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Whee the People
The National Archives: where the laughs are
by Gene Weingarten
I am standing in the rotunda of the National Archives, looking down at the Declaration of Independence. As we all know, this is an extremely famous and important document, and I am filled with all the appropriate awe and wonder, diminished only slightly by the fact that the Declaration is, essentially, a blank sheet of paper.
They never tell you that in school. It has faded to the point where the only immediately recognizable words are the giant "In Congress" at the top and John Hancock's John Hancock. Otherwise, it may as well be a great big, slightly soiled hankie. This is because, for the first half-century or so after it was signed, it was displayed on the walls of various government buildings, in the sun and elements, tacked up like a butcher-shop poster for ham hocks.
This was just one of the things I learned during a special humor tour of the Archives, conducted for me by the Archives staff. Some stuff I saw is actually on public display, and some is hidden away in the "stacks," which is an enormous warren of old files that has a distinctive smell and feel. The best way to replicate this smell and feel would be to open a really old book, stick your nose deep into the creamy, yellowed pages, slam the book closed so you can't breathe, and die. It is really musty in those stacks.
Anyway, I learned many important lessons on my tour.
Lesson One: Technology Can Be Good
An urgent message was delivered to a commander from an Army major whose unit was pinned down behind German lines in the Argonne Forest, on October 4, 1918. The major used the speediest message delivery technology available at the time, which was . . . a pigeon. The message was stuffed into a little capsule and flapped several miles to a pigeon box at command headquarters, retrieved by a bird handler and trotted to the commanding officer. It reads, in its entirety: "We are along the road parallel to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heaven's sake stop it."
Lesson Two: On the Other Hand, Technology Can Be Bad
There is a rare recording of the voice of Theodore Roosevelt, from 1912. America's most macho president -- scourge of corporate scoundrels, conqueror of the Spaniards, protector of the hemisphere, wielder of the Big Stick -- sounds exactly like Mister Magoo.
Lesson Three: No, We Didn't Invent Sex
A page from the census report for the inhabitants of Dade County, Ga., in 1850, lists each resident, his or her age, occupation and place of birth, and whether he or she is "deaf, dumb, blind, insane or idiotic." One page lists several farmers and their families, and four single women: Sarah and Mary Doyle, and Lucinda and Susan Killion. One may assume the census recorder did not approve of these women, or had a perverse sense of humor, or both. In a formal, flowery handwriting similar to that found on, say, the U.S. Constitution, all four women's occupations are listed as: "[F-word]ing."
Lesson Four: No, We Didn't Invent Bureaucracy
A letter dated November 1, 1866, from a clerk in the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen and Abandoned Lands to his boss: "I have the honor to report that no reports are due by me to your Office for the Month of October, not being responsible for anything. Very Respectfully, Yr. Obd. Svt., James Lowrie."
Lesson Five: No, We Didn't Invent Stupidity
There once was a respected organization named the National Association Opposed to Woman Suffrage. In a letter it issued in 1917, this group made the argument that if women got the vote, they would tend to "pester" the government with their petty concerns. Among the signatories was a Mrs. Robert Lansing, wife of the U.S. secretary of state.
Lesson Six: Stereotypes Can Be Fun
During World War II, the U.S. government carried out a covert operation based upon the assumption that the Germans were comically devoted to order and discipline. When we bombed German trains, we also dropped upon the wreckage German-looking mailbags filled with sealed letters to ordinary German citizens. The letters contained anti-Nazi propaganda. We theorized that the German authorities, finding unopened mail, would unquestioningly deliver it. They did.
Lesson Seven: Humor Tours Can End Abruptly
Days after the end of the Civil War, a court-martial appeal was brought to the president. A young soldier had twice deserted from his unit -- a hanging offense in wartime -- yet there was some evidence that he was mentally disturbed. Atop the document, Abraham Lincoln wrote, mercifully: "This man is pardoned and hereby ordered to be discharged." Then he signed and dated it, "April 14, 1865." It may have been his final act, before heading off to the theater.
© 2005 The Washington Post Company
The National Archives: where the laughs are
by Gene Weingarten
I am standing in the rotunda of the National Archives, looking down at the Declaration of Independence. As we all know, this is an extremely famous and important document, and I am filled with all the appropriate awe and wonder, diminished only slightly by the fact that the Declaration is, essentially, a blank sheet of paper.
They never tell you that in school. It has faded to the point where the only immediately recognizable words are the giant "In Congress" at the top and John Hancock's John Hancock. Otherwise, it may as well be a great big, slightly soiled hankie. This is because, for the first half-century or so after it was signed, it was displayed on the walls of various government buildings, in the sun and elements, tacked up like a butcher-shop poster for ham hocks.
This was just one of the things I learned during a special humor tour of the Archives, conducted for me by the Archives staff. Some stuff I saw is actually on public display, and some is hidden away in the "stacks," which is an enormous warren of old files that has a distinctive smell and feel. The best way to replicate this smell and feel would be to open a really old book, stick your nose deep into the creamy, yellowed pages, slam the book closed so you can't breathe, and die. It is really musty in those stacks.
Anyway, I learned many important lessons on my tour.
Lesson One: Technology Can Be Good
An urgent message was delivered to a commander from an Army major whose unit was pinned down behind German lines in the Argonne Forest, on October 4, 1918. The major used the speediest message delivery technology available at the time, which was . . . a pigeon. The message was stuffed into a little capsule and flapped several miles to a pigeon box at command headquarters, retrieved by a bird handler and trotted to the commanding officer. It reads, in its entirety: "We are along the road parallel to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heaven's sake stop it."
Lesson Two: On the Other Hand, Technology Can Be Bad
There is a rare recording of the voice of Theodore Roosevelt, from 1912. America's most macho president -- scourge of corporate scoundrels, conqueror of the Spaniards, protector of the hemisphere, wielder of the Big Stick -- sounds exactly like Mister Magoo.
Lesson Three: No, We Didn't Invent Sex
A page from the census report for the inhabitants of Dade County, Ga., in 1850, lists each resident, his or her age, occupation and place of birth, and whether he or she is "deaf, dumb, blind, insane or idiotic." One page lists several farmers and their families, and four single women: Sarah and Mary Doyle, and Lucinda and Susan Killion. One may assume the census recorder did not approve of these women, or had a perverse sense of humor, or both. In a formal, flowery handwriting similar to that found on, say, the U.S. Constitution, all four women's occupations are listed as: "[F-word]ing."
Lesson Four: No, We Didn't Invent Bureaucracy
A letter dated November 1, 1866, from a clerk in the Bureau of Refugees, Freedmen and Abandoned Lands to his boss: "I have the honor to report that no reports are due by me to your Office for the Month of October, not being responsible for anything. Very Respectfully, Yr. Obd. Svt., James Lowrie."
Lesson Five: No, We Didn't Invent Stupidity
There once was a respected organization named the National Association Opposed to Woman Suffrage. In a letter it issued in 1917, this group made the argument that if women got the vote, they would tend to "pester" the government with their petty concerns. Among the signatories was a Mrs. Robert Lansing, wife of the U.S. secretary of state.
Lesson Six: Stereotypes Can Be Fun
During World War II, the U.S. government carried out a covert operation based upon the assumption that the Germans were comically devoted to order and discipline. When we bombed German trains, we also dropped upon the wreckage German-looking mailbags filled with sealed letters to ordinary German citizens. The letters contained anti-Nazi propaganda. We theorized that the German authorities, finding unopened mail, would unquestioningly deliver it. They did.
Lesson Seven: Humor Tours Can End Abruptly
Days after the end of the Civil War, a court-martial appeal was brought to the president. A young soldier had twice deserted from his unit -- a hanging offense in wartime -- yet there was some evidence that he was mentally disturbed. Atop the document, Abraham Lincoln wrote, mercifully: "This man is pardoned and hereby ordered to be discharged." Then he signed and dated it, "April 14, 1865." It may have been his final act, before heading off to the theater.
© 2005 The Washington Post Company
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