I’m a great fan of Isaac Asimov. He was one of my favorite writers during my most impressionable years, so it was a delight to find my way to this reprint of his thoughts on The Star-Spangled Banner.
Many thanks to Classical Values for bringing them to light!
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NOTE: The following text was rendered via OCR from a scan of the original article appearing in the March, 1991 issue of Fantasy & Science Fiction, on pages 133-142.
Copyright (c) 1991 by Mercury Press, Inc. Reprinted by permission of F&SF.
SCIENCE
ISAAC ASIMOV
ALL FOUR STANZAS
WHEN I was going to college, the United States was not yet out of the Great Depression, and I knew that I was not going to get a job after I graduated in 1939. The only thing I could do was to go on to graduate work, obtain some advanced degrees, and hope that the situation would have improved by the time I was through.
Now the problem was this: In what subject was I to get my Ph.D. (assuming I could be smart enough to get it and could find the money for tuition — for in those days there was very little in the way of grants to help out the impoverished)?
I was hung up between history and chemistry. I thought I could handle either one, but there was no question in my mind that I was more interested in history.
However, practical reasoning entered the field. I said to myself, “If I get my degree in history, then the chances are that if I get a job at all, I will get one in some small college, far away from my beloved city of New York, and that I will be working for a mere pittance with almost no possibility for advancement. On the other hand” (I continued saying to myself) “if I get my Ph.D. in chemistry, I may get a job with a large research firm for an ample salary with lots of room for advancement and with a chance, even, of winning a Nobel Prize, since I am so brilliant a person.”
So I went for chemistry, and eventually, after a four-year delay because of World War II, I obtained my Ph.D. in chemistry in 1948.
The result? I went to work in 1949 as an instructor in biochemistry in a small medical school, far away from my beloved city of New York. I was working for a mere pittance and with no possibility of advancement. (Nor, I quickly realized, was there any chance at all that I would come closer than a light-year or two to a Nobel Prize.) As I frequently say: “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” (Hamlet said that also, and he may even have said it first.)
Chemistry was a big flop in another way, too. I really didn’t like it and I was no good at it (except for being able to learn an encyclopedia of stuff about it, entirely because I can learn an encyclopedia of stuff about anything). What’s more, as time went on, I grew less and less interested in it and, eventually, in 1958, I was fired simply because I was so uninterested in it that I refused to do any research. (I didn’t mind teaching and writing books about it — I loved that.)
Of course, by that time I had another career, that of writing. In fact, my writing career began even while I was in college, when I was deciding what to do with myself — history or chemistry. Becoming a professional writer was a third option, but one that I didn’t consider for even a split-second.
At the time I made my decision, I had sold a story or two, but never in my wildest imaginings could I possibly have believed I would ever do more than make occasional pin-money out of those stories.
And to tell you the truth, for a long time, I never did more than that. By the time I began my work at the medical school, I had written 68 stories and sold 60 of them in the course of eleven years. That was not too bad considering that the major part of my time had to be spent in my father’s candy store, or at my graduate studies, or at a wartime job. However, in all that time, my total earnings for all eleven years amounted to $7700.
After I had been at work at: the medical school for half a year, my first novel, Pebble in the Sky, was published, to he followed soon by others, and royalties started coming in; but even at the time I was fired in 1958, my literary earnings amounted to only $15,000 a year, enough to keep me going for a while in the absence of a job, but not enough to make me comfortable. (By that time, I had a wife and two children to support, too — and I was middle-aged.)
Now let’s go back in time, to the point when I was first thinking about writing. Again, I had two choices. What I really wanted to write was historical fiction. I wanted to write a new kind of “Three Musketeers.” The only trouble was that that would mean research. I would have to spend at least three years doing research in order that I might spend one year writing, and I didn’t want to do that. I just couldn’t do that. I wanted to write, not sit around taking notes.
The alternative was science fiction. That required research, too, for I had to know science. But I already knew science thoroughly, and besides I could make up science of the future — so I began to write science fiction, and as you all know I did pretty well.
But only pretty well. What was it that made me rich and famous? I’ll tell you. As I continued to write science fiction, the urge to write historical fiction continued to gnaw away at me, and the impossibility of spending enormous time at research continued to keep me from doing anything about it — until a brilliant thought occurred to me, a thought that was at once encouraged by the great editor, John W. Campbell, Jr.
Why should I not write historical fiction of the future? I would deal with a social system, with politics, with economic crises, with everything that is to be found in history, except that it would all take place in the future and I would make it up. I wouldn’t have to do any research.
Therefore, I began writing my Foundation novels, and my Robot novels, and, in due course, I became rich and famous.
Twice I had shoved history, my one great love, to one side, and despite that, it was history, in the end, that made me. I repeat, “There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will.” (Is it possible Hamlet stole that from me?)
Once I got to the point where I was so well known that I was able to write what I wanted to write in full knowledge that it would be published, I switched to non-fiction, writing books not only on science but on history. I wrote nearly twenty books of history for young adults — on Egypt, Greece, Rome (two volumes), the Dark Ages, Canaan, Constantinople, the United States (four volumes), and so on. Even my science books and essays were strong on historical detail, as all of you know.
I had to stop my histories when Doubleday insisted that I return to science fiction novels, but not entirely.
For instance, I wrote a 450,000-word history of science, year by year, from the earliest times, and it was published by Harper’s in October 1989, as Asimov’s Chronology of Science and Discovery, and it was well-received, too. However, though Harper suggested that for each year I add a footnote as to what was happening in the world outside science at that time, I did it so enthusiastically that the book would have been more like 750,000 words long. Harper’s couldn’t manage that, and they trimmed most of the straight history away.
Annoyed, I then proceeded to write another 450,000-word book, this time of straight history, period by period, country by country, and had more fun than you could possibly imagine. I did it without a contract, out of love alone, and showed it to Harper Collins (new name) only after it was all done. It will be published by them in 1991 under the title Asimov’s Chronology of the World.
And, as you all know, I occasionally write straight history even in this column, which is ordinarily devoted to science essays, because the Noble Editor never interferes with my little quirks. And I will do so now.
I am not one of your professional patriots, you must understand. I am not a flag-waver (I don’t even own a flag) and I eschew nationalism. I’m a globalist, who believes that human beings should not divide themselves into any divisions less than “human being.” Let everyone be merely different facets of an overriding humanity.
However, even the best of us have our weaknesses, and I have one — I am crazy, absolutely nuts, about our national anthem. The words are difficult, the tune is almost impossible, but I sing it frequently when I’m taking my shower — all four stanzas — with as much power and emotion as I can possibly manage. And it shakes me up every time.
It bothers me no end, then, that hardly any American can sing the tune, hardly any American knows the words even to the first stanza, and hardly any American cares. They’ll wave the flag assiduously, but they won’t sing the song that celebrates the flag. And they don’t know the absolutely thrilling story behind it. When they want to sing something they think of as patriotic, they sing Irving Berlin’s “God Bless America,” with words and tune as trite as you can imagine.
In fact, most national anthems are hymns, slow and stately and sleep-provoking. The only two anthems, beside our own, that I can think of as blood-stirring, are the French “Marseillaise” and the old Soviet “Internationale” (which they have replaced with something that is incredibly dull). But our national anthem takes first place, and easily.
I was once asked to entertain a luncheon club I belong to called “The Dutch Treat Club.” I was given only a few hours notice, since it was well known I required no preparation. Taking my life in my hands, I announced I was going to sing all four stanzas of our national anthem. This was greeted with loud groans, and one member rose to close the door to the kitchen, where the noise of dishes and cutlery was loud and distracting.
“Thanks, Herb,” I said.
“That’s all right,” he said. “It was at the request of the kitchen staff.”
I then explained the background of the anthem and sang all four stanzas, and let me tell you that those Dutch Treaters had never heard it before — or never listened, anyway. When I was done, I got a standing ovation and cheer upon cheer. It was not me, it was the anthem.
Then a couple of weeks ago, Roseanne Barr of television shrieked the anthem before the beginning of a baseball game and was booed. I was hurt. The anthem should not be sung as a publicity stunt, and the public should not boo, when they themselves know nothing about it.
On August 1, 1990, I was at the Rensselaerville Institute in upstate New York, conducting my 18th annual seminar. I seized the opportunity to tell them the story of the anthem and to sing all four stanzas. And again there was a wild ovation and prolonged applause. Again, it was the anthem and not me.
So now let me tell you the story of how it came to be written.
In 1812, the United States went to war with Great Britain over the matter of the freedom of the seas. We were in the right. For two years, we held the British off even though we were still a rather weak country and Great Britain was a strong one.
The reason we held them off was that Great Britain was in a life-and-death struggle with the French Emperor Napoleon and had little time or breath to fight another war across three thousand miles of ocean. In fact, just at the time that the United States declared war, Napoleon marched off to invade Russia; and if he won, as everyone expected him to, he would control all of Europe and Great Britain would find itself alone and isolated in opposition to the Emperor. It was no time for her to be involved in an American war, and if the United States had been more patient and if communications across the ocean had been faster, Great Britain would have given in to American demands in time to prevent what was really an unnecessary war.
American land forces did very poorly, the only competent military officer we had being Winfield Scott. At sea, we did well. American ships and American seamen proved better, ship by ship, then the British, to the world’s surprise (and especially to Great Britain’s). We also won a battle on Lake Erie in 1813, when the American commander, Oliver Hazard Perry, using ships he had had built on the spot for the purpose sent the famous message, “We have met the enemy and they are ours.”
However, the weight of the British navy beat down our ships eventually, and the United States was under a tightening blockade. New England, particularly, was hard-hit economically and it threatened secession.
Meanwhile, Napoleon was beaten in Russia and in 1814 was forced to abdicate. Great Britain could now turn its attention to the United States, and it organized a three-pronged attack on the country. The northern prong was to come down Lake Champlain toward New York to cut off disaffected New England. The southern prong was to go up the Mississippi to take New Orleans and to paralyze the west. The central prong, the most important, was to head for the mid-Atlantic and take Baltimore, the greatest port south of New York.
If Baltimore was taken, the nation, which still hugged the Atlantic coast for the most part, would be split in two. New England would certainly secede, and the United States would have to sue for peace, and it might well be a Draconian peace for Great Britain was very annoyed at the United States for distracting it in its fight against Napoleon. (The British asked the Duke of Wellington to lead the assault, but he refused.)
The north and south prongs might succeed or fail; they were not crucial (and in the end, each failed). It was the central prong that counted. On its success or failure rested the death or life of the United States.
The British reached the American coast and, on August 24, 1814, they took Washington. President James Madison and the rest of the government fled. The British then burned the public buildings including the Executive Mansion. It wasn’t much of a fire and it didn’t do much damage; nor was there any looting. Later on, the Executive Mansion was painted white to hide the scorch marks, and it has been known as “the White House” ever since.
Washington didn’t count, though. It was a little shantytown of no importance except that it housed the government, so that it had symbolic value. The British ships then moved up Chesapeake Bay toward Baltimore, their real objective. On September 12, 1814, they arrived, and they found 13,000 men in Fort McHenry, whose guns controlled the harbor. If the British wished to take Baltimore they would have to silence those guns and take Fort McHenry.
On one of the British ships was an aged physician who had been captured in Washington and who had been brought along, for some reason, as a prisoner of war. An American lawyer in Baltimore, Francis Scott Key, who was a friend of the physician, came to the ship to try to negotiate his release. The British captain was quite willing, but it was now the night of September 13-14, and the bombardment of Fort McHenry was about to start. They could not be released till the bombardment was over.
Key and his physician friend had to wait through the night. They saw the American flag flying over Fort McHenry as twilight deepened and night fell. Through the night, they heard the burstings of bombs and saw the red glare of rockets, and while that was going on, they knew that the Fort was still resisting and the American flag was still flying. But then, toward morning, the bombardment ceased and a dread silence fell.
There were two possibilities. Either Fort McHenry had surrendered and the British flag now flew above it, or the bombardment had been a failure and had been stopped and the American flag still flew over the Fort. If it was the former, the United States might well be through as a nation; if the latter, it would survive.
But which was it? As dawn began to brighten the eastern sky, Key stared out the porthole trying to see which flag was flying over the Fort. Bedridden and unable to look for himself, the physician asked over and over again, “Can you see the flag? Can you see the flag?”
After it was all over, Francis Key wrote a four-stanza poem telling the events of the night. It was published in newspapers on September 20 and it swept the nation. It was noted that the words fit an old drinking tune called “To Anacreon in Heaven,” and it was sung to that (a difficult tune with an uncomfortably large range). Key called the poem “The Defense of Fort McHenry,” but, for obvious reasons, it quickly became known as “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Eventually, in 1931, Congress officially declared it to be the national anthem of the United States, and a flag flies over Francis Scott Key’s grave, day and night, though ordinarily the flag is not allowed to fly at night.
Now that you know the story, here are the words to the first stanza, and how I wish I could sing it to you. I don’t have the best voice in the world, but it is adequate, considering my age, and I sing it (believe me) with a wealth of emotion.
It is the old doctor speaking from his bed, and here is what he is asking Key:
Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming!
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!
And the rockets’ red glare, the bombs bursting, in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
“Ramparts,” in case you don’t know, are the walls or other elevations that surround a fort to help protect the personnel within.
This first stanza only asks the question. It is the second stanza that gives the answer, and it goes as follows:
On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe’s haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses!
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s first beam.
in full glory reflected now shines on the stream:
‘Tis the star spangled banner! O long may it wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
“The towering steep” is, again, the ramparts. Obviously, the bombardment has failed, and Fort McHenry remains in American hands with the American flag still flying. The British fleet can do nothing now but sail away, their mission a failure, so the United States survives.
In the third stanza, Key allows himself to gloat over the American triumph and to shout abuse at the British enemy. It is not a very nice thing to do in cold blood, but Key, in the immediate aftermath of the bombardment was in no mood not to be cold-blooded.
However, the enemy are the British, and during World War II, when the British were our staunchest allies against a new and far more hideous enemy, it seemed that this third stanza was unnecessary, and it was removed from the anthem. However, I know it, and I am foolish enough to want to share the gloating, so here it is:
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle’s confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more!
Their blood has wiped out their foul footsteps’ pollution.
No refuse could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spanned banner in triumph doth wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
That leaves the fourth stanza, which is a pious hope for the future and which has the atmosphere of a hymn at last. It should, to my way of thinking, be sung more slowly than the other three and with even deeper feeling. Here it is:
Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war’s desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, while our cause it is just.
And this be our motto: “In God is our trust.”
And the star-spangled banner forever shall wave
O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
The fourth stanza as I’ve given it here is the way I sing it. I have taken the liberty of making two small changes from the way the song appears in the reference books and, presumably then, the way that Key wrote it.
In the fourth line, Key wrote, “Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just.” Key was writing about the War of 1812, when, as I believe, our cause was just, but I am not ready to assume that our cause is always just. The United States is as capable of fighting an unjust war as any other nation is, although I earnestly hope it doesn’t do so often.
The Mexican War was an unjust war, a naked war of aggression, a war to fasten slavery on Texas after Mexico had freed the slaves there and to seize territory to which we had no real right. But we won every battle just the same, established slavery in Texas, and took the entire southwest. The Spanish-American War was not particularly just, either.
The southern states of the Union, after seceding to form the Confederate States of America, stood between their loved homes and the war’s desolation and did so with magnificent bravery for four years, but lost in the end and (in my opinion) rightly so, for they fought for slavery.
The Vietnam War (again in my opinion) was an unjust war, for we travelled 6000 miles to take part in a civil war that was not really our business and held no threat whatever to our vital interests. The old “domino theory” was just a fraud used to justify what could not really be justified. And we lost, as we should have.
But now (as I write) Iraq has invaded Kuwait and taken it over. This was unjustified aggression and does affect American vital interests, for Iraq intends to control the world’s oil supply to its own advantage. If we take measured action, I will consider our cause to be just.
Let me go on. The other change I have made is in the next to the last line where Key apparently repeated that the star-spangled banner “in triumph shall wave.” I don’t think that the third and fourth stanzas should end equally. I want the end of each stanza to represent a new and higher climax, so I replaced the last “in triumph” with “forever.”
When I sing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” I don’t try for vocal tricks, which I don’t have the voice or the technique for, never having had even a day’s training in voice. I try only to enunciate carefully so that the audience hears every word with out fail.
Nevertheless, when I sing that last stanza, I do try one little trick. I linger over the “forever” and make my voice louder and even more emotional and I can feel the audience respond to that.
I sang all four stanzas in public only twice, but each time it was a memorable experience for me, and, I believe, for the audience as well. Now I do it for a third time, in print only, and without the additional dimension of my voice (such as it is).
I can only hope that you get a bit of what the national anthem means to me and that you will look at it with new eyes, and listen to it, the next time you have a chance, with new ears.
And don’t let them take it away and substitute “God Bless America,” for goodness sake.
