#partying like it's 1789

[batshit-auspol]

have we talked about the woolworths debacle yet?

Sigh.

Alright kids strap in, because the culture wars are back and stupider than ever.

So there are two characters you need to be familiar with in this story before we continue:

Woolies (i.e. Woolworths) - One of two supermarket chains in Australia. Not related to the giant Woolworths chain that used to exist overseas, other than the Aussie one swiped the name because the original forgot to trademark the name 'Woolworths' here. Biggest company in Aus, and also the biggest employer. Not a brand anyone with more than two braincells would pick a fight with.

Peter Dutton - Man with less than two braincells, and current leader of the political opposition in Australia. Best known for bearing a passing resemblance to a potato and once demanding that a homophobic song get played for balance when a football halftime show performed 'Same Love'. His reputation is so bad that if you told an Australian that Dutton's favorite pastime was drowning puppies, they probably would believe you.

And to prove our point, here's the best headline a friendly newspaper could come up with to try spin his image:

The third thing you need to know is that in Australia we have a national holiday called "Australia Day" which is basically a scheduled day for everyone to get into a giant argument.

This is because for the last 30ish years it has been held on the anniversary of the British claiming the land around Sydney as a colony which was:

a) More the founding of an English prison then the founding of Australia, and more importantly

b) from the perspective of the people who were already living here, kindof a very shit day

Now not everyone agrees on this, and even those that don't 'celebrate' will often still have a get together with friends, but it can't be denied that we've shifted a long way from the days when the country used to celebrate Australia Day by kitting ourselves out in Aussie flag budgie smugglers, drinking enough beer to drown Harold Holt, and partying like it's 1789.

(Now a brief break for a real photo of Peter Dutton at a press conference)

Good luck sleeping tonight. Anyway back to the story.

As a result of this shift away from the trend of showing your patriotism by wearing Australian flag underpants, this year Woolworths decided that they were no longer going to be rolling out their box of southern cross thongs - on the grounds that "this kitschy shit never sells" and they are far too busy with more important things like blaming price gouging on inflation and installing self-checkout machines that think your canvas bag is a crime against humanity.

Never a man to miss an opportunity to act like a massive twat, upon hearing that Woolies had dumped their flag merch, Peter Dutton rushed onto the airwaves to declare that Woolworths had "gone woke" (paging 4chan circa 2009) and called for the country to boycott the store, a story which Australia's media have gleefully put on loudhale for over a week now in order to drive outrage clicks.

We at this point remind you that Woolworths is a company which, as we previously mentioned, basically has a monopoly on selling food in this country. Not exactly something you can boycott.

(Another real Dutton photo break)

Needless to say Dutton's dumbass plan did not immediately put Woolies out of business, however the relentless media campaign by Rupert Murdoch's minions did result in a bunch of innocent low-wage floor staff being harrassed by The Dark Lord's fanboys and a few Woolies stores were graffitied.

Allegedly being the 'free market' guy, Dutton also kindof snookered himself by demanding the free market not decide the fate of Australia day, but logic was never one of his strong suits.

Anyway, in the end we're just going to keep having this dumb circular argument every year, fulled by a media who love fanning the flames, until a politician has the guts to shift the date to May 8 (pronounced m8), and everyone promptly forgets this was ever a thing.

All in all, that's the long and the short of it. As a final touch we'll leave you with this real tweet by Opposition Leader Peter Dutton, in all its batshit glory.

We look forward to the absolute dumpster fire of comments this post is going to generate - as is the Australia Day tradition.

[secretmellowblog]

Les Mis French History Timeline: all the context you need to know to understand Les Mis

Here is a simple timeline of French history as it relates to events in Les Miserables, and to the context of Les Mis's publication! A post like this would’ve really helped me four years ago, when I knew very little about 1830s France or the goals of Les Amis, so I’m making it now that I have the information to share! ^_^

This post will be split into 4 sections: a quick overview of important terms, the history before the novel that’s important to the character's backstories, the history during the novel, and then the history relevant to the 1848-onward circumstances of Hugo’s life and the novel’s publication. 

Part 1: Overview 

The novel takes place in the aftermath of the Battle of Waterloo, during a period called the Restoration. 

The ancient monarchy was overthrown during the French Revolution. After a series of political struggles the revolutionary government was eventually replaced by an empire under Napoleon. Then Napoleon was defeated and sent into exile— but then he briefly came back and seized power for one hundred days—! and then he was defeated yet again for good at the battle of Waterloo in 1815.

After all that political turmoil, kings have been "restored" to the throne of France. The novel begins right as this Restoration begins.

The major political parties important to generally understanding Les Mis (Wildly Oversimplified) are Republicans, Liberals, Bonapartists, and Royalists. It’s worth noting that all these ‘party terms’ changed in meaning/goals over time depending on which type of government was in power. In general though, and just for the sake of reading Les Mis:

 Republicans want a Republic, where people elect their leaders democratically— they’re the very left wing progressive ones, and are heavily outcast/censored/policed. Les Amis are Republicans.

Liberals are (iirc) actually the most powerful “leftist” group at the time; they generally want limits on monarchical power but don’t go as far as Republicans.

Bonapartists are followers of Napoleon Bonaparte I, who led the Empire. Many viewed the Emperor as more favorable or progressive to them than a king would be. Georges Pontmercy is a Bonapartist, as is Pere Fauchelevent. 

Royalists believe in the divine right of Kings; they’re conservative. Someone who is extremely royalist to the point of wanting basically no limits on the king’s power at all are called “Ultraroyalists” or “ultra.” Marius’s conservative grandfather Gillenromand is an ultra royalist.  Hugo is also very concerned with criticizing the "Great Man of History," the view that history is pushed forward by the actions of a handful of special great men like kings and emperors. Les Mis aims to focus on the common masses of people who push history forward instead.

Part 2: Timeline of History involved in characters’ Backstories

1789– the March on the bastille/ the beginning of the original French Revolution. A young Myriel, who is then a shallow married aristocrat, flees the country. His family is badly hurt by the Revolution. His wife dies in exile.

1793– Louis XVI is found guilty of committing treason and sentenced to death. The Conventionist G—, the old revolutionary who Myriel talks to, votes against the death of the king. 

1795:  the Directory rules France. Throughout much of the revolution, including this period, the country is undergoing “dechristianization” policies. Fantine is born at this time. Because the church is not in power as a result of dechristianization, Fantine is unbaptized and has no record of a legal given name.  

1795: The Revolutionary government becomes more conservative. Jean Valjean is arrested. 

1804: Napoleon officially crowns himself Emperor of France. the Revolution’s dream of a Republic is dead for a bit.  At this time, Myriel returns from his exile and settles down in the provinces of France to work as a humble priest. Then he visits Paris and makes a snarky comment to Napoleon, and Napoleon finds him so witty that he appoints him Bishop.

Part 3: the novel actually begins 

1815: Napoleon is defeated at the Battle of Waterloo by the allied nations of Britain and Prussia. Read Hugo’s take on that in the Waterloo Digression! He gets a lot of facts wrong, but that’s Hugo for you.

Marius’s father, Baron Pontmercy, nearly dies on the battlefield. Thenardier steals his belongings. 

After Napoleon is defeated, a king is restored to the throne— Louis XVIII, of the House of Bourbon, the ancient royal house that ruled France before the Revolution. In order to ensure that Louis XVIII stays on the throne, the nations of Britian, Prussia, and Russia, send soldiers occupy France. So France is, during the early events of the novel, being occupied by foreign soldiers. This is part of why there are so many references to soldiers on the streets and garrisons and barracks throughout the early portions of the novel. The occupation officially ended in 1818.

1815 (a few months later): Jean Valjean is released from prison and walks down the road to Digne, the very same road Napoleon charged down during his last attempt to seize power. Many of the inns he passes by are run by people advertising their connections to Napoleon. Symbolically Valjean is the poor man returning from exile into France, just as Napoleon was the Great Man briefly returning from exile during the 100 days, or King Louis XVIII is the Great King returning from exile to a restored throne.

  1817: The Year 1817, which Hugo has a whole chapter-digression about. Louis XVIII  of the House of Bourbon is on the throne. Fantine, “the nameless child of the Directory,”  is abandoned by Tholomyes. 

1821: Napoleon dies in exile. 

1825:  King Louis XVIII dies. Charles X takes the throne. While Louis XVIII was willing to compromise, Charles X is a far more conservative ultra-royalist. He attempts to bring back the Pre-Revolution style of monarchy. 

Underground resistance groups, including Republican groups like Les Amis, plot against him.  

1827-1828: Georges Pontmercy, bonapartist veteran of Waterloo, dies. Marius, who has been growing up with his abusive Ultra-royalist grandfather and mindlessly repeating his ultra-royalist politics, learns how much his father loved him. He becomes a democratic Bonapartist. 

Marius is a little bit late to everything though. He shouts “long live the Emperor!” Even though Napoleon died in 1821 and insults his grandfather by telling him “down with that hog Louis XVIII” even though Louis XVIII has been dead since 1825. He’s a little confused but he’s got the spirit. 

Marius leaves his grandfather to live on his own. 

1830: “The July Revolution,” also known as the “Three Glorious Days” or  “the Second French Revolution.” Rebels built barricades and successfully forced Charles X out of power.

Unfortunately, TL;DR moderate politicians prevented the creation of a Republic and instead installed another more politically progressive king — Louis-Philippe, of the house of Orleans. 

Louis-Philippe was a relative of the royal family, had lived  in poverty for a time, and described himself as “the citizen-king.” Hugo’s take on him is that he was a good man, but being a king is inherently evil; monarchy is a bad system even if a “good” dictator is on the throne.

The shadow of 1830 is important to Les Mis, and there’s even a whole digression about it in “A Few Pages of History,” a digression most people adapting the novel have clearly skipped. Les Amis would’ve probably been involved in it....though interestingly, only Gavroche and maybe Enjolras are explicitly confirmed to have been there, Gavroche telling Enjolras he participated “when we had that dispute with Charles X.”

Sadly we're following Marius (not Les Amis) in 1830. Hugo mentions that Marius is always too busy thinking to actually participate in political movements. He notes that Marius was pleased by 1830 because he thinks it is a sign of progress, but that he was too dreamy to be involved in it. 

1831: in “A Few Pages of History” Hugo describes the various ways Republican groups were plotting what what would later become the June Rebellion– the way resistance groups had underground meetings, spread propaganda with pamphlets, smuggled in gunpowder, etc. 

Spring of 1832: there is a massive pandemic of cholera in Paris that exacerbates existing tensions. Marius is described as too distracted by love to notice all the people dying of cholera. 

June 1st, 1832: General Lamarque, a member of parliament often critical of the monarchy, dies of cholera. 

June 5th and 6th, 1832: the June Rebellion of 1832:

Republicans, students, and workers attempt to overthrow the monarchy, and finally get a democratic Republic For Real This Time. The rebellion is violently crushed by the National Guard.

Enjolras was partially inspired by Charles Jeanne, who led the barricades at Saint-Merry. 

Part 4: the context of Les Mis’s publication 

February 1848: a successful revolution finally overthrows King Louis Philippe. A younger Victor Hugo, who was appointed a peer of France by Louis-Philippe, is then elected as a representative of Paris in the provisional revolutionary government.

June 1848: This is a lot, and it’s a thing even Hugo’s biographers often gloss over, because it’s a horrific moral failure/complexity of Hugo’s that is completely at odds with the sort of politics he later became known for. The short summary is that in June 1848 there was a working-class rebellion against new unjust labor laws/forced conscription, and Victor Hugo was on the “wrong side of the barricades” working with the government to violently suppress the rebels. To quote from this source:

Much to the disappointment of his supporters, in [Victor Hugo’s] first speech in the national assembly he went after the ateliers or national workshops, which had been a major demand of the workers. Two days later the workshops were closed, workers under twenty-five were conscripted and the rest sent to the countryside. It was a “political purge” and a declaration of war on the Parisian working class that set into motion the June Days, or the second revolution of 1848—an uprising lauded by Marx as one of the first workers’ revolutions. As the barricades went up in Paris, Hugo was tragically on the wrong side. On June 24 the national assembly declared a state of siege with Hugo’s support. Hugo would then sink to a new political low. He was chosen as one of sixty representatives “to go and inform the insurgents that a state of siege existed and that Cavaignac [the officer who had led the suppression of the June revolt] was in control.” With an express mission “to stop the spilling of blood,” Hugo took up arms against the workers of Paris. Thus, Hugo, voice of the voiceless and hero of workers, helped to violently suppress a rebellion led by people whom he in many ways supported—and many of whom supported him. With twisted logic and an even more twisted conscience, Hugo fought and risked his life to crush the June insurrection.

There is an otherwise baffling chapter in Les Mis titled "The Charybdis of the Faubourg Saint Antoine and the Scylla of the Fauborg Du Temple," where Hugo goes on a digression about June of 1848. Hugo contrasts June of 1848 with other rebellions, and insists that the June 1848 Rebellion was Wrong and Different. It is a strangely anti-rebellion classist chapter that feels discordant with the rest of the book. This is because it is Hugo's effort to (indirectly) address criticisms people had of his own involvement in June 1848, and to justify why he believed crushing that rebellion with so much force was necessary. The chapter is often misused to say that Hugo was "anti-violent-rebellion all the time" (which he wasn't) or that "rebellion is bad” is the message of Les Mis (which it isn't) ........but in reality the chapter is about Hugo attempting to justify his own past actions to the reader and to himself, actions which many people on his side of the political spectrum considered a horrible betrayal. He couldn't really have written a novel about the politics of barricades without addressing his actions in June 1848, and he addressed them by attempting to justify them, and he attempted to justify them with a lot of deeply questionable rhetoric. 1848 is a lot, and I don't fully understand all the context yet-- but that general context is necessary to understand why the chapter is even in the novel. Late 1848/1849: Quoting from the earlier source again:

In the wake of the revolution, Hugo tried to make sense of the events of 1848. He tried to straddle the growing polarization between, on the one hand, “the party of order,” which coalesced around Napoleon’s nephew Louis-Napoleon Bonaparte, who in December 1848 had been elected France’s president under a new constitution, and the “party of movement” (or radical Left) that, in the aftermath of 1848, had made considerable advances. In this climate, as Hugo increasingly spoke out, and faced opposition and repression himself, he was radicalized and turned to the Left for support against the tyranny and “barbarism” he saw in the government of Louis Napoleon. The “point of no return” came in 1849. Hugo became one of the loudest and most prominent voices of opposition to Louis Napoleon. In his final and most famous insult to Napoleon, he asked: “Just because we had Napoleon le Grand [Napoleon the Great], do we have to have Napoleon le petit [Napoleon the small]?” Immune from punishment because of his role in the government, Bonaparte retaliated by shutting down Hugo’s newspaper and arresting both his sons.

Thenardier is likely meant to be Hugo’s caricature of Louis-Napoleon/Napoleon III. He is “Napoleon the small,” an opportunistic scumbag leeching off the legacy of Waterloo and Napoleon to give himself some respectability. He is a metaphorical ‘graverobber of Waterloo’ who has all of Napoleon’s dictatorial pettiness without any of his redeeming qualities.

It’s also worth noting that Marius is Victor “Marie” Hugo’s self-insert. Hugo’s politics changed wildly over time. Like Marius he was a royalist when was young. And like Marius, he looked up to Napoleon and to Napoleon III, before his views of them were shattered. This is reflected in the way Marius had complicated feelings of loyalty to his father (who’s very connected to the original Napoleon I) and to Thenardier (who’s arguably an analogue for Napoleon IiI.)

1851: 

On December 2, 1851, Louis Napoleon launched his coup, suspending the republic’s constitution he had sworn to uphold. The National Assembly was occupied by troops. Hugo responded by trying to rally people to the barricades to defend Paris against Napoleon’s seizure of power. Protesters were met with brutal repression.  Under increasing threat to his own life, with both of his sons in jail and his death falsely announced, Hugo finally left Paris.  He ultimately ended up on the island of Guernsey where he spent much of the next eighteen years and where he would write the bulk of Les Misérables. It was from here that his most radical and political work was smuggled into France.

Hugo arguably did his most important political work after being exiled. In Guernsey, he aided with resistance against the regime of Napoleon III. Hugo’s popularity with the masses also meant that his exile was massive news, and a thing all readers of Les Miserables would’ve been deeply familiar with.

This is why there are so many bits of Les Mis where the narrator nostalgically reflects on how much they wish they were in Paris again —these parts are very political; readers would’ve picked up that this was Victor Hugo reflecting on he cruelty of his own exile.  

1862-1863: Les Mis is published. It is a barely-veiled call to action against the government of Napoleon III, written about the June Rebellion instead of the current regime partially in order to dodge the censorship laws at the time.

Conservatives despise the book and call it the death of civilization and a dangerous rebellious evil godless text that encourages them to feel bad for the stupid evil criminal rebel poors and etc etc etc– (see @psalm22-6 ‘s excellent translations of the ancient conservative reviews)-- but the novel sells very well. Expressing  approval or disapproval of the book is considered inherently political, but fortunately it remains unbanned. 

…And that’s it! An ocean of basic historical context about Les Mis!

If anyone has any corrections  or additions they would like to make, feel free to add them! I have researched to the best of my ability, but I don’t pretend to be perfect. I also recommend listening to the Siecle podcast, which covers the events of the Bourbon Restoration starting at the Battle of Waterloo, if you're interested in learning more about the period!

[anotherhumaninthisworld]

How many political parties were there during the revolution?

Because duo to the popularity (I mean by popularity "the most influential" like "Jacobin" and "Girondins" etc. ) I start to forgot that was there more political parties so could you tell us about them and their most notable achievements ?

It is hard to really talk about political parties when it comes to the French Revolution, at least not in the way in which we today think of the term, with worked out ideologies and party programs for each and everyone. Furthermore, some of these ”parties” are not like the others. Jacobin, Cordelier and Feuillant all refer to people belonging to a certain political club, paying money for their membership, whereas girondins, montagnards, thermidorians, enragés, hébertists (and robespirreists that are not mentioned in the chart) all are loose compounds of people that pushed for (or were at least said to push for) the same political changes, and often were personal friends as well. The vagueness of all of this has lead to debates not only regarding what each group really stood for, but even who really belonged to them. My understanding of these groups is honestly not much deeper than what can be read on wikipedia (each group already has its own page) but to shortly summarize:

Jacobins — members of the Jacobin Club (Society of the Friends of the Constitution) which was founded in 1789 and shut down in November of 1794. It’s main quarter was on rue Saint-Honoré in Paris, but unlike the Cordeliers and Feuillants, it also set up sister clubs out in the provinces. This makes the Jacobins the biggest political group throughout the revolution in terms of official members. When it comes to ideology, the club’s first set of official reglutions, passed on February 8 1790, stated that ”the object of the Society of Friends of the Constitution is: 1, to discuss in advance the questions which must be decided in the National Assembly; 2, to work towards the re-establishment and strengthening of the constitution according to the spirit of the preamble above; 3, to correspond with other Societies of the same type which may be formed in the kingdom” as well as that ”loyalty to the constitution, dedication to defending it, respect and submission to the powers it has established, will be the first laws imposed on those who wish to be admitted to these Societies.” However, as the revolution radicalized, so did the Jacobin club.

Cordeliers — members of the Cordelier Club (also known as the Society of the Friends of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen) which existed from 1790 to 1795. Its head quarter was in the Cordeliers Convent (hence the name) in Paris, located on 15 rue de l'École de Médecine. The Cordeliers had lower fees in comparison to the Jacobins, and as a result, counted more working class men and women among its members. Its leaders were however still middle class. The Cordeliers are traditionally described as more radical than the Jacobins.

Feuillant — member of the Feuillants Club (Society of the Friends of the Constitution), founded on July 16 1791. The group held meetings in a former monastery of the Feuillant monks on Rue Saint-Honoré in Paris, hence the name. The club was for upholding the Constitution of 1791, which designated France as a constitutional monarchy.

Girondins (also sometimes known as Brissotins or Rolandins) — political group which existed within the Legislative Assembly and then National Convention, in particular the 29 deputies ordered arrested by said Convention on June 2 1793. Of these, 20 would be guillotined in Paris on October 31 the same year, while many others fled to be executed or commit suicide in order to prevent it across the following months. The name ”girondin” stem from the fact many of the groups alleged members originated from the department of Gironde. In the article The "Girondins" Were Girondins, after All (1988) Frederick A. de Luna concludes that the earliest labeling of girondins as girondins stem from April 1792, after which they grew to be frequently used by their enemies. The girondins themselves did however never use the name, and in the pamphlet J. P. Brissot, député à la Convention nationale, à tous les républicains de France ; sur la société des Jacobins de Paris (October 1792) Brissot even exclaimed ”Will the slanderers now remain silent? Will they stop pretending to believe and wanting to make believe in a faction of Gironde or of Brissot?” The girondins have traditionally been associated with 1, waging a pro-war campaign within the Legislative Assembly and the Jacobin club from December 1791 to April 1792 (as can be seen above, the first recorded labeling of girondins as girondins is from the same month said war was declared), pushing for a more liberal economy as well as seeking more ”moderate/less violent” solutions compared to the Mountain during the time of the Convention. However, there’s no actual safe connections between these goals and all the men tradionally described as girondins for as far as I’m aware. To give the word to Terror: the French Revolution and its Demons (2022) by Michel Biard and Marisa Linton:

Montagnards — member of the Mountain, a group within the Legislative Assembly and then especially the National Convention, so dubbed because its members occupied the highest benches of the hall of the assembly. I honestly don’t really know what defines this ”party” more than being opponents of the girondins. So while the latter are associated with being pro-war, for a more liberal economy and reluctant to ”violent/exceptional measures”, the Montagnards are instead described as anti-war, for a more planned economy and welcoming of more ”violent/exceptional measures.” However, like in the case with the girondins, were we to line up every person tradionally described as a montagnard and check up his stance on each of these three topics, I’m unsure if we would actually get a very unified result. 

Unlike in the case of the girondins, indulgents and exagères, we have proof of the montagnards describing themselves as just that. Here is Robespierre, who might as well be called the leader/heart of the ”party,” defining what a montagnard is on June 12 1794. More than anything, it may however rather illustrate how this wasn’t a properly defined group either, as I’m sure the members of every other ”party” discussed here would be willing to describe themselves in the exact same way:

Yes, Montagnards, you will always be the boulevard of public liberty; but you have nothing in common with intriguers and perverts, whoever they may be. If they try to deceive you, if they claim to identify with you, they are no less foreign to your principles. The Mountain is nothing other than the heights of patriotism; a Montagnard is nothing other than a pure, reasonable and sublime patriot.

The fall of Robespierre marks the beginning of the end for the Mountain, many of who’s members would be expulsed, executed and exiled during the thermidorian convention.

Thermidorians — the name has its origin in the journée of 9 thermidor (July 27 1794), the day Robespierre and his allies fell from power, but it is not fully clear if it is active participation in/support of said journée, or holding power during the period that followed it, which is distinguished by its step back, for better or worse, from the more ”revolutionary measures” taken during 1793-1794 that makes someone a thermidorian. In the article ”Robbers, Muddlers, Bastards, and Bankrupts?” A Collective Look at the Thermidorians (2019) Mette Harder writes that this too is a very poorly defined group — ”Beyond their individual names, there is, however, no clear sense of who the Thermidorians were collectively, how cohesive a group they became, and what exactly they hoped to achieve while in power. Their name itself adds to this uncertainty, as it is used interchangeably to describe a specific group of reactionaries and the entire Convention post-thermidor.”

Indulgents (also sometimes known as dantonists) — group associated around Convention deputy Georges-Jacques Danton, and in particular those executed alongside him on April 5 1794. Traditionally described as driving a campaign that was about softening ”the terror” as well as pushing back from dechristianization from late 1793 up until their execution. This idea is however something that has been heavily contested in more recent years, some historians concluding the Indulgents never were a coherent group with a common goal to begin with but that this was rather something contructed by their enemies in time for their trial (see for example chapter 8 — Le chef d’un groupe indulgent ? — of Danton: le mythe et l’histoire (2016) or Camille et Lucile Desmoulins: un rêve de république (2018).

Hébertists (also known as exagères) — group associated around the journalist Jacques René Hébert, and in particular those that were executed alongside him on March 24 1794. Drove a campaign for a hardening of ”the terror” and dechristianization from late 1793 up until the execution. Like with the indulgents, it’s however hard for me to say if the members themselves identified themselves as a group or if this is a post-construction.

Enragés — just read this. I honestly had trouble finding much more.

[napoleonic-sexyman-tournament]

Propaganda under the cut because it's long:

Alexander I Pavlovich

a. “Maybe not the most handsome or charismatic man in this tournament, but he has ample chaotic neutral energy that both baffles and fascinates contemporaries. In short, if you're into mysterious men, you won't find a sexier enigma than our imperator.”

b. “Look. Is this or is this not the monsterfucking website.”

c. There are lots of monuments dedicated to him. There's one in Moscow in the Alexander Garden right by the Red Square. While nowhere near as grand as the Alexander Column, I think it's still worth showcasing!

The monument is meant to celebrate his victory in the 1812 Russian invasion. He's holding a sword, proudly standing on top of his enemies' weapon.

The sculptors, however, have never seen the man in their life - all the people involved in the making are still alive and well (i think), so that should tell how new it is. The monument was opened for the public just a decade ago in 2014.

d. quote about this bust from the memoirs of Sophie de Choiseul-Gouffier: “No painter was able to properly capture the features of his face and especially his soft expression. Alexander didn’t like to pose for portraits and they were mostly done with some stealth. In this case sculpture have produced a better likeness. The famed Thorvaldsen made a bust of this sovereign worthy of a hand of such a remarkable artist.”

e. His family nickname might have been ‘our angel’ and the medal commemorating his death bears the inscription “Our angel is in heaven”, but did you know that to this day Alexander looks down on Sankt Petersburg as an actual angel, wings, cross, trampled snake and all? Alas, you cannot see it from the ground, the Alexander Column being so very tall, but the statue of the angel on top certainly seems to take after our sexy thrice-angel Emperor.

f. Apotheosis of Alexander! An eminently universal image, perfectly serviceable for his rise to the throne… of Napoleonic Sexyman Tournament.

It really looks like Peter and Catherine are instructing the Electorate. Gentlevoters, surely you wouldn’t dream of disappointing Sasha’s Grandmother and his scantily clothed giant of a Great-great-grandfather?

g. What is sexier than a man in a dress???

Mikhail Miloradovich:

Miloradovich had a short episode as Catherine the Great's favourite at just eighteen. Alas, usually he's not included on the official list except by Barskov. That is because he was one of several concurrent boytoys candidates in 1789, before Zubov won the contest. But I believe that being to Catherine's taste adds to M's sexyman cred.

He never married, but according to his legend, he kept an entire trunk of love letters (from many, many ladies) in his palace, which was discovered after his death.

Miloradovich possessed the kind of cavalier fantasy that made him a hero among soldiers (and one of Suvorov's favourites). Hence these three popular stories:

Once, while on campaign, his soldiers decided to give M their best wishes on his name day. He was very gracious about it and told them with his best roguish smile that in thanks for their wishes he'd give them a present... that present being the nearest pretty-as-a-picture enemy column (French).

On one occasion Joachim Murat came out, sat down and demonstratively drank coffee during an active fire exchange. Miloradovich naturally couldn't be worse and asked for a table to be set for him. Also under the fire, because where else. "He's drinking coffee? I'm eating dinner here!" And it wasn't a singular event: more than once he and Murat conducted a peculiar gallant flirtation on the field. And yes, Miloradovich also had a weakness for very blingy bling.

Alas, M didn't get to carry a ladder (that we know of), but he didn't shy motivating his soldiers in similar ways. It just so happened that his scouting party came to a stop at a steep slope and froze. Miloradovich came forward, got on the ground and slid down the slope on his spine, laughing and generally having (or pretending to have) lots of fun.

[dragoninahumancostume]

I'm bored so

All years referenced in Hamilton:

(directly from the songs)

1776, Aaron Burr, Sir

1780, Winter's Ball

1781, Yorktown (The World Turned Upside-Down)

1785, I Know Him

1789, What'd I Miss

1791, We Know

1800, The Election of 1800

(by event/lyric, assuming Alexander was born in 1757, in order of events. This might be a bit confusing so feel free to ask clarification)

1754, I was given my first command I led my men straight into a massacre

1766, when he was ten his father split

1768, his mother went quick

1768-1835, Philip Jeremiah Schuyler (Angelica's brother, son of Philip Schuyler. Philip had like 15 children apparently, including the sisters and Philip)

1769, the cousin committed suicide

1769, as a kid in the Caribbean I wished for a war ("I wish there was a war", letter to Edward Stevens)

1771, they placed him in charge of a trading charter

1772, a hurricane destroyed Hamilton's town

1772, ship is in the harbor now see if you can spot him

1773, I am Hercules Mulligan

1773, your tea which you hurl in the sea (Boston Tea Party)

1775, Farmer Refuted

1775, yo let's steal their cannons

1775, I was a captain under general Montgomery until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec

1776, British Admiral Howe's got 32000 troops in New York harbor

1776, he promotes Charles Lee makes him second-in-command

1777, I need someone like you to lighten the load (Alex becomes Washington's right hand man)

1777, I'm John Laurens in the place to be

1777, je m'apelle Lafayette

1778, Theodosia meets Burr

1778, Battle of Monmouth

1778, duel between Laurens and Lee

1779, Laurens i like you a lot (letter from Alex to John, "I wish, my dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by actions rather than words, to convince you that I love you")

1780, give it up for the maid of honor (Alexander and Eliza's wedding)

1781, Hamilton leaves Washington (due to his lack of command)

1781, we fought with him

1782, Philip's birth

1782, me I died for him

1783, Theodosia's birth

1785, I am sailing off to London

1787, at the constitutional convention, goes and proposes his own form of government

(October-August) 1787-1788, write a series of essays titled The Federalist Papers

1789, Hamilton runs the state department

1789-1792, life without the monarchy

1790, Cabinet Battle #1

1791, Burr becomes senator

1791, Hamilton meets Ms. Reynolds

1793, Cabinet Battle #2

1793, Thomas Jefferson resings

1797, Washington's presidency ends

1797-1801, Adams' administration

1797, The Reynolds Pamphlets

1799, George Washington's death

1800, the first murder trial of our brand new nation (Levi Weeks' trial)

(March) 1801, death of Peggy Schuyler

(July) 1801, George Eacker's 4th of July speech

(23th November) 1801, George and Philip's duel

(24th November) 1801, Philip's death

1804, Alexander Hamilton's death

1810, You're making me mad (King George III actually goes mad)

1820, I'll love you til my dying days (King George dies)

I tried my best to get most of the dates, but tell me if I missed any! :)

[thosearentcrimes]

Me for the past week: Damn I really need to focus on writing this paper about revolutionary self-perception in 1789-1794 France. No distractions, just relevant stuff, deadline's coming up.

Instead:

Maria Edgeworth's 1817 novel Harrington contains a vivid evocation of the Gordon Riots, with two unsympathetic characters taken for Papists and finding refuge in the home of the rich Spanish Jew, the father of the young Jewish woman at the centre of the love story.

huh never heard of her I wonder what was up with her

She held critical views on estate management, politics and education, and corresponded with some of the leading literary and economic writers, including Sir Walter Scott and David Ricardo.

that David Ricardo? from economics?

After Honora died in 1780 Maria's father married Honora's sister Elizabeth (then socially disapproved and legally forbidden from 1833 until the Deceased Wife's Sister's Marriage Act 1907)

wait what

The Deceased Wife's Sister's Marriage Act 1907 (7 Edw. 7. c. 47) was an Act of the Parliament of the United Kingdom, allowing a man to marry his dead wife's sister, which had previously been forbidden.

ok yeah that's pretty much what it says on the tin

The 1907 Act did exactly what it said and no more. It was amended by the Deceased Brother's Widow's Marriage Act 1921 to allow a widow to marry her deceased husband's brother.[36][37] This was a response to First World War deaths to encourage remarriages, reducing war widows' pensions and increasing the birth rate.[37]

the war really did do a lot for gender equality didn't it

anyway what was up with Maria Edgeworth, let's catch up with her

When passing through the village, one of the party wrote, "We found neither mud hovels nor naked peasantry, but snug cottages and smiles all about".[10] A counter view was provided by another visitor who stated that the residents of Edgeworthstown treated Edgeworth with contempt, refusing even to feign politeness.[11]

Ireland moment

Following an anti-Semitic remark in The Absentee, Edgeworth received a letter from an American Jewish woman named Rachel Mordecai in 1815 complaining about Edgeworth's depiction of Jews.[45] In response, Harrington (1817) was written as an apology to the Jewish community.

imagine if Graham Linehan had responded this way to criticism of his transphobic IT crowd episode :)

Rachel Mordecai married widower Aaron Marks Lazarus in 1821, and moved to Wilmington, North Carolina, where she lived for the rest of her life. The Lazaruses had four children together, three daughters and a son, M. E. Lazarus, in a household that also included Mr. Lazarus's seven children from his first marriage.

oh the lady had a son who she named after the author she liked who turned out to be willing to not be anti-semitic, that's nice

Marx Edgeworth Lazarus (February 6, 1822 – 1896) was an American individualist anarchist, Fourierist, and free-thinker.

oh well that sounds nice enough

Lazarus was a practicing doctor of homeopathy

ehhhh

Through his adult life, Lazarus tried to cope with apparent mental and physical disturbances, in particular what seemed to be chronic nocturnal emissions, a condition that at the time was labeled "seminal incontinence" or "spermatorrhea," believed to be detrimental and even fatal to the mind and body. Lazarus sought treatments through homeopathy, hydropathy, and electromagnetic treatments that seemed to bring some temporary relief. He also discussed the condition in his 1852 book Involuntary Seminal Losses: Their Causes, Effects, and Cure," where he suggested that the total sexual abstinence that he had tried to practice might be one of those causes. In 1855, Lazarus shocked some of his fellow Fourierists and free love advocates by marrying a 19 year old woman from Indiana, Mary Laurie (or "Lawrie).[1]

oh... a libertarian...

By the mid-1850s, social movements like Fourierism were in decline, and Lazarus's later life seems to have had less focus. When the Civil War broke out, most members of Lazarus's extended family lived in Southern states and generally supported the Confederate cause. In 1861, Lazarus, was staying with relatives in Columbus, Georgia and joined the local City Light Guard when war broke out, later serving as company physician for the Wilmington, NC Artillery.

on the one hand, obviously very bad to enlist in the Confederate army right, but on the other hand a semen retentionist doing homeopathy to them can't really be classified as "aiding" them can it

After the war, Lazarus continued to practice his areas of medicine and contributed articles and comments to various publications.[5] By his last years, though, he had become a disenchanted recluse known as the "Sand Mountain Hermit" of Jackson County, Alabama.

most normal libertarian

I wonder what those articles and comments are, and what kind of website they're hosted on. Oh.

[antifainternational]

Yes Virginia, The Nazis Were Fascists - Part Three

(this is part three of a continuation of a discussion we've been having with an Anon who challenged us to define fascism. In our previous response, we provided Anon with a photo of a poster from the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, a bullet list from Yale professor Jason Stanley, quotes from William Reich, Ludwig von Mises, Harold Nicolson, Franklin D. Roosevelt, Henry A. Wallace, Marcus Garvey, a link to a video breakdown of the subject by Philosophy Tube, and recommendations to read books by historians Mark Bray, Robert O. Paxton, Umberto Eco, and Hannah Arendt - all of whom have published key works on the topic. Anon did not do his homework and instead sent us an immediate reply, informed solely by the two images we included in our response, ignoring everything else we cited. His reply includes some, uhh, pretty incredulous claims. In this post, we crack our knuckles, get someone to hold our beer, and tee off).

ANON: Once again, the nazis wouldn't be considered fascists. They weren't capitalists.

The nazis were absolutely capitalists, Anon, despite what they may have said early on as they rose to power. Historian Robert O. Paxton again:

"Whenever fascist parties acquired power, however, they did nothing to carry out these anticapitalist threats." (Ibid., pg. 10).

"In practice, although fascist regimes did indeed make some breath-taking changes, they left the distribution of property and the economic and social hierarchy largely intact (differing fundamentally from what the word revolution had usually meant since 1789).  The reach of the fascist “revolution” was restricted by two factors. For one thing, even at their most radical, early fascist programs and rhetoric had never attacked wealth and capitalism as directly as a hasty reading might suggest.  As for social hierarchy, fascism’s leadership principle effectively reinforced it, though fascists posed some threat to inherited position by advocating the replacement of the tired bourgeois elite by fascist 'new men.'”  (Ibid., pg. 141) The crony capitalism enacted by the nazis let brute force to the profit motives of their capitalist allies that helped them seize power, by providing capitalists with murderous anti-union violence, valuable assets seized from Jews and other "enemies of the state," lucrative government contracts doled out based on a company's devotion to Hitler, and slave labour. ANON: Corporate power wasn't necessarily protected (whatever that means). Labour power wasn't suppressed. AI: You're plainly wrong on both counts. The nazis developed an economic system called "crony capitalism" where wealthy business owners were given tremendous advantages if they allied with and supported the nazis, including repression of trade unions, rewarding resources looted from competitors, and the use of slave labour. Major German corporations like Krupp and I.G. Farben did exactly that. "Businessmen contributed hugely to the new Nazi authorities and set about accommodating themselves to a regime that would reward many of them richly with armaments contracts, and all of them by breaking the back of organized labor in Germany." (Robert O. Paxton, The Anatomy of Fascism, pg. 100). Another big perk for corporations supporting the nazis was their promise to violently repress labour unions. In 1933, the nazis outlawed independent labour unions and forced workers to join the nazis' own rat union. They also froze workers' wages. Some of the first people sent to nazi concentration camps were union leaders like Ernst Thälmann - thousands of union activists were tortured and executed between 1933 and 1945.

[wordsinhaled]

i started writing this post ages ago and it’s been languishing in my drafts, sorry @teejaystumbles ! i mentioned bard!hob like EONS ago so i’m throwing this post out in the wild finally

what about, like... (no, i promise this isn't a witcher au) bard!hob canon divergent dreamling??? like. everything is the same except when dream and death enter the white horse in 1389 hob is performing a song about evading death, for a small crowd. dream is intrigued not because hob is particularly good but because as we all know, dream's a sucker for art and music. he buys hob a drink after his performance and invites him to sit together and by the end of their conversation, he's betting with his sister that hob will run out of things to sing about in 100 years

dream isn’t hob’s inspiration in the same way that he inspires shaxberd. hob isn’t a great talent vocally or musically. but there’s a light and warmth in his eyes and a deftness to his fingers on lutestrings, an earnest relatability in his tone, and a contagious enthusiasm when he talks to dream about his hopes, his dreams. and dream is intrigued

thinking about how their centennial meetings would be almost the same, but slightly different. hob reserves rooms for them when dream comes to the white horse so he can perform for dream privately. he still thinks dream is a lord, and deserving of special attention (and even if he weren’t a lord, he’s ethereal and gorgeous and the subject of more than a few of hob’s bawdier verses, which hob writes only for himself)

and the Tension??? the tension would be unreal???

thinking about 1689 hob, bedraggled and penniless, and maybe dream finding him busking on the street outside the white horse for coin, because the inns won’t let him in. he brings hob inside with him where it’s warm and dry and buys him a meal, and hob lays his instrument on the table between them and says, “it’s all i have left. i’m sorry, old stranger, i’ve no rooms for us this evening—” dream gets their room, and for the first time he says when they’re upstairs, “there is no need to sing for me tonight, hob gadling,” and he helps hob bathe and makes sure he is dressed in fine clothes again. hob looks lost and grateful and not a little in love and maybe he tries to kiss dream - after all he’s been pining for 300 years. but dream lays a hand on his cheek and says, “if you still feel the same in one hundred years, let us revisit this, hm?”

so of course 1789 is… 1789. the tension is there a thousandfold. by this time hob’s writing poetry and plays and he’s part owner of a bookshop. he’s been writing letters to dream as well. he hands them to dream, tied up in a red ribbon. “i still feel the same,” he says. “do you?” dream thinks he does. but then for the first time they have a conversation, outside of a performance; a real conversation. when it comes out what hob’s been doing, the kind of material hob’s bookshop sells and where he invests his money, dream turns on his heel and leaves

thinking about 1889, hob earnest and rueful, wondering if dream will attend their meeting this year. he’s taken a chance and hasn’t written anything. he wants to talk, to fix things. “old stranger,” he says when they’re seated by the fire in the rooms hob has rented for them. “i have changed. i hope that as you learn more of what i have done this past century i might raise myself in your estimation. but my feelings for you have only grown.” and maybe this is the year of their first real kiss, the year they go to bed together, and hob wakes up the next morning alone, fine sand under his fingernails and the taste of dream still on his tongue

and perhaps soon after dream goes missing hob hears whispers of it from some of the more eccentric patrons of his bookshop, and he goes and rescues dream. he dusts off his musicianship and gets himself in as an entertainer at one of burgess’ lavish parties as a cover

and then dream is free and they live happily ever after, the end, right?

cue modern day hob, teaching a course on the history of story and ballad, looking at old lyrics from the 15th century, asking dream, “remember when i sang this for you? god, i was bloody awful, don’t know what you saw in me…”

[iprefertheterminsane]

Ok i'm a lil bit familiar w/ some of your WIPS here but the Sandman Fishbowl WIP is making me 👀👀 Can I ask about that, pls? 💗

ITS LITERALLY ONE OF THE FIRST SANDMAN FICS I EVER WROTE i DID share with you 😭😭😭 this was back whem Fishbowl Fics were still all the rage but i left it behind like 3 chapters in and forgot about it and now nobody is doing fishbowl fics anymore 😔😔����😔. Basically Hob saves Dream from the Fishbowl and lives with Hob for a little after bc Hob manages to persuade they look for the tools human style. Its very similar to softest punk's Shelter except obviously softest punk actually published it and did it a whole lot better than I ever could. Anyway heres a snippet;

(...)

Through the ringing of his ears, something speaks. 

It resonates through the very bricks of the manor, and it trembles from it. It is from deep within the soul, of the mind, velvet seduction of a nightmare. 

(It is a voice Hob knows well.)

"Roderick Burgess."

It echoes from everywhere, quiet and earth-shaking, from nowhere at all. Hob shakes his head, rapid, like a dog shaking rain off his coat. 

"Do you know what you have done?"

I'm bleeding, Hob registers dimly, hands aching from torn open knuckles and peppered bits of glass, dusting his cheeks, his palms, the cold slick of the wall the blast had pushed him against. He uses it as leverage, hauling himself upwards. 

"For your monstrous greed, and petty arrogance, lives have been lost, and innocents have suffered."

The worst of the shrapnel had exploded forwards, in the direction of the gate, well away from Hob's angle of safety. The heavy mist had spread, spread, spread, and the manor is dead silent. 

Burgess Junior is slumped against the wall, motionless save-Hob notices with surprise-the shaky movements of his chest. 

Hob finds them. 

"No," cries Roderick Burgess, perched on his knees as Johanna Constantine had been in their pub, in 1789. His eyes are fogged white, unnatural, and he twitches violently from visions he cannot escape. "No, no, no, Randall, please-my son, my boy-," 

"You shall live as you had wished, Roderick Burgess." 

The Stranger says, standing with an outstretched hand, stance straight and sure, and his face doused in shadows. Inhuman. The order is made in finality. His lips move, but only barely. 

"And you shall beg for death."

With the sullen proclamation, the Stranger lowers his hand, and with it, it seems, the last of his strength. 

Hob watches as he collapses within himself, like an imposing tower finally reduced to rubble to reveal its cracked foundations at last. He moves without thinking, and catches his Stranger before he hits the ground, gathering him into his lap. The air is no longer so deathly cold as it had been before, but his Stranger shivers still. His greatcoat had been taken from him, but Hob takes off his own shirt to cover him despite his protests, and urges him to stand. 

"We need to get out of here," Hob tells him. "It's dawn soon, and the cops might be here any moment." 

"My tools," the Stranger insists. "They were taken from me." 

Hob is trying to figure out a gentle way to press that they are surrounded by dead bodies, a writhing old man and a quiet party, before he hears it again; familiar bird trills. 

The Stranger perks, head whipping to turn towards the entrance.

"Jessamy."

Before Hob could feel bitter from the reverential tone used for an unfamiliar woman's name, the large white-breasted raven finds them, and Hob almost startles. In his lap, his Stranger places a hand to his chest, and Hob calms despite himself. 

The raven flutters nervously, but decides, finally, to land on the floor by Hob's knee. She titters with worry, bumping against his Stranger's outstretched palm, and he practically slumps further from relief. 

"Jessamy," Hob mutters. "She's yours?" 

The Stranger doesn't answer, turning his head to bury his face in his chest instead, body shaking still, from exhaustion, anger, or the cold, perhaps even all three at once. He doesn't try to get him to stand again. His body aches, but he feels his miracle working already, how his skin begins to knit and spit glass from his flesh, leaving behind silvery scars or nothing at all. He counts to three, and with a single breath, lifts the entity in his arms, cradled in his arms in a bridal carry. 

His Stranger had always been thin, but he is light, lighter than Hob knows he should be. He tries not to panic about it. 

"I'm taking him home." He tells the bird. "Find the tools he's talking about, and follow us."

The bird flaps her wings twice, and caws.

"I'll keep him safe," Hob swears, with inadvisable conviction. "I promise." 

This, finally, mollifies her, and Hob follows her up the stairs. 

The party is silent, and bodies are slumped on floors, against tables and walls. It takes him a second glance to realize they weren't dead, as he had assumed. He hears snoring, even, and quickened breaths. 

"They're sleeping?" Hob asks, walking quickly but treading carefully over their bodies. 

The Stranger nods, eyes closed. 

"For how long?" 

Not dead, Hob surmised. But they might as well be.

"Forever." 

[bestmusicalworldcup]

The Best Snubbed Musical World Cup

The Best Snubbed Musical World Cup is a tournament to determine the best musical excluding those that won the Tony Award for Best Musical. Submissions are now closed! The final list of musicals in the Best Snubbed Musical World Cup is below.

& Juliet 1789: Les Amants de la Bastille 21 Chump Street 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee 35MM: A Musical Exhibition A New Brain Ablaze The Act Adamandi Aida Alice By Heart Allegiance An American in Paris American Idiot American Psycho Amélie Anastasia Anne & Gilbert Annie Get Your Gun Anything Goes Anyone Can Whistle The Art Of Pleasing Princes Assassins Back to the Future the Musical Bandstand Bare: A Pop Opera Be More Chill Beauty and the Beast Beetlejuice The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas Big Fish Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson Bonnie and Clyde Bran Nue Dae Bright Star Calvin Berger Carousel Carrie Chess Chicago Chitty Chitty Bang Bang Cinderella (Rodgers & Hammerstein) Clown Bible The Color Purple Come from Away The Count of Monte Cristo Death Note: The Musical Dogfight The Dolls of New Albion Dracula Dreamgirls The Drowsy Chaperone Elisabeth Émilie Jolie Evil Dead: The Musical Falsettos The Fantasticks Finding Neverland Firebringer Fly by Night Frankenstein The Frogs Funny Girl Ghost Quartet Godspell Grease Groundhog Day The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals Gypsy Hair Hans Christian Andersen Heathers Hedwig and the Angry Inch Holy Musical B@man! Hoy no me puedo levantar The Hunchback of Notre Dame In Transit Into the Woods Jagged Little Pill Jane Eyre Jekyll & Hyde Jesus Christ Superstar Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat La Légende du roi Arthur The Last Five Years Le Roi Soleil Legally Blonde The Light in the Piazza The Lightning Thief Little Shop of Horrors Lizzie The Lord of the Rings Love in Hate Nation Love Never Dies The Mad Ones Made in Dagenham The Magic Show Magic Tree House: The Musical Mary Poppins Matilda Mean Girls Mentiras el musical Merrily We Roll Along Miss Saigon Mozart! Mozart, l'opéra rock Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812 Newsies Next to Normal Notre-Dame de Paris Octet Oklahoma Oliver On the Town On Your Feet! The Story of Emilio & Gloria Estefan Once on this Island Once Upon A Mattress Ordinary Days Parade Phantom (Yeston & Kopit) Pippin The Pirate Queen Preludes Pretty Woman The Prince of Egypt Priscilla, Queen of the Desert The Prom Ragtime Rebecca Ride the Cyclone The Rocky Horror Show Roméo et Juliette: de la Haine à l'Amour Sarafina! The Secret Life of Walter Mitty (1964) The Secret Garden The Scarlet Pimpernel Seussical Seven Brides for Seven Brothers She Loves Me Show Boat Shrek the Musical Sidd Singin' In the Rain Six Soldaat van Oranje Something Rotten Spies are Forever The Spitfire Grill SpongeBob SquarePants: The Broadway Musical Starry Starship Sunday in the Park With George Tanz der Vampire / Dance of the Vampires Tarrytown The Threepenny Opera / Die Dreigroschenoper Tick Tick Boom Timéo The Trail to Oregon! Tuck Everlasting Twisted Urinetown Waitress West Side Story Wicked Wiedzmin The Wild Party (Lippa) The Wizard of Oz (1987) The Woman in White Wonderland You're a Good Man Charlie Brown

[gatheringbones]

[“A deep psychosis inherent in US settler colonialism is revealed in settler self-indigenization.

The phenomenon is not the same as the practice of “playing Indian,” which historian Philip Deloria brilliantly dissected, from the Boston Tea Party Indians to hobbyists dressing up like Indians to New Age Indians. Settler self-indigenization’s genealogy can be traced to the period of the mid-1820s to 1840s, what historians call the Age of Jacksonian Democracy, marked by, among other phenomenon, the blossoming of US American literature.

The giants of the era are well known to every US high schooler who has had to suffer through American Lit classes—Thoreau, Emerson, Whitman, Longfellow, Hawthorne, and dozens of others. Among them was James Fenimore Cooper (1789–1851), who conjured the United States’ origin story in his Leatherstocking Tales, made up of five novels featuring the hero Natty Bumppo, also called variously, depending on his age, Leatherstocking, Pathfinder, Deer-slayer, Hawkeye. Together the novels narrate the mythical forging of the new country from the 1754–1763 French and Indian War to independence to the settlement of the plains by migrants traveling by wagon train from Tennessee. At the end of the saga, Bumppo dies a very old man on the edge of the Rocky Mountains as he gazes east. But it is The Last of the Mohicans, subtitled A Narrative of 1757, that relates the self-indigenization myth that has endured. The Last of the Mohicans was a best-selling book throughout the nineteenth century and has been in print continuously since, along with a half dozen Hollywood movies, the first in 1911, plus several television series made in the US, Canada, and Britain. The most recent Hollywood production was a blockbuster that appeared in 1992, the Columbus Quincentenary.

Cooper conjured the birth of something new and wondrous, literally, the US American race, a new people born of the merger of the best of both worlds, the Native and the European, not a biological merger but something more ephemeral involving the disappearance of the Indian. Cooper has Chingachgook, the last of the “noble” and “pure” Natives, die off as nature would have it, handing the continent over to Hawkeye, the indigenized settler and Chingachgook’s adopted son. The publication arc of the Leatherstocking Tales parallels the Jackson presidency. For those who consumed the books in that period and throughout the nineteenth century—generations of young white men mainly—the novels became perceived fact, not fiction, and the basis for the coalescence of US American settler nationalism, the settler ideology that justified the fiscal-military state.”]

roxanne dunbar-ortiz, from not a nation of immigrants: settler colonialism, white supremacy, and a history of erasure and exclusion, 2021

[blackswaneuroparedux]

“France is in the throes of violent birth”: Thomas Jefferson and the 1789 French Revolution

"The deputies retired, the people rushed against the place, and almost in an instant were in possession of a fortification, defended by 100 men, of infinite strength..."

• Ambassador Thomas Jefferson report on the events on 14 July 1789.

The excerpt shown here is from a letter in Jefferson’s own hand to Secretary of Foreign Affairs John Jay. In great depth, he describes the events of July 14, 1789, including the storming of the Bastille in Paris. The Bastille was a symbol of the old regime, and housed arms, gunpowder, and prisoners.

On 14 July 1789, the U.S. Ambassador to France, Thomas Jefferson, was a witness to the events of  a day in Paris that is commonly associated with the beginning of the French Revolution. Jefferson recorded the events of the day in a lengthy and detailed letter to John Jay, then Secretary of Foreign Affairs.

The American Revolutionary War began as a conflict between the colonies and England. In time, what began as a civil disturbance turned into a world war drawing France, Spain, and the Netherlands into the hostilities. France would send troops, ships, and treasure to support the American effort.   During the war, one of the first priorities of the French government and its allies was to raise funds to fight the war.

When the Treaty of Paris was signed in 1783, France was virtually broke and on the edge of social catastrophe, the result of decades of war with England and other countries. The poor suffered hunger and privation. By 1789, revolution would come to France.

In 1785, Thomas Jefferson arrived in Paris to replace Benjamin Franklin, who was retiring as ambassador to France. At the age of 81, Franklin returned to the United States where he would serve as President of the Pennsylvania Assembly and also participated in the Constitutional  Convention of 1787.

John Adams was reassigned to London where he would be the first American ambassador to the Court of St. James. Jefferson remained on duty in France until late 1789 when he returned to the United States. While in France, Jefferson reported on developments at the court of King Louis XVI, the country at large, and the rest of Europe.

Jefferson was sympathetic to the revolution, opening his home in Paris to its leaders and assisting his friend the Marquis de Lafayette with drafting the Declaration of the Rights of Man. As the first Secretary of State under the Constitution and George Washington, his support for France and the revolution continued.

His friendship to the Marquis de Lafayette, who served in the War of Independence and lived almost 10 years in the USA, became very important in the beginning of the French revolution. The Marquis was the General of the french forces 1789 and tried to prevent a civil war and turmoil. He corresponded with Jefferson, who came from a country with the same experiences. Jefferson and the Marquis agreed that France was not mature to become a republic but a constitutional monarchy, like in Great Britain. However, this was the decision of the national assembly, of which the Marquise was a member. Jefferson went daily to Versailles to inform himself about the decisions. During Jefferson’ s visits, they passed the following laws:

1. Freedom of the person by habeas corpus 2. Freedom of conscience 3. Freedom of the press 4. Trial by jury 5. A representative legislature 6. Annual meetings 7. The origination of laws

This totally fit to Jefferson’s principles. In addition, there was passed a bill, which was prepared by Lafayette and Jefferson and which abolish any title or rank to make all men equal.

Thomas Jefferson also helped his friend Lafayette to bring the different opinions in his party about the constitution to an agreement. France should become a constitutional monarchy.

However, after this, Jefferson recognised that he is not allowed to interfere in the French domestic affairs and that he should be neutral and represent his country. He left France in the thinking that the Revolution was over and that France would grow to a constitutional monarchy. Jefferson was proud of the achievements in France and after his return to USA he declared: “ So ask the travelled inhabitant of any nation, In what country on earth would you rather live? - Certainly, in my own where are all my friends, my relations, and the earliest and sweetest affections and recollections of my life. Which would be your second choice? France."

For all his francophile fervour, as the chief American diplomatic representative, Jefferson’s Enlightenment had been a conventionally English one, dominated above all by John Locke. And Jefferson’s first impressions of America’s principal ally in the Revolution were not positive ones. “The nation,” he confided to Abigail Adams in 1787, “is incapable of any serious effort but under the word of command.”

The stars of the French Enlightenment - Voltaire, Diderot, d’Holbach - were frivolous and useful only for manufacturing “puns and bon mots; and I pronounce that a good punster would disarm the whole nation were they ever so seriously disposed to revolt.”

The events of the spring of 1789 soon changed all of that before Jefferson’s very eyes. “The National Assembly,” he excitedly wrote to Tom Paine, “having shewn thro’ every stage of these transactions a coolness, wisdom, and resolution to set fire to the four corners of the kingdom and to perish with it themselves rather to relinquish an iota from their plan of a total change of government” had excited Jefferson’s imagination as nothing before.

Even when the Paris mob seized the Bastille and beheaded the hapless officers of the Bastille, Jefferson shrugged it aside as a mere incident, since “the decapitations” had accelerated the king’s surrender. As Jefferson would write later, “in the struggle which was necessary, many guilty persons fell without the forms of trial, and with them some innocent.” But rather than seeing the French Revolution fail, “I would have seen half the earth desolated. Were there but an Adam and an Eve left in every country and left free, it would be better than as it now is.”

Jefferson’s admiration for the French Revolution seemed to increase in direct proportion to his distance from it. And once he returned to America at the end of 1789, one of his chief motives for taking the post of Secretary of State was to observe and encourage the French eruption, when the National Assembly seized and redistributed the lands of the Catholic Church, when the king foolishly attempted to flee France, only to be captured, placed on trial and executed.

And when a Committee of Public Safety began a national purge - the “reign of terror” - Jefferson continued to describe the French Revolution as part of “the holy cause of freedom,” and sniffed that “the tree of liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants. It is its natural manure.”

There is no question that Jefferson’s influence in the beginning of the French Revolution was very important. His initial moderate counsels and ideas helped in the beginning to prevent a civil war. His opinion that France was not mature to become a republic is probably right, because after 600 years of monarchy and aristocracy they people were not used to have any rights or take part in political matters. Jefferson thought that a republic had to develop from a constitutional monarchy. When you look to the cruel end of the French Revolution, Jefferson’s assessment was right up to a point.

Jefferson’s time as Secretary of State coincided with the most explosive phase of the French Revolution. What started as an attempt to dismantle the Ancien Régime and institute a constitutional monarchy blossomed into a radical experiment in creating an entirely new republican society. As his correspondence with Minister to France Gouverneur Morris and Minister to the Netherlands William Short during the emergence of the Jacobin Terror reveals, Jefferson responded to the violent radicalisation of the Revolution with enthusiastic support.

His advocacy for the French Revolution did not signify his emergence as a disruptive insurrectionist in favour of purposeless violence, anarchy and unbridled populism. Instead, he advocated for recognition and support of the Jacobin government as a successful international analog to the republican project he wanted to pursue at home at the expense of the “monarchical” aspirations of Hamilton and the Federalists. 

In practice, the parallels he imagined between the ideal Jeffersonian and Jacobin republics were usually more apparent than real, as Jefferson often ignored the reports of Morris and Short in favour of fanciful idealising of his French counterparts – a problem Jefferson would only come to grips with in retirement.

Despite these dilemmas, Jefferson’s impassioned advocacy for the French Revolution proved effective, emerging as a cornerstone of the burgeoning Republican Party’s foreign policy and remaining important well into the early nineteenth century, until the Revolution ceased to be an important political issue. It was not until he became President in 1801 that Jefferson’s views toward France began to cool and became more pragmatic, highlighted by the Louisiana Purchase Treaty.

[dolphin1812]

They’re here at last!!!

I love all of Les Amis, but their introductory paragraphs have also been pretty thoroughly analyzed - @everyonewasabird and @fremedon have pretty comprehensive posts on them from previous Brickclubs. Rather than go through them individually, then, I’ll try to point out some general trends that would be relevant to Marius (given that we meet them as soon as he’s kicked out of his house, we can assume there’s a connection):

The first major issue is the legacy of the French Revolution (1789) and the Terror (1793). All of the characters we meet here (with the exception of Grantaire) are attached to the legacy of the former, but they’re divided over the latter. Enjolras, for instance, is compared to Saint-Just – a more radical figure from that time period – and with his “warlike nature” and link to the “revolutionary apocalypse,” he’s definitely more in the tradition of ‘93 than ‘89, even if he’s attached to both. Combeferre, on the other hand, fears that kind of violence, only finding it acceptable if the only alternative is for things to stay the same. Like Marius’ newfound Bonapartism, all of their ideas come out of the clash and evolution of thought after the Revolution and the French Empire under Napoleon, placing each Ami in a similar position to him as they work out their ideas. All of them, though, came to a different conclusion than Marius, prioritizing the Republic over the Empire. At the same time, they’re all distinct from each other, too, revealing the diversity in French republican thought. With his limited exposure to political ideas outside of royalism (and now, idolization of Napoleon), the myriad veins of republicanism that the Amis offer broaden up the political sphere of the novel significantly.

On top of that, they’re a group; they can learn from each other in a way that Marius hasn’t had a chance to. Even Grantaire, who claims to not believe in anything, has friends, and while he distances himself from specific ideologies, his jokes illustrate that he’s familiar with them (for example: “He sneered at all devotion in all parties, the father as well as the brother, Robespierre junior as well as Loizerolles”). Marius doesn’t have friends or people to really work through ideas with. Oddly enough, the most similar structure to this that we’ve seen so far is the royalist salon. The key difference (aside from the obvious) is the chance to learn from different perspectives, whether that’s based on variations in republicanism, in priorities (conflict vs education, the local vs the international), or both. They’re not even all defined by their politics. Courfeyrac (who easily has the most insulting character introduction in the book) is defined by his character and personality first, with his political ideas mainly being a given from his participation in this group. These variations in emphasis, then, not only show us the diversity of their views, but the varying intensities with which they hold them (as in, you could talk to Courfeyrac about something that isn’t political, but you couldn’t do that with Enjolras) and how they’re kept together in spite of their disagreements (a common goal – a Republic – and many fun and socially savvy members). All of these factors serve to give a sense of liveliness as well, contrasting sharply with the “phantoms” of the royalist salon.

Les Amis aren’t very diverse class-wise, but they’re still better than the salon. Bahorel and Feuilly, at least, aren’t bourgeois or aristocrats.

Feuilly also brings us to the international level, far beyond Marius’ early attempts at imagining himself as part of a country. Focusing on the partition of Poland in particular, Feuilly advocates for national self-determination in all lands under imperial rule. The idea that a people should govern themselves was key to republican thought more broadly in that time (nationalism really took shape in the 18th-19th centuries), but to Feuilly, this isn’t just an issue of nationalism, but of tyranny:

“There has not been a despot, nor a traitor for nearly a century back, who has not signed, approved, counter-signed, and copied, ne variatur, the partition of Poland.”

The word “despot” ties this back to France in a way, with his rejection of despotism as it affects Poland possibly implying a similar anger at the same phenomenon in France. The Bourbons at the Congress of Vienna in 1815 were, after all, the same Bourbons who ruled during the Restoration. A quick note on Lesgle: I didn’t get the joke around “Bossuet” the first time I read this book. Then, I had to take a class on the French monarchy, and I was assigned a text by Bossuet of Meaux, court preacher to Louis XIV and fierce proponent of absolutism. His name seemed familiar, but it took me a while to think to check Les Mis? And now I think calling Lesgle Bossuet because he’s Lesgle (like l’aigle=eagle) of Meaux is one of the funniest jokes in this book.

[argyrocratie]

turn out Sacher-Masoch recalled an anecdote about Bakunin at the time of the pan-Slavist congress of 1848 and funny enough the scene depicted still manage to be somewhat thematically what Sacher-Masoch is known for:

"The Baroness denied that the goal could be achieved through revolution.

“It was not the republic,” she cried, “that made the ideas of 1789 triumph, it was Napoleon. We need a man who is himself a power, and this man can only be the Tsar”

While she spoke thus with vivacity, as usual, and her large clear eyes shone, she looked, with her parafa and her gold brocade kazabaika trimmed with sable, like one of those intelligent and energetic tsarinas of the old Russia, accustomed to making the neck of any man who approached them a stool for their feet.

This witty woman developed her ideas with great sagacity and in a very brilliant way.

“Before long,” she said, among other things, “the political ideal will definitely be relegated to the background. All nations will no longer have but a single concern: achieving unity. This will result in the formation of large, very powerful States. This aspiration, the strongest because it is the most natural, will push all other interests into the shadows for a long time.

“The struggles of our time, almost all fought in the name of freedom, have little importance; in the very near future these struggles will become purely national struggles.

“The Slavs, like other nations, must aspire to unity and achieve it; but it must be recognized that they are less prepared for it than the Italians and Germans were. A number of small independent nations have been formed within the Slavic race, which will not easily give up their independence.”

“That is perfectly right,” said Bakunin: “‘a union of the Slavic rivers losing themselves in the Russian sea,’ in Pushkin’s sense, would seem desirable neither to the Czechs, nor to the Serbs, nor to the Croats, and it would be energetically refused by Polish. This is precisely why the autocratic government of the Tsar must fall. The only form of government capable of satisfying all parties is a large and free Slavic federation, on the model of the United States of North America, which would include the Hungarians and the Romanians.”

“No! Bakunin,” cried the superb baroness, “you are wrong. We will achieve nothing until we know how to subordinate our political ideal to our national ideal.

“All by the Tsar! nothing without the tsar!”

“You defend the monarchy of the tsars, because you yourself are a great despot,” said Bakunin, smiling and passionately raising his adversary’s little hand to his lips. “It would be an idea to make you sovereign of our pan-Slavist state. I would be the first to throw myself at your feet and make myself your humble slave.”

“Ah! If I were mistress of all these crazy disunited heads,” she cried, “I would unite you all with the knout; because you need the knout, everyone, without exception!”

-Sacher-Masoch, “Choses vécues,” Revue politique et littéraire 25 no. 8(25 août 1888): 250-252. (X)

[dearly-dreaming]

•𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍•

Title: The Sun, The Stars And The Moon.

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x fem!reader x Hob Gadling.

Word count:5103

Warnings: Fear of reaction, illusion to death, Desire, mentions of other Endless (very small spoiler?) Dream and Hob being idiots and lots of fluff.

Summary: Morpheus and Hob attend a historical costume party and reminisce the past (print by the wonderful @dilf-of-the-endless but with my own twist)

Author’s note: Sorry this tool so long but it’s finally out! I hope you all enjoy :)

•𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐍, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍•

You delighted in the energy that hummed around you.

It hummed in your veins as the lights gleamed above you, grinning fondly as they watched the stage be set for the fateful story of tonight that would begin. Or, begin again.

You let out a breath, your dress flowing around your body smoothly. Its fabric was as silver as the moon, adorned by jewels, embroidery, and flaring sleeves that wisped around your body like the gentle breeze of the wind.

You smiled to yourself in the mirror and placed your mask on your face. A daring white was so pure even gods would weep at the sight of the sliver swirls that twisted along it like dancers.

Oh, how you loved masquerades.

And you knew how much they liked masquerades too.

Rolling your shoulders back, you strode into the ballroom where angels giggled in the paintings from the ceiling above. Crowds of people in marvellous dresses and enticing suits swarmed the room - chatter almost as loud sd the enchanting music that flooded your ears, a sweet symphony.

As you walked further into the ballroom, you gained the eyes of many from behind their masks, though none were the eyes you wanted on you. No, you wanted the same two pairs of eyes that had been on you long ago.

The lights gleamed bright as you looked around and saw various faces behind masks, it seemed that both the unholy and holy creatures could serenade together. You grinned, of course, that was entirely true.

Humans partook in dances, unaware of the beings that danced with them, very inhuman. So far you had seen vampires, werewolves, faeries and even fellow witches.

It reminded you so very much of the first night you'd met.

1789.

You remembered only some, some figments were seen through thick mists, sly and mischievous, just waiting for you to meet those that plagued your mind like the fondest dream. You enjoyed your time with them before the tragedy struck and you were most ready to be with them again.

And tonight you would finally see them again.

A person swept to next to your side and you saw golden eyes glint teasingly, "Hello, my pretty dove."

"Dove?" You laugh lightly, "I'm much more of a crow."

"And yet it is usually the ravens that catch my brother's attention, such a special crow you are," Hummed desire as they stood in front of you, golden eyes shimmering like cursed jewels, tempting and treacherous.

"Of course I'm special, I'm one of a kind," You respond, shrugging your shoulders, perfectly used to Desire and their ways.

Desire smiled a Cheshire smile, "Oh, I know, my Dove. I only wish I had gotten to you before my brother and his mercurial immortal."

"Why? So you could entrance me with your golden eyes? Sweep me away to paradise? And once you had done that, dump me like a burnt-out candle," You hummed and while your tone was sweet, both of you knew your words were aimed like daggers, sharp and desperate for blood.

Desire laughed and it sounded like the chiming of distant bells, "My dove, we both know you're not a candle. You're a wildfire."

You pressed your gloved hand to your chest in a mock swoon, "Oh, keep saying such sweet things to me and I may think Destiny has planned this out all along!"

A keening sound came from the physical embodiment that seemed far too much like a cat as their eyes glinted, "If only he had, Dove. But all know how he and my big sister favour my dear, arrogant big brother. And how they favour you, my sweet, bastard of a woman."

You rose a brow, Desire always seemed uncaring but you knew just how much Dream got under their skin, "Speaking of sisters, how are dear Despair and Delerium?"

Desire clicked their tongue, "Despair's still moping and Delierum's off causing chaos wherever she goes. If only you were with her, then Death would follow you around, cleaning all of your messes."

You smiled, "Delightful."

Desire's eyes glinted with something of amusement and anger. They wanted to anger you but you were not so quick to fall into their trap, you were certainly willing to play the game.

The two of you stared at each other for a moment.

"Aren't you a sweet thing with a sharp tongue?" Hissed Desire playfully, their eyes glazed with a haze of soft malice.

You smirked, grabbing a glass of red wine from one of the waiters and hummed, "Well, your brother seems to like my tongue quite a lot. As does, as you so lovingly put it, his mercurial immortal."

A laugh shot from Desire's mouth.

And suddenly, their attention was stolen away by something, or rather, someone, or in this case, some people. A grin spread across their lips as their golden eyes seemed to melt with amusement, "Iy appears the two we speak of have arrived."

Abruptly, your heart stuttered in your chest elated and frightened al at the same time.

Desire smirked, placing a sensual hand on your arm, "I'll leave you to your charade but if you need some assistance, I will do anything you desire."

And with those parting words, the Endless waltzed away, predatory eyes searching for someone with enough desire to distract them for the night.

You let out a soft sigh and slowly turned.

All your breath was stolen away in an instant.

They stood together like an art piece no one could bare to take their eyes off. That dangerous and alluring immortal with soft brown hair and enchanting hazel eyes so warm they felt like home. That distant and astonishing king with hair the colour of a raven's wings and blue eyes so electric it was like those eyes were in every dream you could ever have.

You were staring at them in all their splendour, a sort of disbelief coursing through your body, it had been so long since you last laid eyes on them.

And you quickly realised that they were staring at you as well.

Hob delight in the bright colours, the avid chatter and enchanting music.

He sincerely enjoyed parties, not for the fact they showed off wealth or power but because they were fun. Hob couldn't count the number of friends and memories he had gotten at the parties over the years. The festivals in his village, the feasts and progresses of Queen Elizabeth I's court, the balls, the roaring twenties, the clubs that were always deafeningly loud.

He loved parties in his very soul and desperately needed to get his friend to join him at one.

He, of course, knew that Dream would hate clubs or any kind of modern party so Hob scoured every place he could, searching for a costume party that slotted into the regency era. It was just like that Hob mentioned it to a friend and said friend grinned, fangs glinting as he told Hob about a masquerade party.

He told Morpheus about and it turned out to be the perfect idea as Dream of the Endless had a certain love for masquerades. Hob shared that love and he remembered another person who did as well.

A sigh slipped through Hob's lips as he glanced at the man that stood beside him. And, God, was he ethereal. He looked almost exactly as he did that year of 1789, and image of royalty and power. Hob was entranced he could not deny, he would not deny.

As his eyes gazed around the eccentric party, his attention snapped to a figure that somehow managed to take his breath away. First, he saw the dress, like the moon had crafted it and enchanted it with all the wonder it possessed. Then, he saw the mask that swirled and wisped, drawing him closer and tempting him to stay there. But neither was as beautiful as the one wearing them.

And that person was you.

"Hob?" Morpheus' light voice called, sounding like a murmur from a distantly fond memory.

"Yes?" He responded after a moment, struggling to tear his eyes away.

"Are you well? You seem distracted," Hummed the Endlessly, curious eyes quick and observant.

"Yes, um..." Hob's eyes flickered back to your figure, "It's just, someone's caught my attention."

"Who?" Questioned the king, shimmering eyes darting around.

"Her," Hob motioned discreetly over to you.

Morpheus tilted his head, his berry-pink lips curling into some semblance of a smile, "I can certainly see why."

"Mhm," Hob hummed, brown eyes glimmering as he watched you speak to someone he couldn't quite see. He saw the way your shoulders shook with laughter and found himself wondering what such a laugh sounded like.

"It seems she knows my sibling," Morphues observed softly, tiling his chin upwards, eyes glittering with curiosity. After all, ti wasn't often that someone spoke so comfortably with an Endless. Especially not with Desire.

Hob's brow rose in surprise, "She knows one of your siblings? She must be knowledgeable then, "He paused, a smile coming upon his lips, "Or a part of a bet."

A huff of amusement left Morpheus, "Perhaps. Though I doubt she is as unpredictable as you."

Hob laughed gently, eyes moving back to you.

Suddenly his heart stilled in his chest.

You were staring straight at them.

And all Hob could think about was the colour of your eyes. He was desperate to see them and be entranced by their depth.

"I...I'm...she's looking at us," Hob couldn't but stutter, feeling your piercing gaze upon him.

Morpheus rose a brow, "Then perhaps you should dance with her."

Hob stared in surprise, "But-but what about you?"

Morpheus smiled that sweet, small smile Hob had come to love, "I shall go speak with my sibling and find out what they wanted with that beautiful stranger."

"Are you sure?" Hob questioned lightly, his interest in you growing more and more by the second.

Morpheus nodded, silver eyes glinting with the echos of stars. And perhaps that was why he was so enchanting to Hob. Humans had always found solace in the stars and the unfathomable beauty that drew them in with sweet songs and delightful deals.

"All right, then," Hob hummed, "I shall see you soon, my friend."

"Indeed, and do try to not become completely bewitched before I have the chance to dance with the lady and you," Morphues mused, eyes glinting with something faintly teasing and serious.

He laughed smoothly, despite the way his heart thundered in his chest, "I'd never miss the chance to dance with you."

"Good," Spoke the Dream King with a brief smile as he swept away into the dancing crowds, like a dream slipping through your fingers.

Hob let out a breath and turned to face you again as he strode through the crowds, never once breaking eye contact. The closer he got to you, the greater his heartbeat. He could see your features more clearly now, the shimmering shade of your eyes, the hue of your lips, the glow of your skin.

It was almost as if he had burst out of a forest and onto the shores of a vast, breathtaking sea once he came to a stop before all of your astounding glory. Words seemed to fail him at that moment, he never was a poet.

Luckily for him, you had waited for this moment for so long that you'd practised the words you wanted to say a thousand times in your mind. But even then, the words were difficult to get out, you were blown away by his sheer beauty.

Hob wore colours of gold, his mask twisting around his face like sunlight. He looked wonderous, greater than any painting or song. You were as entranced as you were the first time you'd met him and he who he called his stranger.

You smiled, "I know you are breathless but please do not faint before we've had the chance to converse properly."

Hob breathed in, eyes glinting in amusement, "Of course, my lady."

You couldn't keep the grin off of your face, "And might I know your name?"

"Only if I can know yours," Hob hummed softly.

"Y/n," You responded quickly, watching intently for his reaction.

You saw a flicker of shock and his body went rigid for just a moment,. Recognition glittered in his eyes like newfound hope before dimming. Hob had lived a very long time and had heard many names repeated. But still, he felt his heart flutter for just a second, hearing your name fall from your lips like a divine symphony he hadn't heard in so long.

Finally, Hob managed to find his words and spoke, "My name is Hob, Hob Gadling and might I say your name is beautiful."

You laughed lightly, delighting in the sound of his name, "Why, thank you, Hod Gadling. Now, could I treat you to a dance?"

"I'd love that," Hob smiled and extended his hand for you to take, "Come, my lady, and let everyone see that stunning dress and beautiful face."

You raised an amused brow and placed your hand in Hob's, "I'm wearing a mask."

"And from the parts of your face, I can see, you look magnificent, " Hummed the man, his dark hair spilling around his face in loose curls that you so desperately wanted to run your fingers through.

Quickly, Hob guided you to the dancefloor and with a breath, you two were swirling around the crowds of people. Finding your feet was a practice you were well used to and it seemed that even though ballroom dancing had gone out of fashion, so was Hob. His hand intertwined with yours as his other came to cup your waist tenderly. Your hand gently placed itself on his shoulder and he pulled you closer to him, you could practically feel his breath fanning your face now.

You were in a room full of people, yet you had not felt such intimacy for a long time.

Hob smiled and you saw those soft, enchanting brown eyes gleam. They were just how you remembered, even better. Like swirls of dark whisky, Hob's eyes twirled with age and memories, making him seem more alive than any person in the room. You smiled brightly, heart swelling with the knowledge that after all this time, Hob was still so happy and alive.

Suddenly, Hob twirled you and a joyously bubbled laugh fell from your lips. His hand clenched your waist tightly yet his grasp was gentle. A gaint cradling a bird with the greatest care, as if it was the most precious thing in the world.

You smiled easily, it was natural to be with Hob, to be in his embrace and have his eyes on you. And now that everything was happing again you understood just how much you had missed him and his long-lasting love.

"The light you bring into his world is astounding," You spoke to him, almost without realising it. Hob Gadlign was the sun, all-embracing with his warmth and kindness, everyone was attracted to him but they could never get too close lest they get burnt.

But you would welcome the searing burns of Hob's love without any hesitation. Because to be loved by the sun is to be loved by all of the light in the universe and no pain could compare to that love.

You could see no blush on his cheeks but you did see the tips of his ears go a sunset pink as he stuttered for a moment. A look that reminded you of a warm summer's breeze appeared in his eyes and he spoke in a gentle voice, "And your light drives the darkness away."

"Does it?" You laughed, ignoring the heat rising to your cheeks.

"Yes," He hummed, pulling you into another spin, "You remind me of the moon, even in the darkness of night, your light will shine and guide someone home."

You tried to shake off the sudden bashfulness that had overcome you but to no prevail, "No one has ever spoken about me in such a way."

"And in what way did I speak about you?" Hob questioned lightly, somehow managing to twirl you through the bustling crowds of dancers who were momentarily drawn to the pair of you. A pair so seemingly oblivious to the rest of the world.

Your eyes met Hob's and you swore you saw home, "So earnestly. I am a witch, Hob Gadling, most people who meet me are in search of something and think flattering me will make it easier to obtain. You, however, are not in search of anything. Your words are not sweet lies but the gentlest of truths. The words you speak are truly how you see me and nothing else."

Hob stared at you for a moment before a short laugh fell from his lips and you just barely noticed the hint of grief that ran through him as if he was suddenly alone after spending time with one he loved.

"Do I amuse you?" You questioned gently.

Shaking his head, Hob swallowed, stunning eyes shimmering with mourning so carefully hidden it was like a flower.

Maybe he forced the smile onto his face when he spoke or maybe he didn't but it was there, "No, you just...remind me of someone I used to know a long time ago. All people ever did was ask her for favours. The first time we'd met the only reason she was there was because someone she thought was her friend asked her to."

Lady Johanna Constantine.

You remembered her well and much preferred her namesake, at least she had no desperate lust for the ichor of immortality.

"I see," You hummed, the truth about to spill from your lips.

Hob, however, interrupted you, "I do hate to make this conversation come to a halt but my friend wishes to dance with you."

"What?" You questioned.

Hob didn't answer, merely raising one of your hands to press a kiss there before he spun away from him.

And you collided into another pair of arms.

Suddenly your eyes met another pair that had enough depth in them to encase entire universes. They shimmered like gems beneath a luscious sea and drew you in with the sweetest of symphonies upon the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Your breath was stolen away in an instant.

Dream.

Hob's beauty was like coming home after a long day and Morpheus' beauty was that of an adventure that never ended.

Your eyes darted across his face. His skin was so pale it was like the light of stars cupped it. The contours of his face were sculpted by the hands of creation to perfection. Usually untamed, his hair so dark it was like a raven's feather was twisted into a small plat, reminiscent of what it had been like in 1789.

Temptation had never looked so enticing.

"Good evening, miss," Morphues hummed, his voice as rich as red wine.

"Good evening, your majesty. It's wonderful to have you back," You responded lightly, knowing now it was only a matter of time before your identity was revealed, you can't hide anything from dreams, after all.

You saw a flicker of surprise appear in Morpheus' starry eyes and the humbleness in his voice as he lightly inquired, "You know who I am?"

You smiled, dipping your head slightly in a nod, "I am a witch, it is my business to know how this universe works and all the people who play integral parts within it."

A thoughtful hum came from Morpheus and almost like a dream that wisped and whirled, the two of you were dancing among the crowds. His eyes glittered as he stared down at you, asking another question, "Is that how you know my sibling?"

"Siblings," You corrected lightly, you did, after all, know more than one Endless.

Morphues could not hide his surprise this time and yet you found yourself disappointed that his minute expressions were hidden by his mask. And what a glorious mask it was. It looked as if it had been blessed by stars, shimmering with silvers and gold and blacks and purples, it looked like entire galaxies had been painted on it.

It was almost as magnificent as the man wearing it.

"You've met multiple of my siblings?" Inquired Morpheus, his curiosity growing tenfold as natural for he was the Prince of Stories.

You nodded, lips curving into a soft smile, "Well, you can't meet Desire without Despair and a witch always ends up crossing paths with Destiny and making deals with Death. And, of course, one can't attempt millennia-old spells without stepping into the realms of Delirium and Destruction."

Morpheus very nearly came to a halt then, his body going rigid for just a moment as his berry-pink lips parted. You smiled at the innocence of the sight before you, so gentle and free.

The King of Dreams found himself unable to speak for a few seconds, most unnatural to him of all creatures as stories were what he was made of. Then, he managed to speak in a soft, almost whispered voice, "You have met Destruction?"

You hummed.

Of course, the Prodigal had abandoned his duties quite some time ago.

You smiled gently, a far-away look in your eyes, "Yes, a very, very long time ago."

"But- He..." Morphues furrowed his brows and realised you were much more of a riddle than he thought.

You tilted your head, the mischievousness within you giggling in delight, "I am much older than I look, my lord. Much, much older."

"How much older?" Questioned the Endless hurridly, almost desperate for answers.

A laugh came from your lips, your eyes glittering in amusement as you faked an offended gasp, "Oh, my! Don't you know it's rude to ask a woman her age, your majesty?"

Morpheus let out a chuckle as his soft, delicate hands that could have only belonged to an artist ever so slightly tightened against you as he spun you into a twirl. The lights shimmered above you and for a moment Morpheus seemed to have a hale of wonder and enamour around him.

His lips curved like the bow of cupid, and his voice was as soft as the patter of rainfall as he spoke, "Of course, forgive me, my lady. You are like the moon to me and my curiosity compels me to grow closer to you."

You rose a brow, an echo of Hob in your mind as you mused, "I am like the moon? You and Hob are certainly of the same mind."

"How couldn't we be?" Breathed Morpheus softly, rushed, his words enough to make your heart flutter in its joy, "Your eyes are magnetic, astounding, like the light of the lady moon. It's ethereal, it's comforting, it's peaceful. You make people wish for you to be the muse behind all their great inspirations. When people first began to understand the beauty of the moon, they saw you in their dreams."

The blush on your cheeks was heavy, burning against your skin. Tantalising.

Hob was brash with his words but his actions were strong enough that words weren't needed for him to show how he felt. Morpheus' actions were reserved and hidden but his words flowed like the most wondrous stories.

A smile made its way onto your lips, "And when people first began to understand the beauty of the stars, it was you they saw when they dreamt of them."

"Is that so?" Chimed Morpheus, an almost coy look on his face.

Oh, he did like it when people flirted with him.

You hummed, "Certainly. You're beautiful. Your eyes have this far-away look that makes people want to stare at them and never look away. They want to listen to your stories and poems and always hold them to their hearts."

Now it was Morpheus' turn to flush.

You giggled, "Have I made the King of Dreams flustered?"

A playful scoff came from the man made out of starlight, "You remind me of..."

He trailed off, eyes focused intently on you but on you. And you knew exactly what had happened.

Morpheus had finally realised who you were.

His lips parted as he stared at you. The sheer disbelief in his eyes was so strong it was enough to make mountains quiver. Fear built within you, you didn't think your heart could take Morpheus turning away from you. You knew it couldn't. Just like it couldn't take Hob turning away either.

"I-" Morpheus breathed, shimmering eyes laced with tears, "How? This should not be possible and yet I see it within you, your memories of us, your dreams. You look entirely different and yet you are Hb and I's Y/n. But that cannot be, I remember your death."

You smiled, voice so soft it was akin to the beating of a hummingbird's wings, "I did tell you witches sealed with Death, didn't I?"

Morpheus said nothing and you certainly expected him to turn away from you, stride into the night and run away into his realm. You thought he would wrench his arm away from you, refusing to believe you were the same woman he had fallen for.

He came to a halt.

Your heart hammered erratically in your chest.

This was it. He was going to turn away.

Instead, his frantic hands clutched your face as he kissed you.

It was desperate, his hands holding tightly onto your face as if he feared you would disappear. His lips collided with yours with enough force to make rivers gasp and clouds blush. Passion flooded through your veins as his gentle body melted against yours. There was barely enough time to breathe, the brilliance of Morphues against your body was a splendour like no other.

Your lips moulded against his, the softness of them like the pattering of rain, the gentlest of symphonies and the greatest of arts. And Morpheus was an art piece, wondrous and enchanting.

A small sound escaped Morpheus's lips as your hands found his face, gentle and relieved. You had missed the feeling of his smooth, cold skin that had been kissed by the light of stars.

You shuddered against Morpheus as he finally parted his lips from yours, you were reminded of the warmth that came with gazing at clouds.

He rested his forehead against yours. Chest heaving.

"My lord-" You began only for Morphues to cut you off.

His voice was so quiet, barely a whisper upon your skin, "Please. I have not heard my name spill from your lips in so long. Please do not deny me that any longer. Please."

"Morpheus," You breathed gently, fascinated by the wonder of the man before you. So inhuman yet so very human.

"Perfect," He murmured, his eyes glittering with all the love in the universe.

His hand gently moved to clasp yours and suddenly he was pulling you, moving across the ballroom swiftly.

You helped in surprise, "Morpheus!"

Morphues looked at you from over his shoulder, "It would be terribly cruel of me if I stole you away without telling Hob that you've returned to us. Would it not be, sweet crow?"

"Very true, my star," You chirped fondly, easily slipping into hat love you held so close to your heart.

The two of you easily weaved between the crowds easily spotting Hob as his beauty outshined all others. Hob smiled at the pair of you as soon as you met eyes and he never once looked away.

He tilted his head, an almost teasing gleam in his eyes as he chirped, "You two look like you're from a romance movie," His lips curved into a grin, "I never thought you'd be taken so quickly, Dream."

Morpheus lifted a brow, "It is only natural to be taken with Y/n, I remember you being enamoured with her the first time we met."

Hob's smile faltered for a moment, "This is the first time we've met Y/n."

"This is our first time meeting her in this body," Corrected Morpheus lightly, excitement glimmering in his starry eyes.

Hob swallowed, whisky eyes darting between Morpheus and you, "What- What are you saying?"

Morpheus let out a breath, "Her body may be different but her soul is the very same one from all those years ago. She is undoubtedly our Y/n."

You smiled, "Hello, Hob."

"I- Hob choked, "Prove it, please, prove it."

You nodded your head gently, "The first time we met I was only there because Johanna wanted me to render the both of you unconscious if you resisted her but I couldn't do it. You never got angry with me, only smiled and said it was a lovely night for a walk. And so we walked and as the sun began to rise I invited you two to a masquerade much like this one."

Hob's eyes widened.

And just like his counterpart, kissed you with enough desperation to inspire leagues of art.

Firm hands gripped your waist as Hob pulled you closer to him. Soft lips caressed yours like the softest of spring petals. Singing love spun you around like the dearest of symphonies. Hob didn't need to say anything to you because his actions always told you everything. His embrace was like the fondest summer winds.

Your hand came to lay on his thundering heart and you were reminded of just how alive Hob Gadling was. He was like hope, relentless and unchallengeable. He was entrancing in the most comforting of ways.

A low sound came from Hob's mouth, like the crackle of a cosy fireplace. You adored it, consumed by him and his love.

Slowly, Hob parted from you, lips blushing and red as he gasped, "It seems fate has rewarded me in the most brilliant of ways."

You laughed, a gentle thing, as you spoke, "Indeed it has," Then you looked between your two men and rose a brow, "Now tell me, do you two still pretend you haven't danced your way over the line of friendship or have you finally admitted your love for each other?"

The pair stared at each other for a moment before they looked back at you, awkward expressions on their faces. You snorted, hand going over your lips to try and hide your smirk but to no avail.

Oh, your men. Ancient creatures with knowledge long forgotten to the world but they still can't admit their feelings.

You smiled gently, "Don't worry gentlemen, we can sort everything out later, but for now, I do believe you two need a dance together."

Morpheus dipped his head, "Indeed we do."

Hob extended his callous hand, "Dream?"

The King slowly placed his hand upon the immortal's, curling his pale fingers around the rich skin of Hob's. And with cherished smiles, the pair glided towards the dance floor, a complete vision of perfection.

Then, the universe smiled because the sun, the stars and the moon were finally back reunited.

Tags: @fate-huntress @layla2-49 @asianfrustration13 @true-queen-of-mischief @mxtokko @notabotiswear @marion7s-blog @winxchesters @beautifulbows924 @sidneysdreamland @boofy1998 @thecrazytealady @kisses4kitty @we-love-our-bandz @kittycatcait219 @crimsonabbath @violet-19999 @dreaming-about-fanfictions @silverhart13 @dilf-of-the-endless @tea-effect @bakerstreethound @popcornceilings69 @blu3what @angelphishy @ultimateissuessimp @aliisa-jones

[valiantstarlights]

[Dreamling Week Day 5: Jealousy] The Feeling of Freedom

This is from my Dreamling Hamilton AU where Hob lost his memory during the American Revolutionary War and now goes by Captain Gideon "Leon" Roberts.

You don't need to read the story in AO3 to understand what's going on. 😊 Just imagine it's a Regency AU but Hamilton is in it.

CW: period-typical homophobia because this is set in 1789 Albany, New York.

(Because I fucking love Bridgerton's idea of playing modern songs as orchestral music during balls, this piano cover of Only Love Can Hurt Like This by Paloma Faith is the song I imagined Dream and Hob danced to, but at 75% speed. Please listen to it! It's very lovely, and the song's lyrics are highkey dreamling vibes. 🖤)

"May I have this dance?"

Dream's head snaps towards Colonel Hamilton, who has jokingly (and with an unnecessary gentlemanly flourish), held his hand out to Captain Roberts.

"No, Alex," Captain Roberts replies, amused at his friend's antics but keeping his hands firmly behind his back. "Go dance with Mrs. Hamilton. I have no intention of having my feet be stepped on tonight."

"Slander!" Colonel Hamilton exclaims, eyes bright and merry and not offended at all. "You forget, my dear Leon, that I was one of the people who taught you how to dance."

"And you forget that it was Monsieur Lafayette who actually put me through my paces while you and Laurens danced like a couple of attendees at a bacchanalia."

"Oh, come now, it's a slow song they're playing next," Colonel Hamilton wheedles. "And yes, I have asked the lovely Ms. Jessamy to tell me the order of the songs to be performed so that I may know when to ask you for a dance, for I know you dislike fast-paced music with a passion. You're welcome. Now dance with me to gentle the sting of your cruel words."

Dream takes this as an opportunity to smoothly insert himself into the conversation. And as the party's host, he can do whatever he damn well please and Colonel Hamilton will just have to grit his teeth and deal with it.

"Ah, Captain Roberts, there you are," he says, and steps next to Leon. "Excuse me, Colonel Hamilton. If I might steal the good captain away? He has promised to dance the next song with me."

Captain Roberts hides his surprise well, but Colonel Hamilton's brows shoot up to his forehead as he looks between Dream and Captain Roberts. "Really."

"Yes," Dream says simply, then holds out a gloved hand for Captain Roberts to take. "Shall we take our places, Captain? The song is about to start."

"O-oh, yes. Yes, of course," Captain Roberts says. He takes Dream's hand and allows him to lead them both to the dance floor, Colonel Hamilton following them with his gaze.

There are other couples already on the dance floor, most of them ladies who are laughing gaily with their friends at the opportunity to be able to dance with one another at a formal ball. Dream knows from their daydreams which ones actually have romantic feelings for each other.

He is glad to be able to provide this chance for them.

"When exactly did you ask me to dance, Mr. Murphy?" Captain Roberts asks when they were out of earshot from the colonel. He doesn't sound angry at Dream for being presumptuous, at least. Just confused. "Have I missed a social contract entirely? Again?"

"No," Dream says, keeping his voice low in case anyone is eavesdropping. "I was only trying to remove you from your conversation with Colonel Hamilton. I couldn't help but notice that you looked uncomfortable."

His body language certainly implied as much, though Dream does not divulge the entire reason for his interrupting the conversation, which is that he doesn't want Captain Roberts to dance with another man. Even if that man were his friend, Colonel Hamilton.

Especially if that man were his friend, Colonel Hamilton.

"Ah." Captain Roberts glances to the side where Colonel Hamilton is still watching them curiously. He shuffles his feet a little. Then, catching himself doing it, stops entirely. "It's not that I am uncomfortable with him. He is my friend, after all. It is only..." He sighs and lowers his voice. "I do not want to dance with him. If I were to do so, I am afraid it will only dredge up old memories that have grown more painful with time. We...had a mutual friend, back in the war. Alex always used to dance with him."

In his mind, Captain Roberts is remembering a young man laughing together with Colonel Hamilton, their heads bent together as they danced near a bonfire, fingers intertwined and eyes speaking volumes of their regard for each other.

Dream recognizes the man as Lieutenant Colonel John Laurens. He had often dreamed about abolishing slavery and growing old with a red-haired man. He has been in his sister's realm for seven years now.

Through Captain Roberts's memories, Dream also sees Colonel Hamilton's devastated features when he received the letter from John Laurens's father, informing them of John's death.

He sees how Captain Roberts, along with Mrs. Hamilton and the Hamilton children, slowly but surely coaxed Colonel Hamilton back to living his life to the fullest.

Alexander Hamilton may never be the same again after John Laurens's death, but he would have been in a worse state had Captain Roberts, their mutual friend from the war, not been there to help him recover.

It is exactly what Hob would have done.

And while the man in front of Dream might be calling himself Captain Roberts now due to his memory loss, in Dream's eyes, he will always be his beloved Hob Gadling.

"I see," Dream says. He spends a moment wondering if he was in the wrong about interrupting the two men's conversation the way he did, now knowing about Colonel Hamilton's regard for the late lieutenant colonel, but decides that he does not regret his action at all, not when it gave him this opportunity to dance with Captain Roberts. "I hope Colonel Hamilton knows what a good friend you are to him."

The captain chuckles and tugs at his left ear. A gesture that is becoming beloved to Dream, as it indicates the man's shy pleasure. "I tend to remind him when he has passed the three-hour mark talking about the Constitution."

"Three?" Dream repeats, teasingly. "Then you must have more patience than the rest of New York's politicians put together."

Captain Roberts laughs, but does not refute the claim. It brings Dream joy to see the man at ease in his presence, though he notes that he still looks a little uncomfortable, glancing this way and that.

And in his mind, Dream sees exactly what he's worrying about. Countless, faceless, well-dressed people whispering about him, eyeing him with disgust, spitting at the face of his happiness.

That will not do.

Dream takes Captain Roberts's hand on his own again until the man looks up at him.

"Do not think of them," Dream says. "While we dance, look only at me and forget the rest of the world."

It is a bold statement to make, but Captain Roberts nods, and flushes prettily, eyes on Dream's, pupils dilating. "I...yes, of course. As you say, Mr. Murphy."

The image in his mind changes as he speaks. He is now thinking about the warmth of Dream's hand in his, and how close the two of them will be, while dancing. He imagines his hand on Dream's shoulder, and Dream's hand on his lower back, their breaths mingling, and feeling Dream's exhale on his lips.

He is almost shivering in want.

Dream pulls him closer and makes his daydreams a reality as the music starts.

--

After, when the last of the musical notes have faded and the people have started to clap for the musicians, Captain Roberts looks pleasantly dazed, and his cheeks are flushed with exertion and pleasure both.

Dream has yet to let go of him. He does not want to. Not yet, at least. And as the party's host, he can do whatever he damn well please and everyone will just have to deal with it or leave. The front door is unlocked. They are free to remove themselves from Dream's presence whenever they wish.

As long as Captain Roberts stays, Dream does not care about anyone else. Jessamy, Lucienne, and the others will deal with the other guests for him.

"Ah, Mr. Murphy," Colonel Hamilton says, walking up to them now that the song is over. "May I steal Leon away?"

"I'm afraid not, Colonel Hamilton," Dream replies smoothly and genially, unwilling to relinquish Captain Roberts's hand just yet. And for his part, the captain looks content to be where he is, holding Dream's hand, also unwilling to let go. "You see, Captain Roberts has allowed me the pleasure of having his next two dances, which are the last of the evening. I believe he is effectively mine for the rest of the night."