Tom’s Big Picture

One of the most destructive myths about our country is that we are a “nation of immigrants.” This is related to a myth that American culture (not pop culture, but traditional American culture) is an indigenous creation resulting from American institutions and the environment of the country.

The latter myth is exploded by David Hackett Fischer’s authoritative book on the subject, Albion’s Seed. Fischer is a liberal Northerner, and thus his books are a bit biased towards the Puritans and Quakers, but his accounts of the two Southern groups, the Virginians and the Scots-Irish, are valuable. In particular, he shows that all essential parts of American culture can be traced directly back to England. Even something as minor as cuisine (fried chicken comes from South England, where the Virginians came from) or housing (the prevalence of trailer parks in the South is related to the Scots-Irish tendency towards cheap housing, a cultural artifact of having their homes burned and raided in various English/Scottish wars). More importantly, our political traditions, to the extent they remain, of small government and personal liberty are directly descended from Scots-Irish suspicion towards government- the Scots-Irish being the dominant American ethnic group, largely because of their high historical fertility. The state of Texas, in particular, is almost entirely organically Scots-Irish- while other groups might be willing to live near the relatively docile Cherokee and Choctaw Indian tribes, only the Scots-Irish were brave enough to endure the raids of the Apache and Comanche.

Related to the Scots-Irish suspicion of government is the Scots-Irish romanticism of the outlaw. This is understandable since historically so many of them were outlaws- Scottish outlaws in England were forcibly deported to North Ireland, and the worst outlaws of North Ireland were deported to the American frontier. Later on, many outlaws of the frontier made their way to Texas to start a new life. So in Texas we have a founding population that is a triple distillation of the worst outlaws of England, Ireland, and America. Of course, that’s what history tells us, but we know the real story about history from the opening lines of Braveheart: “History is written by those who hang heroes.”

As I talked about in my last post, our people have an abstract notion of right and wrong that supersedes the so-called law. When the laws are written by lying politicians, how can they possibly be right in themselves? No, the laws are just to the extent they are right in the higher sense, and any law that is not can and should be ignored. This is the attitude of the Scots-Irish throughout their history. It was the Scots-Irishman Patrick Henry who said “Give me liberty or give me death”. And the Scots-Irishman William Wallace (at least in the Mel Gibson version) who said “I AM William Wallace! And I see a whole army of my country men, here, in defiance of tyranny. You’ve come to fight as free men, and free men you are. What will you do with that freedom? Will you fight?…Aye, fight and you may die, run, and you’ll live… at least for a while. And dying in your beds, many years from now, would you be willin’ to trade ALL the days, from this day to that, for one chance, just one chance, to come back here and tell our enemies that they may take our lives, but they’ll never take… OUR FREEDOM!”

With this knowledge we can understand why “Rob Roy”, or Robert Roy MacGregor is the national folk hero of Scotland and also the quintessential Scots-Irishman according to Fischer. He tried to do right and earn an honest living- but when the law turned against him, he became an outlaw rather than submit to tyranny. To paraphrase the ballad of latter-day pop culture Scots-Irish outlaws: He was just a good old boy, doing the best that he could, but that was just a little bit more than the law would allow.

The following poem by William Wordsworth, describing the philosophy of Rob Roy and the Scots-Irish contempt for unjust law, has a contemporary application. “Burn all the statutes and their shelves” - I can’t think of better advice in an age when we deal with such legal abominations as Roe v. Wade and a thousand other tyrannical rulings and laws.

Rob Roy’s Grave

By William Wordsworth

A famous man is Robin Hood,
The English ballad-singer’s joy!
And Scotland has a thief as good,
An outlaw of as daring mood;
She has her brave ROB ROY!

Then clear the weeds from off his Grave,
And let us chant a passing stave,
In honor of that Hero brave!

Heaven gave Rob Roy a dauntless heart
And wondrous length and strength of arm:
Nor craved he more to quell his foes,
Or keep his friends from harm.

Yet was Rob Roy as wise as brave;
Forgive me if the phrase be strong; –
A Poet worthy of Rob Roy
Must scorn a timid song.

Say, then, that he was wise as brave;
As wise in thought as bold in deed:
For in the principles of things
He sought his moral creed.

Said generous Rob, What need of books?
Burn all the statutes and their shelves:
They stir us up against our kind;
And worse, against ourselves.

We have a passion — make a law,
Too false to guide us or control!
And for the law itself we fight
In bitterness of soul.

And, puzzled, blinded thus, we lose
Distinctions that are plain and few:
These find I graven on my heart:
That tells me what to do.

The creatures see of flood and field,
And those that travel on the wind!
With them no strife can last; they live
In peace, and peace of mind.

For why? — because the good old rule
Sufficeth them, the simple plan,
That they should take, who have the power,
And they should keep who can.

A lesson that is quickly learned,
A signal this which all can see!
Thus nothing here provokes the strong
To wanton cruelty.

All freakishness of mind is checked;
He tamed, who foolishly aspires;
While to the measure of his might
Each fashions his desires.

All kinds, and creatures, stand and fall
By strength of prowess or of wit:
‘Tis God’s appointment who must sway,
And who is to submit.

Since, then, the rule of right is plain,
And longest life is but a day;
To have my ends, maintain my rights,
I’ll take the shortest way.

And thus among these rocks he lived,
Through summer heat and winter snow:
The Eagle, he was lord above,
And Rob was lord below.

So was it — would, at least, have been
But through untowardness of fate;
For Polity was then too strong –
He came an age too late;

Or shall we say an age too soon?
For, were the bold Man living now,
How might he flourish in his pride,
With buds on every bough!

Then rents and factors, rights of chase,
Sheriffs, and lairds and their domains,
Would all have seemed but paltry things,
Not worth a moment’s pains.

Rob Roy had never lingered here,
To these few meagre Vales confined;
But thought how wide the world, the times
How fairly to his mind!

And to his Sword he would have said,
Do Thou my sovereign will enact
From land to land through half the earth!
Judge thou of law and fact!

‘Tis fit that we should do our part,
Becoming, that mankind should learn
That we are not to be surpassed
In fatherly concern.

Of old things all are over old,
Of good things none are good enough: –
We ‘ll show that we can help to frame
A world of other stuff.

I, too, will have my kings that take
From me the sign of life and death:
Kingdoms shall shift about, like clouds,
Obedient to my breath.

And, if the word had been fulfilled,
As might have been, then, thought of joy!
France would have had her present Boast,
And we our own Rob Roy!

Oh! say not so; compare them not;
I would not wrong thee, Champion brave!
Would wrong thee nowhere; least of all
Here standing by thy grave.

For Thou, although with some wild thoughts,
Wild Chieftain of a savage Clan!
Hadst this to boast of; thou didst love
The liberty of man.

And, had it been thy lot to live
With us who now behold the light,
Thou would’st have nobly stirred thyself,
And battled for the Right.

For thou wert still the poor man’s stay,
The poor man’s heart, the poor man’s hand;
And all the oppressed, who wanted strength,
Had thine at their command.

Bear witness many a pensive sigh
Of thoughtful Herdsman when he strays
Alone upon Loch Veol’s heights,
And by Loch Lomond’s braes!

And, far and near, through vale and hill,
Are faces that attest the same;
The proud heart flashing through the eyes,
At sound of ROB ROY’S name.