Friday, December 10, 2010

Christmas Memories from 1834

From Leigh Hunt's London Journal 1834


A THIRD PORTRAIT OF DECEMBER.
(From the Literary Pocket Book.) IT is now complete winter. The vapourish and cloudy atmosphere wraps us about with dimness and chilliness; the reptiles, and other creatures that sleep or hide during the cold weather, have all retired to their winter quarters; the farmer does little or nothing, out of doors; the fields are too damp and miry to pass, except in sudden frosts, which begin to occur at the end of the month; and the trees look like skeletons of what they were—


"are ruined choirs in which the sweet birds sing."


The evergreen trees, with their beautiful cones, such as firs and pines, are now particularly observed and valued. In the warmer countries, where shade is more particularly desirable, their worth and beauty: are more regularly appreciated. Virgil talks of the pine as being handsomest in gardens, and it is a great favourite with Theocritus, especially for the fine sound of the air under its kind of vaulted roof.




But December has one exercise in it which turns it into the merriest month of the year—Christmas. This is the holiday, which, for obvious reasons, may be said to have survived all others; but still it is not kept with anything like the vigour, perseverance, and elegance of our ancestors. They not only ran Christmas-day, New-year's-day, and Twelfth-night all into one, but kept the wassail-bowl floating the whole time, and earned their right to enjoy it by alt sorts of active pastimes.

The wassail-bowl, (as some of our readers may know by experience, for it has been a little revived of late) is a composition of spiced wine or ale, with roasted apples put into it, and sometimes eggs. They also adorned their houses with green boughs, which, it appears from Herrick, was a practice with many throughout the year,—box succeeding at Candlemas to the holly, bay, rosemary, and misletoe of Christmas,—yew at Easter to box,—birch "and flowers at Whitsuntide to yew,—and then bents "and oaken boughs.

The whole nation were in as happy a ferment at Christmas, with the warmth of exercise and their firesides, as they were in May with the new sunshine. The peasants nestled and sported on the town-green, and told tales of an evening; the gentry feasted them, or bad music and other elegant pastimes; the court had the poetical and princely entertainment of masques, and all sung, danced, revelled, and enjoyed themselves, and so welcomed the new year like happy and grateful subjects of nature.

This is the way to turn winter to summer, and make the world what Heaven has enabled it to be; but, as people in general manage 'it, they might as well turn summer itself into winter.

Nor is it only on holidays that nature tells us to enjoy ourselves. If we were wise we should earn a reasonable portion of pleasure and enjoyment day by day, instead of resolving to do it some day or other, and seldom doing it at all.

A warm carpet and curtains, a sparkling fire, a book, a little music, a happy sympathy of talk, or a kind discussion, may then call to mind with unenvying placidity the very rarest luxuries of the summer time; and instead of being eternally and foolishly told that pleasures produce pains, by those who really make them so, with their profligacy or bigotry, we shall learn the finer and manlier knowledge how to turn pain to the production of pleasure.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

A Little Sunlight

The Word
by Tony Hoagland

Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,

between “green thread”
and “broccoli” you find
that you have penciled “Sunlight”!

Resting on the page, the word
is as beautiful, it touches you
as if you had a friend

and sunlight were a present
he had sent you from some place distant
as this morning – to cheer you up,

and to remind you that
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing,

that also needs accomplishing.
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds

of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder

or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue

but today you get a telegram,
from the heart in exile
proclaiming that the kingdom

still exists,
the king alive
still speaking to his children

to any one among them
who can find the time,
to sit out in the sun and listen.

Monday, September 06, 2010

H’aitches, H’ays and Red Herrings

The Five Red Herrings by Dorothy Sayers is my least favorite of her Peter Wimsey detective stories. The story turns on detailed train schedules which, to my mind, get a little tedious. Since it is set in Scotland there is a fair amount of Scottish dialect to wade through.

But I found this passage which relates the Scottish police Inspector Macpherson's interview of the English butler of one of the six suspects in the murder of an artist to be hilarious. It was worth reading the book for this one exchange. The butler's name is Alcock:

The Inspector opened his notebook.

"Your name is Halcock, is't no?" he began.

The butler corrected him

"H'alcock," he said, reprovingly.

"H, a, double-l?" suggested the Inspector.

"There is no h'aitch in the name, young man. H'ay is the first letter, and there is h'only one h'ell."

"I beg your pardon," said the Inspector.

"Granted," said Mr. Alcock.

"Weel, noo, Mr. Alcock, juist a pure formality, ye understand, whit time did Mr. Gowan leave Kirkcudbright on Monday nicht?"

"It would be shortly after h'eight."

"Whae drove him?"

"Hammond, the chauffeur."

"Ammond?" said the Inspector.

"Hammond," said the butler, with dignity. "H'albert Hammond is his name – with a h'aitch."

"I beg your pardon," said the Inspector.

Friday, August 27, 2010

National Dog Day: “A Famous Dog”

In honor of National Dog day which took place on August 26, I thought I'd post about Thomas Hardy's dog, Wessex. Wessex was a very spoiled but much- loved fox terrier who kept Hardy company in his old age.

Wessex was notorious for his bad behavior towards visitors to the Hardy home, as one dinner guest recorded in a letter:

Wessex was especially uninhibited at dinner time, most of which he spent not under, but on, the table, walking about unchecked, and contesting every single forkful of food on its way from my plate to my mouth.

Thomas Hardy's notebook recorded the dog's passing in 1926 thusly:

"Wx buried" and "Wx sleeps outside the house for the first time for 13 years".

Wessex's Headstone reads:

THE
FAMOUS DOG
WESSEX
August 1913 – 27 Dec 1926


Faithful. Unflinching

Hardy's wife Florence also recorded her affection for Wessex in a letter to a friend:

Of course he was merely a dog, and not a good dog always, but thousands (actually thousands) of afternoons and evenings I would have been alone but for him, and had always him to speak to. But I mustn't write about him and I hope no one will ask me about him or mention his name.

Hardy wrote this poem about Wessex in 1924:


A Popular Personage at Home


"I LIVE here : 'Wessex' is my name:

I am a dog known rather well:

I guard the house but how that came

To be my whim I cannot tell.


"With a leap and a heart elate I go

At the end of an hour's expectancy

To take a walk of a mile or so

With the folk I let live here with me.


" Along the path, amid the grass

I sniff, and find out rarest smells

For rolling over as I pass

The open fields toward the dells.


" No doubt I shall always cross this sill,

And turn the corner, and stand steady,

Gazing back for my Mistress till

She reaches where I have run already,


" And that this meadow with its brook,

And bulrush, even as it appears

As I plunge by with hasty look,

Will stay the same a thousand years."


Thus "Wessex." But a dubious ray

At times informs his steadfast eye,

Just for a trice, as though to say,

" Yet, will this pass, and pass shall I?"

You can read more about Thomas Hardy and his famous dog Wessex at:

Forever Foxed
and
The London Dog Forum

Monday, August 23, 2010

It Pleases! (Placet)

This summer I am steadily making my way through all of the Lord Peter Wimsey detective novels written by Dorothy Sayers. (Thanks to the great L.A. county library which seems to have none of them available at the local branch but easily, freely and quickly orders them from other branch libraries in the system. But that's a subject for another blog post.)

My favorite of the Dorothy Sayer's novels so far is Gaudy Night which takes place on the campus of Oxford University. It is here that Lord Peter's proposes to his true love Harriet Vane for the last time. I wrote about this romantic proposal in a previous post.

Lord Peter says:

". . . But I will ask you now, and if you say No, I promise you that this time I will accept your answer. Harriet; you know that I love you: will you marry me?"

. . .

They passed beneath the arch of the bridge and out into the pale light once more.

"Peter!"

She stood still; and he stopped perforce and turned towards her. She laid both hands upon the fronts of his gown, looking into his face while she searched for the word that should carry her over the last difficult breach.

It was he who found it for her. With a gesture of submission he bared his head and stood gravely, the square cap dangling in his hand.

"Placetne, magistra"

"Placet."


 

Note: (Placetne – Does it please?/Is it agreed?)

(Placet – It pleases./ It is agreed)


 

I am also reading a collection of Dorothy Sayer's letters, The Letters of Dorothy L. Sayers 1899 to 1936 edited by Barbara Reynolds.

The letters are fun and interesting to read alongside of the novels because the source of so many incidents and details in the novels are recognizable in Sayer's real life experiences related in the letters. She also discusses her thought processes with her friends and family members as she works out the plots of her books.

I was especially thrilled to come across her 1913 letter to Catherine Godfrey when she was a student at Oxford. She recounts to her friend Catherine her experience at a graduation ceremony at the University. The events of the ceremony illuminate the details and language of the proposal.

From Dorothy Sayer's Letter to Catherine Godfrey of 29 July 1913

About the Encaenia (The name of the degree ceremony at Oxford, from the Latin, meaning consecration, dedication.)


…Then Dr. Heberden, with his proctors one on each side of him, started off in Latin, to open Convocation and propose the conferring of degrees. When he had finished, the Public Orator – namely Godley, the man who writes such screaming poetry you know, -- started off to 'present' the Honorary doctors, which meant a terrific long Latin eulogy on each. I could follow a good deal of it, but not all. Godley is a rather dried-up looking individual with grey hair – not suggestive of verses, but people never do look suitable to their talents. When he'd finished the Vigger-Chagger addressed all the assembled doctors in a sing-song little speech, beginning something about 'Does it please you doctors of the University that so-and-so should be admitted to such and such a degree – "Placet ne?" and then he took off his cap; then said 'Placet' without leaving time for anyone to make an objection if he wanted to, and put it on again. And when he took his cap off the proctors took theirs off too, and when he put on his, they put on theirs, only generally they weren't paying attention and were a little late both times.


 

More details about the Latin phrases of the proposal are found in Dorothy Sayers Her Life and Soul by Barbara Reynolds Pg. 260:

The words "placetne?' and "placet" ("does it please?" – "it pleases") are uttered at a degree ceremony when a candidate is presented for graduation. The young Dorothy had described just such a ceremony in her letter to Catherine Godfrey many years ago—the occasion when she first set eyes on Maurice Toy Ridley, who was to become, though she had forgotten, a model for Lord Peter. When the degrees are conferred, the Proctors walk round so that anyone objecting may "pluck" the proctorial robes and protest. This did not occur in the case of Harriet and Peter:

Reynolds then quotes the paragraph from Gaudy Night which follows the proposal.

The Proctor, stumping grimly past with averted eyes, reflected that Oxford was losing all sense of dignity. But what could he do? If Senior Members of the University chose to stand –in their gowns, too! – closely and passionately embracing in New College Lane right under the Warden's windows, he was powerless to prevent it. He primly settled his white bands and went upon his walk unheeded; and no hand plucked his velvet sleeve.


 

LOVE IT!

Saturday, August 07, 2010

SAVE OUR LIBRARIES!

The city of Santa Clarita is considering taking over the operation of the three library branches located in the City of Santa Clarita from the county of Los Angeles.

Why Privatizing the SCV libraries is a bad idea:

  1. The libraries in Santa Clarita are one of the best things about living in the area. They are well run, kid-friendly, adult friendly and staffed with knowledgeable and helpful people. Why mess with a successful operation? There aren't that many of them (successful operations) around.


     

  2. All of those nice, friendly, helpful people who currently staff the library will lose their jobs and benefits. During this time of high unemployment and economic troubles why would we want to do that to the locally based employees who are currently doing such a fine job.


     

  3. Those people, like me, who live outside of the city of Santa Clarita limits in unincorporated parts of the county of Los Angeles such as Stevenson Ranch and Castaic will likely lose their library privileges. (This even though we pay the same taxes as the city residents for library support.) The FAQs on the Santa Clarita website disingenuously state that those who live outside of the city proper will still be able to "go to" the library. It does not say that we will still be able to check out books.


     

  4. The county library system currently consists of 89 branch libraries. The entire collection of each of these libraries is fully and easily accessible to every county library user. This is to me the real beauty of the library system and the reason the local library is so useful. Nine times out of ten the specific book I'm looking for is not housed in the local library. It actually never ceases to amaze me how few of the books I look for are available, even in the relatively well-stocked Valencia branch library. But, I have been ever so grateful for the easy to use web-based L.A. County catalog that allows me to click a button and order a book or DVD from another county library. In a few days it conveniently shows up on a shelf at the Valencia library with my name on it. All this at no charge, no need to have a librarian search a database for me or fill out a form.


     

  5. This Web-based intralibrary request system is not at all like an inter-library loan. If the city takes over the local libraries interlibrary loan would be the only access SCV users would have to the county books. I recently had need for a book which was not available in any of the county libraries. I stood in line and waited for the assistance of one of the reference librarians to ask about an interlibrary loan. He searched his database of libraries for me. I was warned that although the book was available in several Southern California libraries that it was completely at the discretion of those libraries whether or not I would ever see the book. I had to fill out a form and pay $3.00 for the privilege. About a month and a half later I received a notice in the mail that my interlibrary loan request had been filled. I now have the book but will not be allowed to renew it. The Intralibrary request items are renewable up to 3 times just as if I had gotten it from the shelves of the local library.


     

  6. Please Don't Take The Library Services Away!


     

I could go on about the wonderful kid's summer reading programs that both of my children have participated in, the helpful librarians who helped me find resources for my Middle School Social Studies classes etc., etc. This is a terrible idea!

Saturday, July 10, 2010

A Romantic Proposal

I just finished reading Gaudy Night by Dorothy Sayers:

In the book Lord Peter Wimsey continues proposing to the love of his life, Harriet Vane, on an average of once every three months over a period of five years. As they are both classically educated Oxford graduates Peter takes the opportunity to practice his Latin with her as he proposes.

(Pg. 65)

One first of April, the question had arrived from Paris in a single Latin sentence, starting off dispiritedly. "Num . . . ?"—a particle which notoriously "expects the answer No." Harriet, rummaging the Grammar book for "polite negatives," replied, still more briefly, "Benigne."

Note: (Benigne – no thank you.)


 

(Pg 500)

". . . But I will ask you now, and if you say No, I promise you that this time I will accept your answer. Harriet; you know that I love you: will you marry me?"

. . .

They passed beneath the arch of the bridge and out into the pale light once more.

"Peter!"

She stood still; and he stopped perforce and turned towards her. She laid both hands upon the fronts of his gown, looking into his face while she searched for the word that should carry her over the last difficult breach.

It was he who found it for her. With a gesture of submission he bared his head and stood gravely, the square cap dangling in his hand.

"Placetne, magistra"

"Placet."


 

Note: (Placetne – Does it seem good?/Is it agreed?)

(Placet – It seems good./ It is agreed)


 

Maybe it's just me and my love for languages. But this is the most romantic proposal I've ever read.

Tuesday, July 06, 2010

Homecoming Words

When I step off the plane in New Orleans next week I may feel inspired to say these words from Samuel Taylor Coleridge's play Remorse: A Tragedy:

If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,
'Tis surely this—after long years of exile,
To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,
To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.

Nah, I'll probably just say, "Oh man, is it ever hot!"

In other words, I'm really excited about going back to my birth-place. Seven years is a long time to be away.

Monday, May 31, 2010

WE WON!


WE WON THE CANADIAN LOTTERY!

Yep, without even purchasing a lottery ticket, we have been informed that we are one of 24 winners of the $3 Million US dollars Shoppers Sweepstakes Lottery. Our portion of the winnings is a whopping $125,000! Yippee!

Enclosed with the letter informing us of our windfall was a check for $3,875 for the payment of applicable Government Taxes. The check was drawn on Sovereign Bank.

Of course I shouldn't be publicizing our unexpected good fortune because we were urged to keep the winning confidential until the claim is processed. This is to discourage "unscrupulous acts by non participants taking advantage of this program." I know I wouldn't want to be besieged by low-life acquaintances looking for handouts, but then I don't know anyone who would do that so I'm not worried about it.

We are going to use the proceeds to invest in some bargain priced bridge property in New York City (Brooklyn to be exact.)

Friday, May 21, 2010

Sucker Punch

A sucker punch is a blow made without warning, allowing no time for preparation or defense on the part of the recipient. It is usually delivered from close range or from behind.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Lessons Learned

In honor of my daughter's (almost) completion of her first year of Latin studies is this poem. I'm so proud that she was able to jump into the fourth year of Latin class with her classmates. She has kept up and actually done quite well.

The key to understanding this poem is that the Latin word Amo means "to love", while the Latin word Amarus means bitter. Both words can take the form Amare. Amare is the present active infinitive of amo (love), and the vocative masculine singular of the adjective amarus (bitter).

I thought the poem was particularly apropos the current season.


 

A Lesson in Latin

Lewis Carroll, A Lesson in Latin:

Our Latin books, in motley row,
  Invite us to our task—
Gay Horace, stately Cicero:
Yet there's one verb, when once we know,
  No higher skill we ask:
This ranks all other lore above—
We've learned "'Amare' means 'to love'!"

So, hour by hour, from flower to flower,
  We sip the sweets of Life:
Till, all too soon, the clouds arise,
And flaming cheeks and flashing eyes
  Proclaim the dawn of strife:
With half a smile and half a sigh,
"Amare! Bitter One!" we cry.

Last night we owned, with looks forlorn,
  "Too well the scholar knows
There is no rose without a thorn"—
But peace is made! We sing, this morn,
  "No thorn without a rose!"
Our Latin lesson is complete:
We've learned that Love is Bitter-Sweet!

Friday, April 02, 2010

The Transfiguration

by Edwin Muir

So from the ground we felt that virtue branch

Through all our veins till we were whole, our wrists

As fresh and pure as water from a well,

Our hands made new to handle holy things,

The source of all our seeing rinsed and cleansed

Till earth and light and water entering there

Gave back to us the clear unfallen world.

We would have thrown our clothes away for lightness,

But that even they, though sour and travel stained,

Seemed, like our flesh, made of immortal substance,

And the soiled flax and wool lay light upon us

Like friendly wonders, flower and flock entwined

As in a morning field. Was it a vision?

Or did we see that day the unseeable

One glory of the everlasting world

Perpetually at work, though never seen

Since Eden locked the gate that's everywhere

And nowhere? Was the change in us alone,

And the enormous earth still left forlorn,

An exile or a prisoner? Yet the world

We saw that day made this unreal, for all

Was in its place. The painted animals

Assembled there in gentle congregations,

Or sought apart their leafy oratories,

Or walked in peace, the wild and tame together,

As if, also for them, the day had come.

The shepherds' hovels shone, for underneath

The soot we saw the stone clean at the heart

As on the starting-day. The refuse heaps

Were grained with that fine dust that made the world;

For he had said, 'To the pure all things are pure.'

And when we went into the town, he with us,

The lurkers under doorways, murderers,

With rags tied round their feet for silence, came

Out of themselves to us and were with us,

And those who hide within the labyrinth

Of their own loneliness and greatness came,

And those entangled in their own devices,

The silent and the garrulous liars, all

Stepped out of their dungeons and were free.

Reality or vision, this we have seen.

If it had lasted but another moment

It might have held for ever! But the world

Rolled back into its place, and we are here,

And all that radiant kingdom lies forlorn,

As if it had never stirred; no human voice

Is heard among its meadows, but it speaks

To itself alone, alone it flowers and shines

And blossoms for itself while time runs on.


 

But he will come again, it's said, though not

Unwanted and unsummoned; for all things,

Beasts of the field, and woods, and rocks, and seas,

And all mankind from end to end of the earth

Will call him with one voice. In our own time,

Some say, or at a time when time is ripe.

Then he will come, Christ the uncrucified,

Christ the discrucified, his death undone,

His agony unmade, his cross dismantled—

Glad to be so—and the tormented wood

Will cure its hurt and grow into a tree

In a green springing corner of young Eden,

And Judas damned take his long journey backward

From darkness into light and be a child

Beside his mother's knee, and the betrayal

Be quite undone and never more be done.

Edwin Muir, "The Transfiguration" from The Labyrinth. Copyright 1949 by Edwin Muir.
Source: Collected Poems 1921-1958 (1960)


 

Happy Easter! He is Risen!

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Here and Back Again

FOR COMMUNION WITH GOD

    By Rev. Thomas Shepherd


 

  Alas, my God, that we should be

    Such strangers to each other!

  O that as friends we might agree,

    And walk and talk together!


 

  Thou know'st my soul does dearly love

    The place of thine abode;

  No music drops so sweet a sound

    As these two words My God.


 

  May I taste that communion, Lord,

    Thy people have with thee?

  Thy spirit daily talks with them,

    O let it talk with me!

  Like Enoch, let me walk with God,

    And thus walk out my day,

  Attended with the heavenly guards,

    Upon the king's highway.


 

  When wilt thou come unto me, Lord?

    O come, my Lord most dear!

  Come near, come nearer, nearer still:

    I'm well when thou art near.


 

  When wilt thou come unto me, Lord?

    For, till thou dost appear,

  I count each moment for a day,

    Each minute for a year.


 


 

  There's no such thing as pleasure here;

    My Jesus is my all:

  As thou dost shine or disappear,

    My pleasures rise and fall.

  Come, spread thy savour on my frame--

    No sweetness is so sweet;

  Till I get up to sing thy name

    Where all thy singers meet.


 

Rev. Thomas Shepherd, 1665-1739.

Son of William Shepherd, sometime Vicar of Tilbrook, Bedfordshire, Thomas was ordained an Anglican priest,

serving first at St. Neots, then in Buckinghamshire. He later left the Church of England, and joining the

Nonconformists in 1694 became pastor of the Independent Castle Hill Baptist Meeting, Northampton (Philip

Doddridge later served there, as well). In 1700 he moved to Bocking, Essex, preaching in a barn for several years

before a chapel could be built. He served there the remainder of his life.