two 250 word discussion posts

WEEK 5 DISCUSSION 1PROMPT:This week you’ve had an opportunity to sample some of the historical literature and you viewed video clips that draw connections between the past to our contemporary world. Now it is your turn to add a brief narrative to the historical record. You may model your story after the kind of stories you heard on StoryCorps or you may use one of your readings as a model. Write a short narrative (no more than 2 paragraphs) which tells your story of a significant event (possibly revolving around a historical event); it should be a story about an event that had an impact on your life (professional, educational, spiritual, etc.) – a story that you feel comfortable sharing with the class.story corps links WEEK 5 DISCUSSION 2PROMPT:In this week’s reading we have the towering hero Abraham Lincoln and the notorious Nazi Adolf Eichmann (in Arendt’s piece). In other words, we have a near saint and a near devil. Think of who appears in the historical record, and then answer the following questions:Who gets left out of the historical narrative and why? Explain.Does this mean, in your opinion, that history is not the same as truth? Explain your answer.…

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Walt Whitman
Death of Abraham Lincoln
HOW often since that dark and dripping Saturday—that chilly April day, now fifteen years bygone—my
heart has entertain’d the dream, the wish, to give of Abraham Lincoln’s death, its own special thought
and memorial. Yet now the sought-for opportunity offers, I find my notes incompetent, (why, for truly
profound themes, is statement so idle? why does the right phrase never offer?) and the fit tribute I
dream’d of, waits unprepared as ever. My talk here indeed is less because of itself or anything in it, and
nearly altogether because I feel a desire, apart from any talk, to specify the day, the martyrdom. It is for
this, my friends, I have call’d you together. Oft as the rolling years bring back this hour, let it again,
however briefly, be dwelt upon. For my own part, I hope and desire, till my own dying day, whenever
the 14th or 15th of April comes, to annually gather a few friends, and hold its tragic reminiscence. No
narrow or sectional reminiscence. It belongs to these States in their entirety—not the North only, but
the South—perhaps belongs most tenderly and devoutly to the South, of all; for there, really, this man’s
birth-stock. There and thence his antecedent stamp, Why should I not say that thence his manliest
traits—his universality—his canny, easy ways and words upon the surface—his inflexible determination
and courage at heart? Have you never realized it, my friends, that Lincoln, though grafted on the West,
is essentially, in personnel and character, a Southern contribution?
And though by no means proposing to resume the Secession war to-night, I would briefly remind you of
the public conditions preceding that contest. For twenty years, and especially during the four or five
before the war actually began, the aspect of affairs in the United States, though without the flash of
military excitement, presents more than the survey of a battle, or any extended campaign, or series,
even of Nature’s convulsions. The hot passions of the South—the strange mixture at the North of
inertia, incredulity, and conscious power—the incendiarism of the abolitionists—the rascality and grip of
the politicians, unparalle’d in any land, any age. To these I must not omit adding the honesty of the
essential bulk of the people everywhere—yet with all the seething fury and contradiction of their
natures more arous’d than the Atlantic’s waves in wildest equinox. In politics, what can be more
ominous, (though generally unappreciated then)—what more significant than the Presidentiads of
Fillmore and Buchanan? proving conclusively that the weakness and wickedness of elected rulers are
just as likely to afflict us here, as in the countries of the Old World, under their monarchies, emperors,
and aristocracies. In that Old World were everywhere heard underground rumblings, that died out, only
to again surely return. While in America the volcano, though civic yet, continued to grow more and more
convulsive—more and more stormy and threatening.
In the height of all this excitement and chaos, hovering on the edge at first, and then merged in its very
midst, and destined to play a leading part, appears a strange and awkward figure. I shall not easily forget
the first time I ever saw Abraham Lincoln. It must have been about the 18th or 19th of February, 1861. It
was rather a pleasant afternoon, in New York city, as he arrived there from the West, to remain a few
hours, and then pass on to Washington, to prepare for his inauguration. I saw him in Broadway, near the
site of the present Post-office. He came down, I think from Canal street, to stop at the Astor House. The
broad spaces, sidewalks, and street in the neighborhood, and for some distance, were crowded with
solid masses of people, many thousands. The omnibuses and other vehicles had all been turn’d off,
leaving an unusual hush in that busy part of the city. Presently two or three shabby hack barouches
made their way with some difficulty through the crowd, and drew up at the Astor House entrance. A tall
figure step’d out of the centre of these barouches, paus’d leisurely on the sidewalk, look’d up at the
granite walls and looming architecture of the grand old hotel—then, after a relieving stretch of arms and
legs, turn’d round for over a minute to slowly and good-humoredly scan the appearance of the vast and
silent crowds. There were no speeches—no compliments—no welcome—as far as I could hear, not a
word said. Still much anxiety was conceal’d in that quiet. Cautious persons had fear’d some mark’d
insult or indignity to the President-elect—for he possess’d no personal popularity at all in New York city,
and very little political. But it was evidently tacitly agreed that if the few political supporters of Mr.
Lincoln present would entirely abstain from any demonstration on their side, the immense majority,
who were any thing but supporters, would abstain on their side also. The result was a sulky, unbroken
silence, such as certainly never before characterized so great a New York crowd.
Almost in the same neighborhood I distinctly remember’d seeing Lafayette on his visit to America in
1825. I had also personally seen and heard, various years afterward, how Andrew Jackson, Clay,
Webster, Hungarian Kossuth, Filibuster Walker, the Prince of Wales on his visit, and other celebres,
native and foreign, had been welcom’d there—all that indescribable human roar and magnetism, unlike
any other sound in the universe—the glad exulting thunder-shouts of countless unloos’d throats of men!
But on this occasion, not a voice—not a sound. From the top of an omnibus, (driven up one side, close
by, and block’d by the curbstone and the crowds,) I had, I say, a capital view of it all, and especially of
Mr. Lincoln, his look and gait—his perfect composure and coolness—his unusual and uncouth height, his
dress of complete black, stovepipe hat push’d back on the head, dark-brown complexion, seam’d and
wrinkled yet canny-looking face, black, bushy head of hair, disproportionately long neck, and his hands
held behind as he stood observing the people. He look’d with curiosity upon that immense sea of faces,
and the sea of faces return’d the look with similar curiosity. In both there was a dash of comedy, almost
farce, such as Shakspere puts in his blackest tragedies. The crowd that hemm’d around consisted I
should think of thirty to forty thousand men, not a single one his personal friend—while I have no
doubt, (so frenzied were the ferments of the time,) many an assassin’s knife and pistol lurk’d in hip or
breast-pocket there, ready, soon as break and riot came.
But no break or riot came. The tall figure gave another relieving stretch or two of arms and legs; then
with moderate pace, and accompanied by a few unknown looking persons, ascended the portico-steps
of the Astor House, disappear’d through its broad entrance—and the dumb-show ended.
I saw Abraham Lincoln often the four years following that date. He changed rapidly and much during
his Presidency—but this scene, and him in it, are indelibly stamped upon my recollection. As I sat on the
top of my omnibus, and had a good view of him, the thought, dim and inchoate then, has since come
out clear enough, that four sorts of genius, four mighty and primal hands, will be needed to the
complete limning of this man’s future portrait—the eyes and brains and finger-touch of Plutarch and
Eschylus and Michel Angelo, assisted by Rabelais.
And now—(Mr. Lincoln passing on from this scene to Washington, where he was inaugurated, amid
armed cavalry, and sharpshooters at every point—the first instance of the kind in our history—and I
hope it will be the last)—now the rapid succession of well-known events, (too well known—I believe,
these days, we almost hate to hear them mention’d)—the national flag fired on at Sumter—the uprising
of the North, in paroxysms of astonishment and rage—the chaos of divided councils—the call for
troops—the first Bull Run—the stunning cast-down, shock, and dismay of the North—and so in full flood
the Secession war. Four years of lurid, bleeding, murky, murderous war. Who paint those years, with all
their scenes?—the hard-fought engagements—the defeats, plans, failures—the gloomy hours, days,
when our Nationality seem’d hung in pall of doubt, perhaps death—the Mephistophelean sneers of
foreign lands and attachés—the dreaded Scylla of European interference, and the Charybdis of the
tremendously dangerous latent strata of secession sympathizers throughout the free States, (far more
numerous than is supposed)—the long marches in summer—the hot sweat, and many a sunstroke, as
on the rush to Gettysburg in ’63—the night battles in the woods, as under Hooker at Chancellorsville—
the camps in winter—the military prisons—the hospitals—(alas! alas! the hospitals.)
The Secession war? Nay, let me call it the Union war. Though whatever call’d, it is even yet too near
us—too vast and too closely overshadowing—its branches unform’d yet, (but certain,) shooting too far
into the future—and the most indicative and mightiest of them yet ungrown. A great literature will yet
arise out of the era of those four years, those scenes—era compressing centuries of native passion, firstclass pictures, tempests of life and death—an inexhaustible mine for the histories, drama, romance, and
even philosophy, of peoples to come—indeed the verteber of poetry and art, (of personal character
too,) for all future America—far more grand, in my opinion, to the hands capable of it, than Homer’s
siege of Troy, or the French wars to Shakspere.
But I must leave these speculations, and come to the theme I have assign’d and limited myself to. Of
the actual murder of President Lincoln, though so much has been written, probably the facts are yet
very indefinite in most persons’ minds. I read from my memoranda, written at the time, and revised
frequently and finally since.
The day, April 14, 1865, seems to have been a pleasant one throughout the whole land—the moral
atmosphere pleasant too—the long storm, so dark, so fratricidal, full of blood and doubt and gloom,
over and ended at last by the sun-rise of such an absolute National victory, and utter break-down of
Secessionism—we almost doubted our own senses! Lee had capitulated beneath the apple-tree of
Appomattox. The other armies, the flanges of the revolt, swiftly follow’d. And could it really be, then?
Out of all the affairs of this world of woe and failure and disorder, was there really come the confirm’d,
unerring sign of plan, like a shaft of pure light—of rightful rule—of God? So the day, as I say, was
propitious. Early herbage, early flowers, were out. (I remember where I was stopping at the time, the
season being advanced, there were many lilacs in full bloom. By one of those caprices that enter and
give tinge to events without being at all a part of them, I find myself always reminded of the great
tragedy of that day by the sight and odor of these blossoms. It never fails.)
But I must not dwell on accessories. The deed hastens. The popular afternoon paper of Washington,
the little “Evening Star,” had spatter’d all over its third page, divided among the advertisements in a
sensational manner, in a hundred different places, The President and his Lady will be at the Theatre this
evening.… (Lincoln was fond of the theatre. I have myself seen him there several times. I remember
thinking how funny it was that he, in some respects the leading actor in the stormiest drama known to
real history’s stage through centuries, should sit there and be so completely interested and absorb’d in
those human jack-straws, moving about with their silly little gestures, foreign spirit, and flatulent text.)
On this occasion the theatre was crowded, many ladies in rich and gay costumes, officers in their
uniforms, many well-known citizens, young folks, the usual clusters of gas-lights, the usual magnetism of
so many people, cheerful, with perfumes, music of violins and flutes—(and over all, and saturating all,
that vast, vague wonder, Victory, the nation’s victory, the triumph of the Union, filling the air, the
thought, the sense, with exhilaration more than all music and perfumes.)
The President came betimes, and, with his wife, witness’d the play from the large stage-boxes of the
second tier, two thrown into one, and profusely draped with the national flag. The acts and scenes of
the pieces—one of those singularly written compositions which have at least the merit of giving entire
relief to an audience engaged in mental action or business excitements and cares during the day, as it
makes not the slightest call on either the moral, emotional, esthetic, or spiritual nature—a piece, (“Our
American Cousin,”) in which, among other characters, so call’d, a Yankee, certainly such a one as was
never seen, or the least like it ever seen, in North America, is introduce in England, with a varied fol-derol of talk, plot, scenery, and such phantasmagoria as goes to make up a modern popular drama—had
progress’d through perhaps a couple of its acts, when in the midst of this comedy, or non-such, or
whatever it is to be call’d, and to offset it, or finish it out, as if in Nature’s and the great Muse’s mockery
of those poor mimes, came interpolated that scene, not really or exactly to be described at all, (for on
the many hundreds who were there it seems to this hour to have left a passing blur, a dream, a
blotch)—and yet partially to be described as I now proceed to give it. There is a scene in the play
representing a modern parlor, in which two unprecedented English ladies are inform’d by the impossible
Yankee that he is not a man of fortune, and therefore undesirable for marriage-catching purposes; after
which, the comments being finish’d, the dramatic trio make exit, leaving the stage clear for a moment.
At this period came the murder of Abraham Lincoln. Great as all its manifold train, circling round it, and
stretching into the future for many a century, in the politics, history, art, &c., of the New World, in point
of fact the main thing, the actual murder, transpired with the quiet and simplicity of any commonest
occurrence—the bursting of a bud or pod in the growth of vegetation, for instance. Through the general
hum following the stage pause, with the change of positions, came the muffled sound of a pistol-shot,
which not one-hundredth part of the audience heard at the time—and yet a moment’s hush—
somehow, surely, a vague startled thrill—and then, through the ornamented, draperied, starr’d and
striped space-way of the President’s box, a sudden figure, a man, raises himself with hands and feet,
stands a moment on the railing, leaps below to the stage, (a distance of perhaps fourteen or fifteen
feet,) falls out of position, catching his boot-heel in the copious drapery, (the American flag,) falls on one
knee, quickly recovers himself, rises as if nothing had happen’d, (he really sprains his ankle, but unfelt
then)—and so the figure, Booth, the murderer, dress’d in plain black broadcloth, bare-headed, with full,
glossy, raven hair, and his eyes like some mad animal’s flashing with light and resolution, yet with a
certain strange calmness, holds aloft in one hand a large knife—walks along not much back from the
footlights—turns fully toward the audience his face of statuesque beauty, lit by those basilisk eyes,
flashing with desperation, perhaps insanity—launches out in a firm and steady voice the words Sic
semper tyrannis—and then walks with neither slow nor very rapid pace diagonally across to the back of
the stage, and disappears. (Had not all this terrible scene—making the mimic ones preposterous—had it
not all been rehears’d, in blank, by Booth, beforehand?)
A moment’s hush—a scream—the cry of murder—Mrs. Lincoln leaning out of the box, with ashy cheeks
and lips, with involuntary cry, pointing to the retreating figure, He has kill’d the President. And still a
moment’s strange, incredulous suspense—and then the deluge!—then that mixture of horror, noises,
uncertainty—(the sound, somewhere back, of a horse’s hoofs clattering with speed)—the people burst
through chairs and railings, and break them up—there is inextricable confusion and terror—women
faint—quite feeble persons fall, and are trampled on—many cries of agony are heard—the broad stage
suddenly fills to suffocation with a dense and motley crowd, like some horrible carnival—the audience
rush generally upon it, at least the strong men do—the actors and actresses are all there in their playcostumes and painted faces, with mortal fright showing through the rouge—the screams and calls,
confused talk—redoubled, trebled—two or three manage to pass up water from the stage to the
President’s box—others try to clamber up—&c., &c.
In the midst of all this, the soldiers of the President’s guard, with others, suddenly drawn to the scene,
burst in—(some two hundred altogether)—they storm the house, through all the tiers, especially the
upper ones, inflamed with fury, literally charging the audience with fix’d bayonets, muskets and pistols,
shouting Clear out! clear out! you sons of ——..… Such the wild scene, or a suggestion of it rather, inside
the play-house that night.
Outside, too, in the atmosphere of shock and craze, crowds of people, fill’d with frenzy, ready to seize
any outlet for it, come near committing murder several times on innocent individuals. One such case
was especially exciting. The infuriated crowd, through some chance, got started against one man, either
for words he utter’d, or perhaps without any cause at all, and were proceeding at once to actually hang
him on a neighboring lamppost, when he was rescued by a few heroic policemen, who placed him in
their midst, and fought their way slowly and amid great peril toward the station house. It was a fitting
episode of the whole affair. The crowd rushing and eddying to and fro—the night, the yells, the pale
faces, many frighten’d people trying the vain to extricate themselves—the attack’d man, not yet freed
from the jaws of death, looking like a corpse—the silent, resolute, half-dozen policemen, with no
weapons but their little clubs, yet stern and steady through all those eddying swarms—made a fitting
side-scene to the grand tragedy of the murder. They gain’d the station house with the protected man,
whom they placed in security for the night, and discharged him in the morning.
And in the midst of that pandemonium, infuriated soldiers, the audience and the crowd, the stage, and
all its actors and actresses, its paint-pots, spangles, and gas-lights—the life blood from those veins, the
best and sweetest of the land, drips slowly down, and death’s ooze already begins its little bubbles on
the lips.
Thus the visible incidents and surroundings of Abraham Lincoln’s murder, as they really occur’d. Thus
ended the attempted secession of these States; thus the four years’ war. But the main things come
subtly and invisibly afterward, perhaps long afterward—neither military, political, nor (great as those
are,) historical. I say, certain secondary and indirect results, out of the tragedy of this death, are, in my
opinion, greatest. Not the event of the murder itself. Not that Mr. Lincoln strings the principal points
and personages of the period, like beads, upon the single string of his career. Not that his idiosyncrasy,
in its sudden appearance and disappearance, stamps this Republic with a stamp more mark’d and
enduring than any yet given by any one man—(more even than Washington’s;)—but, join’d with these,
the immeasurable value and m …
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