike in Globe was therefore called on 1 July 1917, and relations between unionists and anti-unionists became very dangerous. Finally, on July 4 Governor Thomas Campbell arrived in Globe by train and began to observe the conditions there. He decided that troops should be called in. Four troops of cavalry and one machine gun company (all of the 17th Cavalry) arrived in Globe in the night of July 5. Various individuals were arrested in the following months, and soon negotiations began to wear down the striking miners. Finally, on 22 October 1917, the strike was officially over, and no further walkouts were permitted until the war ended. A token force of the 17th Cavalry remained in Globe until 1920, but no further labor trouble occurred. Most of the citizens of Globe wanted to be considered loyal and industrious citizens. Labor unrest seemed unworthy of a "progressive city."

The population by the 1920s had grown rapidly in the towns of Globe, Miami, Superior, and around the Winkelman area. The San Carlos Reservation had also settled down to such peaceful pursuits as farming, ranching, and construction (e.g., the railroad, which had been extended to Globe in December 1898). The reservation became much less turbulent after the Chiricahuas were gone, and also after most (though not all) of the Yavapais and a few Tonto Apaches migrated back to their ancestral lands. Most of the Yavapais and Tontos went to Ft. McDowell or Camp Verde, but some went to Payson and Prescott, where they remain to this day. But there was one last embarrassment the region had to face, and that occurred as late as 1936. In that year the last legal hanging in Arizona took place, and it happened on the San Carlos Apache Indian Reservation.

In December 1935 a San Carlos Apache with a fierce temper, Earl Gardner, killed his wife, Nancy, and his baby boy, Edward. He had previously killed a fellow tribesman in 1925, had served several years in prison, but had been released. After killing his wife and child he quickly challenged the government to "get a good rope and get it over with." Everyone wanted him executed, especially the members of his tribe. Consequently, he was tried, convicted, and sentenced to die by hanging. In a letter to a historian (Douglas D. Martin) a former reporter for the Phoenix Gazette, Jack Lefler, wrote the following about the 13 July 1936, execution:

The execution of Gardner by hanging was so ghastly that Congress passed a law stipulating that from henceforth all federal executions had to take place according to the manner "prescribed by the laws of the State within which the sentence is imposed." As the law in Arizona required that executions should be done by lethal gas (law passed in 1933), no more hangings were to be permitted in Arizona, not even on federally-supervised Indian reservations. Thus the Pinal Mountain region witnessed the last legal hanging ever permitted in Arizona.

(This entire incident is explained in detail in Douglas D. Martin, "An Apache's Epitaph: The Last Legal Hanging in Arizona--1936," Arizona and the West 5 (Winter 1963), 352-360.)

As the Pinal Mountain area matured into the twentieth century there were many challenges to face. The difficulties of World War II had a great impact on the area, as much of the copper used in the war came from here. Since World War II important strides have been made in many areas: development on the reservation, modernization of copper facilities, and further economic development in all the various towns. Throughout it all, the inhabitants around the "skirts" of the Pinals have persevered tenaciously. The area is in many ways still pioneer country, and those who live here, being descendants of some of the most colorful individuals in the history of the United States, continue to demonstrate an incredible will to prosper in a harsh, but beautiful land.

Most of this material came from the following sources:

Bigando, Robert. Globe, Arizona: The Life and Times of a Western Mining Town 1864- 1917 . Globe: American Globe Publishing Co., 1989.

Gila Centennials Celebration Committee. Honor the Past . . . Mold the Future . Globe: Arizona Silver Belt, 1976.

Hayes, Jess G. Apache Vengeance . Albuquerque: Univ. of New Mexico Press, 1954.

________. Boots and Bullets: The Life and Times of John W. Wentworth . Tucson: Univ. of Arizona Press, 1968.

________. Sheriff Thompson's Day: Turbulence in the Arizona Territory . Tucson: Univ. of Arizona Press, 1968.

Peace, Jayne. History of Gisela, Arizona . Payson: Jayne Peace, 1981.

Woody, Clara T. and Milton L. Schwartz. Globe, Arizona . Tucson: Arizona Historical Society, 1977.

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Martin Amis Offers the ‘Inside Story’ of His Relationships With Three Famous Writers

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About 20 years ago, Martin Amis — the writer with the most pronounced daddy issues this side of Sylvia Plath — received a letter from an especially harrowing ex-girlfriend.

Wrong Daddy, she said. Amis’s father, she claimed, was not the novelist Kingsley Amis but Kingsley’s best friend, the poet Philip Larkin — a man so timid with women he once joked, “Sex is too good to share with anyone else.”

She told Amis that she’d gotten this scoop while sleeping with Kingsley. I suppose I should mention here that the news arrived on Sept. 11, 2001.

From this mystery sprouts the tangled narrative of “Inside Story,” Amis’s new book. At 523 pages, it is one of his longest novels. He tells us it is likely to be his last.

The book is a “novelized autobiography” — an unstable and charismatic compound of fact and fiction. Amis revisits stories he told in his memoir “Experience.” Some other passages have been grafted from his essays and speeches. He reproduces a New Yorker article in its entirety.

The mystery itself is a bit of tease. The ex — whom he calls Phoebe Phelps, and describes as an amalgam of women he’s known — is flagrantly untrustworthy. Still, the confusion about his parentage serves its purpose — a juicy lure — as the true, more somber story slides into view, of the deaths of three writers beloved to Amis: a poet (Larkin), a novelist (Saul Bellow) and an essayist (Christopher Hitchens).

For 20 years Amis tried to write this book. He completed one version, declared it lifeless, despaired. In “Inside Story,” he describes staring at the sea, hysterically scanning himself for a throb of inspiration. For any writer, it would be a terrifying prospect. For this writer, it was a special torture. It was a moment he had been anticipating.

Lucian Freud once said that any remarks he might make about his paintings were as relevant to those paintings as the sound a tennis player might involuntarily produce when making a shot. This has been the Amis view. Scrutinize the prose, not the life, he scolds. And yet the hallmark of his own literary criticism is his interest in the pressures that life and art exert on each other, the mark that addiction and alimony payments leave on one’s sentences — judgments he makes with the serene confidence of the child of a writer.

In his most recent essay collection, “The Rub of Time,” Amis devotes himself to that singularly dubious “contribution of medical science,” the aging writer. Writers now outlive their talent, he says. They decline in full view of the public. “It’s self-evident that the grasp and the gift erodes,” he has explained. “I don’t see many exceptions to that rule.”

What does time snatch from writers, according to Amis? It robbed Nabokov of his “moral delicacy” (his last novels are “infested,” Amis argues, with 12-year-old girls). It diminished Updike’s ear — and stole speech itself from Kingsley, from the novelist Iris Murdoch, from Amis’s hero Bellow, who died of Alzheimer’s.

Amis’s anxieties are implicit: What will time take from me? Has it taken anything from me already? How will I know?

His reputation is already in a curious position. Cue the montage reel. Amis’s childhood home was warm, chaotic, lavishly permissive. It would have been unremarked upon, he once said, if he had lit up a cigarette under the Christmas tree at the age of 5.

After university, his rise was swift, and deeply alarming to a rivalrous father. He published his first book — “The Rachel Papers” — at 24, and took a position as literary editor at The New Statesman, where his inner circle included Hitchens, Ian McEwan, Ian Hamilton, Julian Barnes.

Their little group stoked paranoia in all the predictable quarters. Norman Mailer, sane as ever, announced that literary England was in the grips of a gay cabal led by Amis, Hitchens and Hamilton. Hitchens later accosted Mailer at a party. “I think that’s very unfair,” he said, “to Ian Hamilton.”

I write under the sign of Amis. You can no more pick your early, decisive influences than your dominant hand. Amis described encountering Bellow’s work with a shock of recognition: He is writing for me alone. So it is. Amis’s saw-toothed sentences seized me by the scruff and carried me off for good. The insolence of the novels, the high silliness, the shame, the jokes: “After a while, marriage is a sibling relationship — marked by occasional, and rather regrettable, episodes of incest.”

Why doesn’t everyone write like this? I thought. Doesn’t it occur to them to be this rude, this funny?

Amis feels a bit like a beloved vice these days. You read him through your fingers. As a critic, he remains strong and original. His memoir is a model of the form. The unofficial trilogy of novels — “London Fields,” “Money” and “The Information” — will last. But there are his horrific statements about Muslims following 9/11. There are his dull attempts to write about historical tragedy (“Koba the Dread,” “House of Meetings”). There are the women in his novels, always a bit caricatured but now frequently so silly, so extreme (in their physical proportions alone) that even Robert Crumb might counsel a little restraint.

“Inside Story” draws on all of the above. There is a ludicrous femme fatale (Phoebe Phelps), the intimate portraits of the past, much gassing on about geopolitics. Long sections of writing advice break up the narrative. The structure doesn’t mimic memory so much as the marathon conversations between Amis and Hitchens, some replicated here, that roved between history, gossip, craft, shoptalk.

Don’t be baffling, don’t be indigestible, he warns the young writer. Exercise moderation when writing about dreams, sex and religion. Be a good host to your readers.

It’s sound advice. Why doesn’t he take it?

“Inside Story” is rife with dreams, sex fantasies and maundering meditations on Jewishness, a longstanding obsession. The book feels built to baffle. It is an orgy of inconsistencies and inexplicable technical choices. Why are some characters referred to by their real names (Amis’s friends, for example) and others given pseudonyms (his wife, the writer Isabel Fonseca, is referred to by her middle name, Elena)? What is the logic behind the sudden shifts into the “loincloth” of the third person? Why does a writer who, on one page, excoriates Joseph Conrad for cliché, for the sin of “in the twinkling of an eye,” so blandly deploy “bright-eyed and bushy-tailed” — and worse? What … is … the point … of the … insane … amount … of ellipses?

Most maddening of all, “Inside Story” also includes some of Amis’s best writing to date.

The sections on Bellow and Larkin, about whom he’s written exhaustively, are warm and familiar. There are scenes of the disorientation of their last days, of Bellow compulsively watching “Pirates of the Caribbean.” He’s a very brave boy, he’d say of Jack Sparrow, with genuine emotion.

It’s on Hitchens that Amis moves into a fresh register. A writer so praised for his style (but also derided for being all style), Amis accesses a depth of feeling and a plainness of language entirely new to his work. He marvels at his friend’s ability to face death with courage. He puzzles over what he still doesn’t understand — chiefly Hitchens’s support of the Iraq War, which he claims Hitchens deeply regretted.

In one scene, Amis assists Hitchens as he takes a swim. “Do you mind?” Hitchens asked, now ailing. Swimming alongside him, Amis was seized by the memory of helping his son learn to walk in proper shoes. “No,” he responded. “I love it.”

Nothing in Amis prepared me for such scenes, for their quiet, their simplicity. Martin Amis, like Phoebe Phelps, has retained the power to surprise. An unexpected boon of aging? He’ll never admit it. But we might say of him, as he says of Phoebe: “She’s like a character in a novel where you want to skip ahead and see how they turned out. Anyway. I can’t give up now.”

Martin var son till en socialistisk och pacifistisk minister och växte upp med ett starkt politiskt inflytande i sitt liv. Efter grundskolan fick han ett stipendium till Mill Hill School men blev redan under skoltiden aktuell för militär tjänstgöring under första världskriget.

Efter kriget återvände Martin till det akademiska livet vid Magdalene College, Cambridge. Samtidigt med studierna vid universitetet blev han politiskt aktiv och gick med i grupper som Union of Democratic Control och Fabian Society. Efter att ha fått sin examen flyttade han till USA för att undervisa vid Princeton University under ett år.

När Martin återvände till England anställdes han som en litteraturkritiker vid tidskriften The Nation. Hans arbetsgivare använde också sina kontakter för att ge honom ett lärarjobb vid London School of Economics. Förutom att få ett nytt arbete, lyckades han publicera en av sina tidigaste böcker, The Triumph of Lord Palmerston. Han kvar på LSE i tre år, innan han blev erbjuden ett jobb som ledarskribent på Manchester Guardian. Martin accepterade detta, och under hans tid där han publicerade han ett annat arbete, French Liberal Thought in the Eighteenth Century.

År 1931 blev Martin redaktör för New Statesman 1930. Med honom som redaktör, fick New Statesman en viktig påverkan på Labours politik. Martin var ursprungligen pacifist, men övergav denna ståndpunkt som svar på uppkomsten av fascismen på 1930-talet. Han kvarstod på sin post som redaktör till 1960. Som radikal socialdemokrat (Labour), utövade han även stort inflytande på andra av Västeuropas arbetarpartier.

1984: George Orwell's road to dystopia

I was brought up in a house full of books, none of them by George Orwell.

Simone de Beauvoir was there, as was Sartre and Aldous Huxley and even Lenin. The last is actually a clue as to the absence of the first.

My parents were Communists. To them Orwell was on the other side of politics - someone whose principal writings were hostile to them and what they wanted to achieve.

This suspicious animosity had lasted beyond the death of Orwell and the demise of Stalin, and into the period when British Communists, by and large, now held the same view of the Soviet Union under Uncle Joe that Orwell had held and that had motivated him to write both Animal Farm and Nineteen Eighty-Four.

Their problem was, I now think, made acute by the way in which these two great books - and Nineteen Eighty-Four in particular - had become major weapons in the ideological war between left and right.

This use of Nineteen Eighty-Four, and its contradiction to Orwell's own long-stated support for some kind of socialism, needed explaining.

How had it come about that the targets in Nineteen Eighty-Four were English socialists and their nightmare totalitarian state? After all, Orwell was in charge of naming his own inventions and could have easily decided on names and characteristics that were friendlier to the political tendencies that he claimed to favour.

For years the question of Orwell's intentions in Nineteen Eighty-Four has caused great debate.

With a few exceptions on the far left, every political tendency has wanted to claim him. So there has been a well-established and heartfelt desire on the more moderate left to claim that Orwell was indeed a genuine socialist whose warning was aimed at totalitarianism in general, not at the left per se.

The right, of course, have had the easier task of suggesting that Orwell was writing about what he appeared to be writing about. It seems to me that the right probably has the better argument.

Nineteen Eighty-Four was published in 1949, but Orwell was first set on the road to it at least 12 years earlier when he was fighting Franco's insurgents in Spain as a member of a left-wing, but non-Stalinist militia, the Workers' Party of Marxist Unification (POUM).

Orwell had gone to Spain to fight Francoist fascism, but found himself face-to-face with another form of totalitarianism. The pro-Stalin communist forces in Spain turned on the POUM, branding them Trotskyist traitors.

Back home no one wanted to know about his experiences. Even non-communist left-wingers, including the publisher Victor Gollancz and the New Statesman editor Kingsley Martin, were reluctant to publish his accounts of what had happened, for fear of harming the overall cause of anti-fascism.

Orwell's opposition to totalitarianism, of left and right alike, was toughened up by his association with the novelist Arthur Koestler, a communist who had been imprisoned under threat of execution by the fascists in Spain.

Koestler later escaped to England where he published his novel, Darkness at Noon, in 1940.

This bleak story of an old Bolshevik who confesses to crimes he has not committed and is shot by the Soviet authorities, was to have a profound influence on Orwell.

His many book reviews also reveal much about his political influences, but one name, James Burnham, stands out.

An ex-communist, Burnham's 1941 book, The Managerial Revolution, filled Orwell with both horror and fascination.

In the book, he found two of the crucial elements of his novel: a world ruled by three super-states, and the idea that the overlords of the future would not be demagogues or democrats, but managers and bureaucrats.

Two events were to bring Burnham's dark prophecy to some kind of fruition. First, in 1943, at the Tehran Conference, Marshal Stalin, President Roosevelt and Prime Minister Churchill met to discuss the world after the war.

Orwell saw the beginnings of a Burnham-style carve-up of the globe into superpowers and told friends that this was what initially set him going on the novel.

Less than two years later, the Americans dropped atom bombs on Japan. In an essay for Tribune magazine called You and the Atomic Bomb, Orwell argued that the A-Bomb threatened to bring into being Burnham's world of super states governed by totalitarian hierarchies of managers.

It's often missed that Nineteen Eighty-Four is set a few decades after an atomic war. The managers administering the book's three super states, Oceania, Eurasia and Eastasia, have tacitly agreed not to try to destroy each other but to continue forever in a kind of cold war.

Indeed, it was Orwell who coined the phrase "cold war" in that 1945 essay.

In his view of things, totalitarianism was not merely a theoretical threat from a fictional future. The urgency of Nineteen Eighty-Four, and of much of Orwell's wartime and post-war writing, springs clearly from his sense that totalitarianism was already proving dangerously attractive to many on the left, not least intellectuals..

But what I think we can see is that, with fascist totalitarianism utterly defeated in WWII, Orwell found himself one of the relatively few people prepared to agitate against the left-totalitarianism of our erstwhile ally, the Soviet Union.

When Animal Farm was published, and when Nineteen Eighty-Four was being conceptualised and then written, Orwell's overwhelming preoccupation was to warn against Stalinism and its onward march.

We may speculate what Orwell might have thought had he lived to see Stalin dead, Joe McCarthy in his pomp, to have witnessed the Khrushchev speech denouncing Stalin to the 20th Party Congress in 1956, decolonisation, or a succession of Conservative governments led by men like Eden, whom Orwell appeared to despise.

Perhaps a new book would have been written to give succour to the real socialists of the world.

And maybe my parents would have allowed that one on to their shelves, somewhere between Alex Comfort and Virginia Woolf.

33 People Indicted on Federal Drug Charges

Numerous individuals already under sealed federal indictments on drug charges were arrested earlier today during a roundup conducted by Special Agents of the Federal Bureau of Investigation and Drug Enforcement Administration, along with the assistance of Jefferson Parish and St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Offices, and the Covington, New Orleans and Gretna Police Departments, announced U. S. Attorney Jim Letten and Dave Welker, FBI Special Agent in Charge of the New Orleans Field Division.

Specifically, thirty-three (33) individuals were indicted by Federal Grand Juries in four (4) separate indictments for various federal narcotics violations – along with some firearms violations. The majority of those individuals have, at the time of this release, been arrested and are in custody. The federal indictments which remained sealed by order of the U. S. District Court, were unsealed this morning in order to facilitate the arrests.

In the first indictment, KEVIN PHILLIPS, age 36, RODNEY WALKER, age 36, CHARLES WALKER, age 20, TROY WILLIAMS, age 26, DARTAGNAN COLEMAN, age 28, RODRIGO CONNOR, age 36, FELTON WILLIAMS, age 31, DAMON DANOS, age 38, and JEROME MARTIN, age 42, all residents of Marrero, Louisiana, were charged in a thirteen (13) count indictment with conspiracy to possess with the intent to distribute fifty (50) grams or more of cocaine base (crack) and five hundred (500) grams or more of cocaine hydrochloride, possession with the intent to distribute fifty (50) grams or more of cocaine base (crack), five (5) grams or more of cocaine base (crack), a quantity of heroin, marijuana, and cocaine hydrochloride, and using communications facilities in the commission of drug trafficking crimes. If convicted, each defendant faces a possible maximum sentence of life imprisonment. All nine defendants have been arrested and are in federal custody.

The indictment and arrests followed an ongoing investigation which utilized court ordered surveillance and other investigative techniques by the partner law enforcement agencies. This case was investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office and the Gretna Police Department. The case is being prosecuted by Assistant U. S. Attorney Sean Toomey.

In the second case, NATHANIEL JACKSON, III, age 23, his wife, DESTINY C. ROUTE,age 26, KALIC K. JACKSON, age 30, NATHANIEL JACKSON, JR., age 51, KENDRICK D. CHATMAN, JR., age 35, and KENNETH D. DAVIDSON, age 30, all residents of Covington, Louisiana, were charged in a twelve (12) count indictment with participating in a criminal conspiracy to distribute more than fifty (50) grams of crack cocaine. Additionally, NATHANIEL JACKSON, III, is charged with eight (8) counts of distributing five (5) grams or more of crack cocaine DESTINY ROUTE is charged with five (5) counts of distributing five (5) grams or more of crack cocaine DAVIDSON is charged with four (4) counts of distributing five (5) grams or more of crack cocaine KALIC JACKSON is charged with two (2) counts of distributing five (5) grams or more of crack cocaine and NATHANIEL JACKSON, JR. and KENDRICK CHATMAN are each charged with one count of distributing five (5) grams or more of crack cocaine. If convicted, each defendant faces a possible maximum sentencing of life imprisonment.

According to publicly available information contained in an affidavit in support of an arrest warrant (which was only recently unsealed), this particular indictment charging six (6) individuals was the result of a joint undercover investigation between members of the FBI Gang Task Force and the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office involving communications surveillance and undercover investigative techniques, including undercover purchases of controlled substances at various locations in St. Tammany Parish.

All six of these defendants are presently in custody, having been arrested in Northshore operations this morning.

Another seven individuals who have been arrested arising out of this case, and who have been charged with state racketeering violations include: HOUSTON WILSON, GARY CLARK, JAMES CLARK, KENSI TONEY, HILTON DAVENPORT, REGINALD HICKS, and KIRK MINER.

The case is being investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office and the Covington Police Department. The case is being prosecuted by Assistant U. S. Attorney Christopher Cox.

In the third case, seventeen (17) individuals, CALVINA McDOWELL, age 19, a resident of Westwego, KAVEN LANE, JR., age 28, a resident of Marrero, JONATHAN JOSEPH, age 25, a resident of Marrero, CYRIL DEGREE, age 25, a resident of Harvey, QUANTIES DAVIS, age 32, a resident of Marrero, TERRELL WINCHESTER, age 29, a resident of Marrero, BURNELL WILSON, age 30, a resident of Marrero, RALPH RILEY JOHNSON a/k/a “Boogalie,” age 31, a resident of Marrero, RONALD CHASTER JOHNSON a/k/a “Big Daddy,” age 31, a resident of Marrero, WILLIAM BARNES SHEARS III, age 30, a resident of Westwego, HUEY COLE a/k/a “Stretch,” age 27, a resident of Marrero, JOHNIE ANTOINE THOMPSON a/k/a “Big Man,” age 23, a resident of Marrero, COREY LENARD WATTS a/k/a “Cocomo,” age 34, a resident of Harvey, MARK RENEE JAMES, age 27, a resident of Marrero, DERRICK ALEXANDER, age 30, a resident of Marrero, MILTON BEVERLY, age 28, a resident of Harvey, and LEROY DABNEY, IV, age 26, a resident of Marrero, were charged in a four (4) count superseding indictment for with conspiring to distribute and possess with intent to distribute 50 grams or more of crack cocaine, five kilograms or more of cocaine hydrochloride, and a quantity of marijuana. Additionally, LANE, JR., and JOSEPH were also charged in conspiring to use, carry, and possess firearms in furtherance of the drug conspiracy. Additionally, COLE was charged with distribution of marijuana and McDOWELL was charged with possessing with intent to distribute 50 grams or more of crack cocaine. If convicted, each defendant faces a possible maximum sentence of life imprisonment.

This indictment was brought as a result of an ongoing undercover investigation which utilized Court-ordered electronic surveillance techniques as well. Twelve of these defendants have been arrested and are in federal custody. The following defendants remain at large and are being sought by authorities: RONALD CHASTER JOHNSON, WILLIAM BARNES SHEARS, MARK RENE JAMES, DERRICK ALEXANDER, and MILTON BEVERLY.

The first seven-named defendants were previously indicted in this matter along with JERMAINE WINCHESTER, MARLON JONES, CLYDE PEREZ, and KEVIN COLLINS. WINCHESTER, JONES, and PEREZ have previously pled guilty in that matter and are awaiting sentencing. TRAVIS EVERY also pled guilty in a related matter before U. S. District Judge Martin L. C. Feldman and is awaiting sentencing.
The case was investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, the Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office, and the Gretna Police Department. The case is being prosecuted by Assistant U. S. Attorney Kevin G. Boitmann.

In the fourth indictment, BRIAN RIGGINS, age 39, a resident of Harvey, Louisiana, was charged in a four count indictment for possession with the intent to distribute five (5) kilograms or more of cocaine hydrochloride and fifty (50) grams or more of cocaine base (crack), possessing three firearms in furtherance of a drug trafficking crime, being a convicted felon in possession of three firearms, and possessing a short-barreled shotgun in furtherance of a drug trafficking crime. If convicted, RIGGINS faces a possible maximum sentence of life imprisonment. RIGGINS is also in federal custody.

The case was investigated by the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Drug Enforcement Administration, and Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office. The case is being prosecuted by Assistant U. S. Attorney Sean Toomey.

Speaking to today’s events, U. S. Attorney Jim Letten stated, “Today’s roundup following the multiple indictments of no less that 34 individuals on an array of federal narcotics and firearms charges is sobering evidence of the scale of dangerous narcotics use and trafficking not only in our cities, but also in our surrounding suburban and rural areas. More significantly, today’s roundup and indictments provide continuing and powerful evidence of our commitment in federal enforcement to aggressively identify, investigate, and charge – through all legal means possible – those individuals who, through violation of our federal criminal laws – pose a threat to public safety in the entire region. Today’s events are also evidence of outstanding, seamless partnerships which exist between federal, state, and local law enforcement professionals. Our special thanks go out to the Special Agents of the FBI, as well as DEA, and our tremendous partners in the St. Tammany Parish Sheriff’s Office, Jefferson Parish Sheriff’s Office, New Orleans Police Department, as well as the Covington and Gretna Police Departments.”

U. S. Attorney Letten reiterated that the indictment is merely a charge and that the guilt of the defendant must be proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

Recommended Reading

1984 Isn’t the Only Book Enjoying a Revival

Teaching 1984 in 2016

Christian America’s Must-See TV Show

However you feel about Nineteen Eighty-Four personally, there are plenty of other great speculative novels about authoritarianism, novels that are less iconic, but no less chilling. One in particular turned 40 this past fall to virtually no fanfare, while other books enjoyed a surge of interest. This lack of scrutiny was a shame because The Alteration, Kingsley Amis’s quirky 1976 foray into counterfactual science fiction, is a masterpiece—and more timely than ever. It posits a world in which truth is trussed up, and sexual identities are policed with horrifying consequences. But, unlike other, more aggressively grim dystopias, it’s otherwise a relatively pleasant world, whose horrors blink at readers from between the lines.

The first page of The Alteration puts down in a seemingly archaic England, specifically at “Cathedral Basilica of St. George of Coverley, the mother church of all England and of the English Empire overseas.” A king has died, other kings have assembled, and the protagonist Hubert Anvil, a young, prepubescent chorister, is delivering a transcendent performance. But it’s an odd configuration of kings in attendance, and soon other references start to nag. The cathedral contains frescoes by William Blake . and a mosaic by one David Hockney. And then comes the twist, several pages in, as the massive cathedral disgorges its funeral procession: “In the year of Our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seventy-six, Christendom would see nothing more mournful or more stately.”

That’s right: It’s 1976, and an alteration to history has, in fact, arrested history. The Protestant Reformation, it turns out, never took place. The Church of England never parted ways with the Pope, Catholicism dominates the Western world, and the Turks are branded as the enemy. (In this alternate reality, Martin Luther, the great papal critic, became Pope.) It’s supposed to be the year the Sex Pistols released “Anarchy in the U.K.,” but large portions of the planet are fixed in medieval deep freeze. Interestingly, there’s still something like a brash (if much diminished) New World, called “New England,” where there’s a “First Citizen” instead of a king. It’s a surreal setup, but then so was the episode of The Simpsons that imagined a reality star rising to the highest office.

The Alteration, then, is a counterfactual novel in the tradition of Philip K. Dick’s The Man in the High Castle. (Dick’s 1962 science-fiction classic, now reimagined an Amazon TV series, wonders what would have happened had the Nazis won World War II.) In fact, in a sly wink to Amis’s real-world readers, Hubert’s choir friends come into possession of a copy of The Man in the High Castle. Dick’s book, in the world of The Alteration, is an example of “CW”—or “Counterfeit World,” a literary subgenre of “Time Romance” (basically, science fiction). Such literature is illegal in Hubert’s world, and the youngsters duly marvel at their contraband. From it, they imagine an alternative world history that could very well have been theirs, one in which Martin Luther never becomes Pope, something called The Origin of Species sees its way into print, and New England eventually evolves into “the greatest Power in the world.” Here, then, is “fake history”—but unlike its mischief-making cousin “fake news,” fake history has the positive effect of opening minds muffled by oppression to unimagined social and political possibilities.

Amis’s seemingly benign title, The Alteration, however, has a second, terrible meaning: Hubert is himself to be “altered.” At the novel’s outset, church authorities resolve to turn the young chorister into a castrato, the better to embalm his otherworldly voice—and to refrigerate the adolescent in clean, bright, asexual youth. Traumatic surgery, here, is sheathed in the sort of opaque euphemism—see “alternative facts”—that politicians sometimes prefer, and that Orwell himself worried about in his classic essay, “Politics and the English Language.”

Hubert will attempt to flee his “alteration,” but plot is the least of the book’s pleasures. Most of the delight (and terror) comes from Amis’s wickedly clever world building. For example, as Hubert’s friends geek out over The Man in the High Castle (the way real-world fanboys might an installment of Star Wars) one of them pauses to balk at the idea of a brash English colony across the pond becoming a world power. “That mean little den of thieves and savages … ?” he says with disbelief. It’s a moment of black comedy, but in 2017 it’s also a painful reminder that the preeminence of the United States, far from a given, might one day seem like nothing more than preposterous sci-fi: the object of a fanboy’s scorn.

In another twist, Amis imagines a world that has largely suppressed science. Electricity has been discovered, but is disdained, the way many now disdain vaccines. Curiously, there are car- and train-like conveyances that propel people about Hubert’s otherwise lethargic world—but only because enterprising electricity-denialists have found complicated workarounds. It’s hard not to picture climate-change skeptics when reading passages like this:

[I]gnition was achieved merely by compressing petroleum vapour to a certain density, without the introduction of a spark. That suffix was vital, for the only practicable known means of producing a spark was an electrical one, and matters electrical were held in general disesteem. They were commonly regarded among the people as strange, fearful, even profane the gentry smiled at the terms of this view while not missing its essential truth: electricity was appallingly dangerous, both as it existed and as it might be developed.

Crucially, unlike Nineteen Eighty-Four, there are no scene-stealing villains in The Alteration—no Thought Police, no Ministries of Truth—to administer tyranny. Nor do telescreens loom overhead. There’s just a mundane, centuries-old consensus that corsets sexuality and chloroforms reason.

In his introduction to the New York Review Books Classics edition of The Alteration, William Gibson calls the book a “study in tyranny, as effective, and terrifying, albeit in its much quieter way, as Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four.” Quiet is the key, well-judged word here. Read between the lines of The Alteration and you find Western culture behind bars. Read too quickly and you’ll miss the submerged fact that geniuses like Willem de Kooning came to devote their canvasses to religious content, and that many literary classics never came to be. (Instead, Hubert’s bookshelf includes an alt-canon of bizarro doppelgangers like Lord of the Chalices and The Wind in the Cloister.) Even Shakespeare, identified only as the author of “If you prick us, do we not bleed,” was excommunicated and expelled from England. No other book dispenses such disastrous fates—noiselessly, behind the scenes—to the liberal heroes and artifacts it’s easy to take for granted. Free will has been garroted by rosary beads.

It’s easy to glide over many of these details. The Alteration requires readers to have a handle on history and be alert to allusions that Amis doesn’t especially underline. As a result, the book might not seem like obvious gear for the resistance (whereas Occupy Wall Street readily took up the mask preferred by the protagonist of Alan Moore’s graphic novel V for Vendetta). Nevertheless, Amis’s experiment is an essential entry in a canon that includes V for Vendetta as well as other well-known fare like The Man in the High Castle and The Handmaid’s Tale. Dick himself suggests The Alteration might be the best “alternate-worlds” novel, period. Amis’s subtle, stylish sentences yield no slogans, no iconic images. But those anxious about encroaching tyranny will discover in its pages a grave new world.

1900 to 1949

1901 Liverpool Sanatorium, Kingswood opens. Territorial Drill Hall built on Main Street. Frodsham Population about 2,728. 1903 Newton Hall branch of the NCH (National Children&rsquos Home) opens in Frodsham. 1905 Crossley Hospital (Manchester Sanatorium, Delamere) opens. 1908 J H Cross photographed the oldest people in Frodsham The helter-skelter built on Frodsham Hill 1912 Ship Street sewer laid 1912/1915 Union Chapel, Bridge Lane, extended 1921 War memorial on Frodsham Hill completed in June, still visible from most of Frodsham 1925 Visit of King George V on 8th July 1928 Frodsham Library opened 1932 Castle Park given to the District Council 1949 St Luke&rsquos Catholic Church in Frodsham founded (in the building on Ship Street now used as the postal sorting office)

It’s become cliche for actors, writers, and directors to say that they don’t care about winning an Academy Award, even if they do. But in the 90-year history of the Oscars, there have been very few people who won a golden knight statuette and then told the Academy of Motion . read more

MGM’s 1937 sales convention was an affair to remember. There were celebrity meet-and-greets, marching bands, an escort of motorcycle cops. There was a private rail car and plenty of booze and conversation. And, on the night of May 5, 1937, there was a big party, complete with . read more

Watch the video: Henry Wallace And Kingsley Martin 1947 (May 2022).