January 2011

At 17:30 P.M. on August 2, President Warren G. Harding died suddenly, from either a stroke or a heart attack, in the Palace Hotel in San Francisco. His death came near the end of a planned seven-week tour of the Midwest, the West, and Alaska, after which he would have sailed back to Washington through the Panama Canal. The trip had been intended to lift the President’s spirits and revive his failing health, but aides had packed his schedule with political events, leaving him little time for rest. In lackluster speeches along the way, Harding endorsed the World Court, discussed agricultural policy and railroad consolidation, and vigorously endorsed Prohibition. To support this last goal, he tried to give up drinking himself, with frequent but not total success. In an era before air conditioning, stifling heat plagued the presidential party throughout the trip. Even in Fairbanks, Alaska, the temperature reached ninety-four degrees.

Brief and successful as it was, the “splendid little war” (in John Hay’s phrase) pointed up the need for a pair of overdue reforms in America’s military. In the course of overwhelming the Spanish defenders in Cuba, some American military units had fared much better than others. For example, during the climactic assault on San Juan Hill, as Lt. John J. Pershing (who would command America’s forces in World War I) recorded, “A converging fire from all the works within range opened upon us that was terrible in its effect; the 71st New York, which lay in a sunken road near the ford, became demoralized and wellnigh stampeded.” The New Yorkers were finally ordered to lie down in a thicket just to get them out of the way.

When an armistice ended the Spanish-American War on August 12, the United States found itself with three major new territories obtained in three different ways. The first was Hawaii, annexed on July 7 with the President’s signature on a joint congressional resolution. The islands, controlled by a friendly American-installed government, had shown their value as a naval base, and in the exhilaration of impending victory over Spain, America took up a long-standing offer to absorb them. Next came Puerto Rico, which was invaded in late July and conquered over light resistance with the war winding down. (Theodore Roosevelt had written to Sen. Henry Cabot Lodge: “Give my best love to Nannie and do not make peace until we get Porto Rico.”) Then there were the Philippines, which fell into America’s lap in a nineteenth-century example of mission creep: After Admiral Dewey’s sinking of the Spanish fleet there on May 1, it became necessary to secure Manila Harbor to protect and supply his ships, and security concerns eventually dictated occupation of the entire archipelago.

On July 28 Thomas Lovelace, brother of the royal governor of New York, rowed to Manhattan from his Staten Island farm with an urgent message: Dutch warships had been spotted approaching the city. Nine years earlier, with a similar naval invasion, England had taken over the Dutch colony of New Netherland, with Manhattan at its heart. Now the two countries were at war again, and as the town’s English residents had feared (and its more numerous Dutch residents had hoped), ships from Holland were back to reclaim their old territory. Since Manhattan was defended by a single creaky fort, its prospects against a naval bombardment were hopeless.

Nonetheless, Lovelace and the military commanders did what they could to mount a defense. They summoned the governor back from Connecticut and sent a messenger to Brooklyn to rouse the local militia (who, like many latter-day New Yorkers, prudently decided not to get involved). A dozen or so English citizens joined perhaps seventy soldiers in the fort and waited for the Dutch armada to arrive.

Of course, many of the opinions expressed were outrageous, as were the justifications. On the other hand, some were wise. This reader enjoyed the reassessment of Louis Armstrong’s place in music history but reviled the downgrading of Porgy . Has the man ever heard it? (And by the way, it’s not a musical; it’s an opera.) And has he never heard “I Loves You, Porgy”? It is perhaps the most haunting moment in the history of American music. Still,

I am grateful that the raging controversy about Lucy Hayes and Florence Harding has been resolved. I’ve been upset over that one for years. Of Robert E. Lee’s re-evaluation downward: hooray. Any general who could have ordered that assault at Gettysburg deserves to be down there with Burnside.

In a crucial scene from Who Framed Roger Rabbit, the murderous Judge Doom reveals a “plan of epic proportions” for transforming metropolitan Los Angeles. He boasts to private detective Eddie Valiant that his Cloverleaf Industries has bought the Red Car electric railway network so that he can dismantle it. In a movie that blends splendid illusion with shrewd social commentary (humans confine cartoon characters to a ghetto while exploiting them for amusement), this dialogue resonates with a familiar belief: A magnificent transportation system was destroyed in a carefully orchestrated plot mounted by powerful automotive interests.

Six Kentucky distilleries give free tours, and they provide a fascinating inside look at the world of bourbon. Three are especially satisfying. Maker’s Mark (502-865-2099), in Loretto, south of Bardstown, offers a comprehensive forty-five-minute guided walk through every part of its lovely, meticulously kept National Historic Landmark operation. You can stick your finger in the bubbling liquid in the hundred-year-old cypress fermenting tanks to taste the changing flavor of the mash; only the bottling line looks modern. Wild Turkey (502-839-4544). oerched above the Kentucky River in Lawrenceburg, offers an even more thorough tour of a bigger, more roughhewn operation. You will leave there an expert on bourbon making, and in the gift store you may just run into Jimmy Russell, the long-time master distiller. Nearby in Versailles, at the gem-like Labrot & Graham distillery (606-879-1812), see the brand-new Scottish pot stills at work in the glisteningly refurbished oldest working distillery building in the state.

BOURBONS
Blanton’s Single Barrel

93 proof. The original single-barrel bourbon, since 1984, and universally highly regarded: full, smooth, well rounded, and both sweet—with hints of vanilla and caramel—and spicy.

Booker’s

120 to 126 proof. The only unfiltered, unwatered bourbon: dark, rich, deep, woody, complex, and flavorful despite its hiring alcohol content. Don’t be afraid to add waters; its distiller, Booker Noe, himself prefers it with ice and water.

Elijah Craig 18-Year-Old Single Barrel

90 proof. Very old indeed, considering that bourbon ages than Scotch, yet fairly light and not too woody. In the words of the whiskey expert Stefan Gabányi, “bourbon at ist best: rich, round, and pleasantly sweet.”

Knob Creek

Congratulations on Peter Quinn’s excellent article about the effect the famine had on both America and Ireland ("The Tragedy of Bridget Such-a-One,” December 1997); rarely have I read a more moving account of our Irish forebears.

At the risk of nitpicking, however, I do feel compelled to point out a minor error and a notable omission. In the photo caption of the men reviewing a 1939 St. Patrick’s Day parade, Al Smith is identified as a former mayor of New York City, and the fellow over Smith’s right shoulder, James Aloysius Parley, is unnamed.

Alfred Emanuel Smith’s career included stints as New York State Assembly speaker, president of New York City’s Board of Aldermen, and sheriff of New York County as well as governor for seven years and Democratic nominee for President in 1928. But, though he was often criticized (like Governor Cuomo in more recent times) for representing New York City more than New York State, he never served as its mayor.