Category: History

April

Let’s see what Nicholas Breton has to say for April.

He, if you are new round here, was the author of Fantasticks, a weird collection of strangely spelled observation published in 1626.

 APRILL

It is now April, and the Nightingale begins to tune her throat against May: the Sunny showers perfume the aire, and the Bees begin to goe abroad for honey: the Dewe, as in Pearles, hangs upon the tops of the grasse, while the Turtles sit billing upon the little greene boughes: the Trowt begins to play in the Brookes, and the Sammon leaves the Sea, to play in the fresh waters: The Garden bankes are full of gay flowers, and the Thorne and the Plumme send forth their faire Blossomes: the March Colt begins to play, and the Cosset Lamb is learned to butt.

The Poets now make their studies in the woods, & the Youth of the Country make ready for the Morris-dance; the little Fishes lye nibling at a bait, and the Porpas playes in the pride of the tide: the Shepheardes pipe entertaines the Princesse of Arcadia, and the healthfull Souldier hath a pleasant march. The Larke and the Lambe looke up at the Sun, and the labourer is abroad by the dawning of the day: Sheepes eyes in Lambs heads, tell kind hearts strange tales, while faith and troth make the true Lovers knot: the aged haires find a fresh life, and the youthfull cheeks are as red as a cherry: It were a world to set downe the worth of this moneth: But in summe, I thus conclude, I hold it the Heavens blessing, and the Earths comfort.

Farewell.

Turtles are Turtle Doves I would imagine.

Not much Heaven’s blessing or Earth’s comfort around this neck of the woods yet (perhaps in Washington State?) but it’s a goodly way to go ’til May.

Easter Day

Since it’s Easter I can give you a bonus installment from Fantasticks, the peculiar book by Nicholas Breton (1554-1626), a series of sketches, of hours, season and months.  Breton’s take on Easter is a little different from mine, but times do change.

EASTER DAY

It is now Easter, and Jacke of Lent is turned out of doores: the Fishermen now hang up their nets to dry, while the Calfe and the Lambe walke toward the Kitchin and the Pastry: the velvet heads of the Forrests fall at the loose of the Crosse-bow: the Sammon Trowt playes with the Fly, and the March Rabbit runnes dead into the dish: the Indian Commodities pay the Merchants adventure: and Barbary Sugar puts Honey out of countenance: the holy feast is kept for the faithfull, and a knowne Jew hath no place among Christians: the Earth now beginnes to paint her upper garment, and the trees put out their young buds, the little Kids chew their Cuds, and the Swallow feeds on the Flyes in the Ayre: the Storke clenseth the Brookes of the Frogges, and the Sparhawke prepares her wing for the Partridge: the little Fawne is stolne from the Doe, and the male Deere beginne to be hearde: the spirit of Youth is inclined to mirth, and the conscionable Scholler wil not breake a holy-day: the Minstrell cals the Maid from her dinner, and the Lovers eyes do troule like Tennis balls. There is mirth and joy, when there is health and liberty: and he that hath money, will be no meane man in his mansion: the Ayre is wholesome, and the Skye comfortable, the Flowers odiferous, and the Fruits pleasant: I conclude, it is a day of much delightfulnesse: the Sunnes dancing day, and the Earths Holy-day.

Farewell.

Easter poetry winner

Well, our cherished poets certainly dreamed this time, just as they were invited to. So my eggy-toast repast served by a disorientated Backside (unable to deal with the summertime change) has been full of unlikely images. It must be the effects of the subarctic conditions, all recorded here: https://charioteers.org/2013/03/14/easter-poetry-competition/

FEEG’s ode from a bunny was short and sweet, as was Papag’s scientific Christianity; joined later by two ‘blank verses’, LW harking back to a dysfunctional family life and Soutie giving us a new slant on ‘be prepared’.

Then the two heavyweight entries from Araminta and LW. Could I hear our Cilla’s rendering of ‘What’s it all about?’ in Arrers’ poem? Or was it ‘Just imagine’ – life without the DT? And then LW’s tribute to old Eostre herself, whose very own eggs have a lot to answer for (allegedly).

Continue reading “Easter poetry winner”

Oh! Canada

This stared out as a comment on Christopher’s post about his recent visit to La Belle Province, but it got so long and convoluted I decided not to clutter the comments there with its length.

I worked in Canada from mid 1969 to late 1978 living first in Ottawa then nearby across the Ottawa River in the Province of Quebec.  I worked for a subsidiary of Bell Canada (the telephone company) and my wife worked, first in the public service (Department of Finance) then on Parliament Hill for a couple of MP’s.

There had been festering discontent in Quebec regarding separation for years, probably ever since Confederation (1867) even the choice of Ottawa as the capital (1857) was flavored by the divide and was one of those many English compromises that almost worked.  Choosing Toronto (the largest and a very English city) would have put the capital too close to the US border and memories of “Manifest Destiny” and the unpleasantness of 1812 were still a factor, choosing Montreal would seem to be giving control to the French, also remembered for their recent aggression in Europe, so Queen Victoria herself announced that the capital would henceforth be Ottawa (formerly Bytown, named after Colonel John By who built the Rideau canal system as a defense against the US in 1812).  Ottawa was conveniently located almost exactly halfway between Toronto and Montreal and as a wag of the day reported was “a slumbering sub-arctic lumber village”.

Continue reading “Oh! Canada”

March Fantasticks

“Where’s the Fantasticks for March?”   I’ve been away but here it is, it’s all right.

Fantasticks is the weird collection of gnomic observation by Nicholas Breton (1554-1626). They are not in print.

Anyway, in March, Breton seems more dream-laden and careless than ever.

MARCH

It is now March, and the Northerne wind dryeth up the Southerne durt: The tender Lippes are now maskt for feare of chapping, and the faire hands must not be ungloved: now riseth the Sunne a pretty step to his faire height, and Saint Valentine calls the birds together, where Nature is pleased in the varietie of love: the Fishes and the Frogs fall to their manner of generation, and the Adder dyes to bring forth her young: the Ayre is is sharpe, but the Sunne is comfortable, and the hay beginnes to lengthen: The forward Gardens give the fine Sallets, and a Nosegay of Violets is a present for a Lady: Now beginneth Nature (as it were) to wake out of her sleepe, and sends the Traveller to survey the walkes of the World: the sucking Rabbit is good for weake stomackes, and the dyet for the Rhume doth many a great Cure: The Farrier now is the horses Physitian, and the fat Dog feeds the Faulcon in the Mew: the Tree begins to bud, and the grasse to peepe abroad, while the Thrush with the Black-bird make a charme in the young Springs: the Milke-mayd with her best beloved, walke away wearinesse to the Market, and in an honest meaning, kind words doe no hurt: the Foot-ball now tryeth the legges of strength, and merry matches continue good fellowship: It is time of much worke, and tedious to discourse of: but in all I find of it, I thus conclude in it: I hold it the Servant of Nature, and the Schole-master of Art: the hope of labour, and the Subject of Reason.

Farewell.

Blinding flash

Sometimes (or is it often?) I despair at the ‘insights’ offfered us by journalists. Or am I missing something vital here? http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/world-21633960 – all about wars being unwinnable.

Ever since the Trojan Horse episode, clever tacticians have managed to thwart the efforts of mere generals by the use of informal methods of warfare. And of course that really gets up the generals’ disrespected noses. They of course always liked it to be predictable – in serried ranks with breaks for tea and unseasonal showers. A favourite tactic was to settle the whole thing with the help of Sir Knight and his trusty lance, while the cannon fodder waited in the wings with their Woodbines, cakes and ale (anachronistically speaking). In more modern times they have been particularly offended by human shields and enemies who refuse to wear uniforms and keep hiding in caves; downright un-British, what? Continue reading “Blinding flash”

Weather vain?

You were noon sunshine, no, a heatwave’s blast
That stormed a myriad moons ago
And flooded all my thoughts with monsoon rains
Conspiring youth’s mild innocence to fade

What cyclone’s surge could dim that radiant glance?
What calmed the crashing jet streams of those hours?
Did gathering clouds obscure those flashing eyes
Or grey monotony depress those lighted waves?

(pic courtesy John Constable 1821)

Fantasticks- February

I have been transcribing the strange calendar from the book Fantasticks, by Nicholas Breton (1554-1626). It is out of print, and a modest readership has been following each episode. So here is February.

 FEBRUARY

It is now February, & the Sun is gotten up a Cocke-stride of his climbing, the Valleyes now are painted white, and the brookes are full of water: the Frog goes to seeke out the Paddocke, and the Crow and the Rooke begin to mislike their old Makes: forward Connies begin now to kindle, & the fat grounds are not without Lambes; the Gardiner fals to sorting of his seeds, and the Husbandman falls afresh to scowring of his Ploughshare: the Terme travellers make the Shooe-makers Harvest, and the Chaundlers cheese makes the chalke walke apace: The Fishmonger sorts his ware against Lent: and a Lamb-skinne is good for a lame arme: the waters now alter the nature of their softnes and the soft earth is made stony hard: The Ayre is sharp and piercing, and the winds blow cold: the Tavernes and the Innes seldome lack Guests, & the Ostler knows how to gaine by his Hay: the hunting Horse is at the heeles of the Hound, while the ambling Nagge carrieth the Physitian and his footcloth: the blood of Youth begins to spring, and the honour of Art is gotten by Exercise: The trees a little begin to bud, and the sap begins to rise up out of the root: Physic now hath work among weak bodies, and the Apothecaries drugges are very gainfull: There is hope of a better time not farre off, but this in it selfe is little comforte: and for the small pleasure that I find in it, I will this briefly conclude of it: It is the poor mans pick-purse, and the misers cut-throat, the enemy of pleasure, and the time of patience.

Farewell.

Notes

The “makes”, which the crow and rook grow tired of, are mates; but the word here is not a mistake for “mate”. It comes from an Old English word related to “match”.

I am told that the bit about the Chaundlers (Chandlers?) cheese making the chalke walke apace refers to the account of money owing being chalked up on the “Slate”.  The Slate was in common use in my youth at my grandfather’s bakery – some entries never got fully erased.