2011: A Year In Review

2011: A Year in Review

Film
Favourite Film Characters of 2011

Captain Carruthers, The Drum (1938)
Colonel Nicholson, The Bridge over the River Kwai (1957)
General Clive Wynne-Candy, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)

Film quotes of 2011

"We can teach these barbarians a lesson in Western methods and efficiency that will put them to shame. We'll show them what the British soldier is capable of doing." Colonel Nicholson, The Bridge over the River Kwai

"One day the war will be over. And I hope that the people that use this bridge in years to come will remember how it was built and who built it. Not a gang of slaves, but soldiers, British soldiers, Clipton, even in captivity."  ~Colonel Nicholson, The Bridge over the River Kwai

Commander Shears: You mean, you intend to uphold the letter of the law, no matter what it costs?
Colonel Nicholson: Without law, Commander, there is no civilization.
Commander Shears: That's just my point; here, there is no civilization.
Colonel Nicholson: Then we have the opportunity to introduce it.  ~The Bridge over the River Kwai

"Do you remember, Clive, we used to say: "Our army is fighting for our homes, our women, and our children"? Now the women are fighting beside the men. The children are trained to shoot. What's left is the "home." But what is the "home" without women and children" Theo Kretschmar-Schuldorff, The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp

Films of 2011

The Young Mr. Pitt (1942)
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp (1943)
The Drum (1938)
Jane Eyre (2011)

Film Poster of 2011

Books
Books of 2011
The Abolition of Britain by Peter Hitchens
The Rage Against God by Peter Hitchens
The Cameron Delusion by Peter Hitchens
The Road to Serfdom by F.A. Hayek
Before the Lamps Went Out by Geoffrey Marcus
The Bully Boys by Eric Walters
The Tragedy of the Korosko by Arthur Conan Doyle
Kim by Rudyard Kipling
John Macnab by John Buchan
England 1870-1914 by Robert Ensor
A Spirit Undaunted: The Political Role of King George VI by Robert Rhodes James
Amazing Grace: William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End Slavery  by Eric Mexatas


Book Quotes of 2011
On the Christian Faith of the Victorians

"Of course the biography of a figure from the past escapes time in a more overt sense, too, by seeming to resurrect the subject of the biography. Inside the small eternity of the book the subject is once again brought to life, and in a kind of flipbook illusion he again disports himself through the trompe-l'oeil decades- and then, of course, dies once more. But his death at the end of the book comes to us afresh, as if we had just read about it in that morning's newspaper. We mourn his passing, and wish that we might see him once more alive, might have him with us for a few more pages, our new friends. And so it is that we sometimes find ourselves stumbling through such things as are called epilogues, looking again for the one just lost."

"Who among us doesn't at some time long to re-enter the past, to touch and hear again what is lost? No human impulse is more fundamental than our desire to transcend time, and none argues better that time is not the medium for which we are finally meant. And in the case of such as Wilberforce, we strain for some link, some palpable connection, whether to stand where he stood or touch what he touched, or perhaps even to speak to a living descendant, and stare at their faces. Whether via relic or relative, we seem to await that fairy tale moment when the dead, grey façade of years between us at last cracks and crumbles and falls away, revealing the real thing hiding beneath: eternity, fresh and green."

Eric Metaxas, in the epilogue of his book Amazing Grace: William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End the Slavery

~*~

"There are a good many Englishmen who are asking themselves that question," remarked Cecil Brown. "It's my opinion that we have been the policemen of the world long enough. We policed the seas for pirates and slavers. Now we police the land for Dervishes and brigands and every sort of danger to civilisation. There is never a mad priest or a witch doctor, or a firebrand of any sort on this planet, who does not report his appearance by sniping the nearest British officer. One tires of it at last. If a Kurd breaks loose in Asia Minor, the world wants to know why Great Britain does not keep him in order. If there is a military mutiny in Egypt, or a Jehad in the Soudan, it is still Great Britain who has to set it right. And all to an accompaniment of curses such as the policeman gets when he seizes a ruffian among his pals. We get hard knocks and no thanks, and why should we do it? Let Europe do its own dirty work." 

"Well," said Colonel Cochrane, crossing his legs and leaning forward with the decision of a man who has definite opinions, "I don't at all agree with you, Brown, and I think that to advocate such a course is to take a very limited view of our national duties. I think that behind national interests and diplomacy and all that there lies a great guiding force,—a Providence, in fact,—which is for ever getting the best out of each nation and using it for the good of the whole. When a nation ceases to respond, it is time that she went into hospital for a few centuries, like Spain or Greece,—the virtue has gone out of her. A man or a nation is not here upon this earth merely to do what is pleasant and profitable. It is often called upon to carry out what is unpleasant and unprofitable; but if it is obviously right, it is mere shirking not to undertake it."

 ~Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in his book The Tragedy of Korosko

 ~*~

'FitzGibbon stopped at the sound of horses being driven hard, hooves pounding against the ground. We both stood and hurried out of the tent in time to see three horses being reined to a stop directly in front of us. Their riders leaped down and rushed over to where we stood.
"Do you have news?" FitzGibbon demanded.
"The Americans have been spotted, sir."
"Who saw them?"
"A patrol of Caughnawagas."
"And did the Americans see our patrol?"
"They don't think so, sir."
"How many Americans did they believe were in the party?"
"At least four hundred, possibly five hundred men. And cannons."
"I was not expecting cannons. A most peculiar tactical move. How many?"
"Three."
"Where are they?"
"They're about ten miles south of us at-"
"South!" FitzGibbon interrupted. "Are you sure of that?"
"Yes sir."
"Then we don't have much time. Not that much is needed. We're badly outnumbered and they're supported with cannon. We have only one choice."
There certainly seemed like only one choice to me. I should get back to the tent and pack my-
"We have to attack."' ~The Bully Boys by Eric Walter

 ~*~

"I have always been in favour of preserving both the British relation with Egypt and the Egyptian relation with the Soudan. I trust both British and Egyptian statesmen and administrators will work together with goodwill and for the common advantage for centuries to come. These views are, however, highly controversial.  A generation has grown up which knows little of why we are in Egypt and in the Soudan, and what our work there has been. Uninstructed and ignorant impressions colour the decisions not only of parliaments but of cabinets.  It is my hope that the story which these pages contain may be some help and encouragement to those young men and women who have still confidence in the destiny of Britain in the Orient. They may learn how much harder it is to build up and acquire, than to squander and cast away." 

~ Winston S. Churchill in the introduction to the third edition of his work The River War

~*~

"  He looked up, angrier than ever. 'Sir Humphrey, why was my request for a further discussion, and the Prime Minister's reply, not minuted?'

    Sir Humphrey was ready for that one. His reply was an object lesson. I recall it perfectly. 

'While it is true that the minutes are indeed an authoritative record of the Committee's deliberations, it is nevertheless undeniable that a deliberate attempt at comprehensive delineation of every contribution and interpolation would necessitate an unjustifiable elaboration and wearisome extension of the documentation.'

    Hacker stared at him. The Committee stared at him. The Foreign Secretary told me later that he wished he was at the UN where he'd have had the benefit of simultaneous translation. What he had said would have been crystal clear to most people, but politicians are simple souls." ~Bernard from Yes, Prime Minister

 ~*~

Music











Best News of 2011
Return of the Royal Canadian Navy and the Royal Canadian Air Force
The Royal Wedding

Poems of 2011

Pro Rege Nostro  

by William Ernest Henley

WHAT have I done for you,

England, my England?

What is there I would not do,

England, my own?

With your glorious eyes austere,

As the Lord were walking near,

Whispering terrible things and dear

As the Song on your bugles blown, England --

Round the world on your bugles blown!

Where shall the watchful Sun,

England, my England,

Match the master-work you've done,

England, my own?

When shall he rejoice again

Such a breed of mighty men

As come forward, one to ten,

To the Song on your bugles blown, England --

Down the years on your bugles blown?

Ever the faith endures,

England, my England: --

'Take and break us: we are yours,

England, my own!

Life is good, and joy runs high

Between English earth and sky:

Death is death; but we shall die

To the Song on your bugles blown, England --

To the stars on your bugles blown!'

They call you proud and hard,

England, my England:

You with worlds to watch and ward,

England, my own!

You whose mailed hand keeps the keys

Of such teeming destinies,

You could know nor dread nor ease,

Were the Song on your bugles blown, England --

Round the Pit on your bugles blown!

Mother of Ships whose might,

England, my England,

Is the fierce old Sea's delight,

England, my own,

Chosen daughter of the Lord,

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword,

There's the menace of the Word

In the Song of your bugles blown, England --

Out of heaven on your bugles blown! 

Recessional by Rudyard Kipling

God of our fathers, known of old—

Lord of our far-flung battle line—

Beneath whose awful hand we hold

Dominion over palm and pine—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies—

The Captains and the Kings depart—

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—

On dune and headland sinks the fire—

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose

Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe—

Such boastings as the Gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the Law—

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust

In reeking tube and iron shard—

All valiant dust that builds on dust,

And guarding calls not Thee to guard.

For frantic boast and foolish word,

Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

Amen.

The Soldier 

Rupert Brooke

If I should die, think only this of me:
   That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
   In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
   Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
   Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.

And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
   A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
      Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
   And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
      In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.

The Fox's Prophecy

by D.W. Nash 

Tom Hill was in the saddle,
One bright November morn,
The echoing glades of Guiting Wood
Were ringing with his horn.

The diamonds of the hoar-frost
Were sparkling in the sun.
Upon the falling leaves the drops
Were shining one by one.

The hare lay on the fallow,
The robin carolled free;
The linnet and yellow finch
Twittered from tree to tree.

In stately march the sable rook
Followed the clanking plough;
Apart their watchful sentinel
Cawed from the topmost bough.

Peeped from her hole the field-mouse
Amid the fallen leaves.
From twig to twig the spider
Her filmy cable weaves.

The wavings of the pine boughs
The squirrel's form disclose;
And through the purple beech-tops
The whirring pheasant rose.

The startled rabbit scuttered
Across the grassy ride;
High in mid-air the hovering hawk
Wheeled round in circles wide.

The freshest wind was blowing
O'er groves of beech and oak
And through the boughs of larch and pine
The struggling sunbeam broke.

The avried tints of autumn
Still lingered on the wood,
And on the leaves the morning sun
Poured out a golden flood.

Soft, fleecy clouds were sailing
Across the vault of blue.
A fairer hunting morning
No huntsman ever knew.

All nature seemed rejoicing
That glorious morn to see;
All seemed to breathe a fresher life -
Beast, insect, bird and tree.

But sound and sight of beauty
Fell dull on eye and ear;
The huntsman's heart was heavy
His brow oppressed with care.

High in his stirrups raised he stood,
And long he gazed around;
And breathlessly and anxiously
His listened for a sound.

But nought he heard save the song bird
Or jay's discordant cry;
Or when among the the tree-tops
The wind went murmuring by.

No voice of hound, no sound of horn
The woods around were mute,
As though the earth had swallowed up
His comrades - man and brute.

He thought, "I must essay to find
My hounds at any cost;
A huntsman who has lost his hounds
Is but a huntsman lost".

Then round he turned his horse's head
And shook his bridle free,
When he was struck by an aged fox
That sat beneath a tree.

He raised his eye in glad surprise,
That huntsman keen and bold;
But there was in that fox's look
That made his blood run cold.

He raised his hand to touch his horn,
And shout a "Tally-ho"
But mastered by that fox's eye,
His lips refused to blow.

For he was grim and gaunt of limb,
With age all silvered o'er;
He might have been an arctic fox
Escaped from Greenland's shore.

But age his vigour had not tamed,
Nor dimm'd his sparkling eye,
Which shone with an unearthly fire -
Fire that could never die.

And thus the huntsman he addressed,
In tones distinct and clear,
Who heard as they who in a dream
The fairies' music hear.

"Huntsman" he said - a sudden thrill
Through all the listeners ran,
To hear a creature of the wood
Speak like a Christian man -

"Last of my race, to me' tis given
The future to unfold,
To speak the words which never yet
Spake fox of mortal mould.

"Then print my words upon your heart
And stamp them on your brain,
That you to others may impart
My prophecy again.

"Strong life is your's in manhood's prime,
Your cheek with heat is red;
Time has not laid his finger yet
In earnest on your head.

"But ere your limbs are bent with age,
And ere yours locks are grey,
The sport that you have loved so well
Shall long have passed away.

"In vain shall generous Colmore,
Your hunt consent to keep;
In vain the Rendcomb baronet
With gold your stores shall heap.

"In vain Sir Alexander,
And Watson Keen in vain,
O'er the pleasant Cotswold hills
The joyous sport maintain.

"Vain all their efforts: spite of all,
Draws nigh the fatal morn,
When the last Cotswold fox shall hear
The latest huntsman's horn.

"Yet think not, huntsman, I rejoice
To see the end so near;
Nor think the sound of horn and hound
To me a sound of fear.

"In my strong youth, which numbers now
Full many a winter back,
How scornfully I shook my brush
Before the Berkeley pack.

"How oft from Painswick hill I've seen
The morning mist uncurl,
When Harry Airis blew the horn
Before the wrathful Earl.

"How oft I've heard the Cotswolds' cry
As Turner cheered the pack,
And laughed to see his baffled hounds
Hang vainly on my track.

"Too well I know, by wisdom taught
The existance of my race
O'er all wide England's green domain
Is bound up with the Chase.

"Better in early youth and strength
The race for life to run,
Than poisoned like the noxious rat,
Or slain by felon gun.

"Better by wily sleight and turn
The eager hound to foil,
Than slaughtered by each baser churl
Who yet shall till the soil.

"For not upon these hills alone
The doom of sport shall fall;
O'er the broad face of England creeps
The shadow on the wall.

"The years roll on: old manors change,
Old customs lose their sway;
New fashions rule; the grandsire's garb
Moves ridicule to-day.

"The woodlands where my race has bred
Unto the axe shall yield;
Hedgerow and copse shall cease to shade
The ever widening field.

"The manly sports of England
Shall vanish one by one;
The manly blood of England
In weaker veins shall run.

"The furzy down, the moorland heath,
The steam plough shall invade;
Nor park nor manor shall escape -
Common, nor forest glade.

"Degenerate sons of manlier sires
To lower joys shall fall;
The faithless lore of Germany,
The gilded vice of Gaul.

"The sports of their forefathers
To baser tastes shall yield;
The vices of the town displace
The pleasures of the field.

"For swiftly o'er the level shore
The waves of progress ride;
The ancient landmarks one by one
Shall sink beneath the tide.

"Time honoured creeds and ancient faith,
The Alter and the Crown,
Lordship's hereditary right,
Before that tide go down.

"Base churls shall mock the mighty names
Writ on the roll of time;
Religion shall be held a jest,
And loyalty a crime.

"No word of prayer, no hmyn of praise
Sound in the village school;
The people's education
Utilitarians rule.

"In England's ancient pulpits
Lay orators shall preach
New creeds, and free religions
Self made apostles teach.

"The peasants to their daily tasks
In surly silence fall;
No kindly hospitalities
In farmhouse nor in hall.

"Nor harvest feast nor Christmas tide
Shall farm or manor hold;
Science alone can plenty give,
The only God is gold.

"The homes where love and peace should dwell
Fierce politics shall vex,
And unsexed woman strive to prove
Herself the coarser sex.

"Mechanics in their workshops
Affairs of state decide;
Honour and truth - old fashioned words -
The noisy mob deride.

"The statesman that should rule the realm
Coarse demagogues displace;
The glory of a thousand years
Shall end in foul disgrace.

The honour of old England,
Cotton shall buy and sell,
And hardware manufacturers
Cry "Peace - lo, all is well".

Trade shall be held the only good
And gain the sole device;
The statesman's maxim shall be peace,
and peace at any price.

"Her army and her navy
Britain shall cast aside;
Soldiers and ships are costly things,
Defence an empty pride.

"The German and the Muscovite
Shall rule the narrow seas;
Old England's flag shall cease to float
In triumph on the breeze.

"The footsteps of th' invader,
Then England's shore shall know,
While home-bred traitors give the hand
To England's every foe.

"Disarmed, before the foreigner,
The knee shall humbly bend,
And yield the treasures that she lacked
The wisdom to defend.

"But not for aye - yet once again,
When purged by fire and sword,
The land her freedom shall regain,
To manlier thoughts restored.

"Taught wisdom by disaster,
England shall learn to know,
That trade is not the only gain
Heaven gives to man below.

"The greed for gold departed
The golden calf cast down,
Old England's sons shall raise again
The Alter and the Crown.

"Rejoicing seas shall welcome
Their mistress once again;
Once more the banner of St George
Shall rule upon the main.

"The blood of the invader
Her pastures shall manure,
His bones unburied on her fields
For monuments to endure.

"Again in hall and homestead,
Shall joy and peace be seen,
And smiling children raise again
The maypole on the green.

"Again the hospitable board
Shall groan with Christmas cheer,
And mutual service bind again
The peasant and the peer.

"Again the smiling hedgerow
Shall field from field divide;
Again among the woodlands
The scarlet troop shall ride."

Again it seemed that aged fox,
More prophecies would say,
When sudden came upon the wind,
"Hark forrard, gone away".

The listener started from his trance -
He sat there all alone;
That well-known cry had burst the spell,
The aged fox was gone.

The huntsman turned,

He spurred his steed,

And to the cry he sped;

And when he thought upon that fox,

Said naught, but shook his head. 

Thanks to An Englishman's Castle.

 

Quotes

For better or worse — fair and foul — the world we know today is in large measure a product of Britain's age of empire. The question is not whether British imperialism was without blemish. It was not. The question is whether there could have been a less bloody path to modernity. Perhaps in theory there could have been. But in practice? - Niall Ferguson, "Empire" 

"In the end, history, especially British history with its succession of thrilling illuminations, should be, as all her most accomplished narrators have promised, not just instruction but pleasure." - Simon Schama

We live in an age when to be young and to be indifferent can be no longer synonymous. We must prepare for the coming hour. The claims of the Future are represented by suffering millions; and the Youth of a Nation are the trustees of Posterity. ~Benjamin Disraeli

Above the ebb and flow of party strife, the rise and fall of ministries, and individuals, the changes of public opinion or public fortune, the British Monarchy presides, ancient, calm and supreme within its function, over all the treasures that have been saved from the past and all the glories we write in the annals of our country. - Winston Churchill

 I find the Englishman to be him of all men who stands firmest in his shoes.
~Ralph Waldo Emerson

"The world was clearly made of English parklands, mountains in less important corners, and admirals, generals, secretaries of state at the directing centre of the universe. To artists the task was given of using easily comprehensible symbols to convey the vital force of this straightforward world."  J. Steven Watson in his book The Reign of George the III as part of the Oxford History of England series

"We must not turn from the path of duty. If the British Empire is fated to pass from life into history, we must hope it will not be by the slow processes of dispersion and decay, but in some supreme exertion for freedom, for right, and for truth. Why is it that from so many lands men look towards us today? It is certainly not because we have gained advantages in a race of armaments, or have scored a point by some deeply planned diplomatic intrigue, or because we exhibit the blatancy and terrorism of ruthless power. It is because we stand on the side of the general need. In the British Empire we not only look out across the seas towards each other, but backwards to our own history, to Magna Charta, to Habeas Corpus, to the Petition of Right, to Trial by Jury, to the English Common Law and to Parliamentary Democracy. These are the milestones and monuments that mark the path along which the British race has marched to leadership and freedom. And over all this, uniting each Dominion with the other and uniting us all with our majestic past, is the golden circle of the Crown. What is within this circle? Not only the glory of an ancient, unconquered people, but the hope, the sure hope, of a broadening life for hundreds of millions of men." ~Sir Winston S. Churchill in his speech entitled The King's Dominions, given at the Canada Club in the honour of the Right Honourable R.B. Bennett, 20 April 1939

'He determined to go "home". Kingston, capital of Canada as well as of the Midland District, was satisfactory enough; but beyond Kingston, and Canada, and British North America, lay another world, imperial and international in scope, remote, and splendid, and vastly more exciting than anything he had yet known.' ~Donald Creighton in The Young Politician

 "We may teach the enemy this lesson: A country defended by free men devoted to the cause of their king and constitution can never be conquered..." -Major General Sir Isaac Brock KB

 Images of 2011

Blog Banners of 2011

 

Happy Christmas!

Book Review: Raiders of the Mohawk: The Story of the Butler's Rangers

Raiders of the Mohawk: The Story of the Butler's Rangers was originally written sometime in the 1950s by author Orlo Miller. It is not a deep book, and I was able to read through it in a matter of hours. However, it is quite engaging and entertaining. I read it with my younger brothers in mind, and in a few years I shall no doubt lend them this book.

The narrative follows in part the story of real life Loyalist Daniel Spring, who fled with his mother and brother their home in New York state, after their father, the local reverend and supporter of the King, is murdered by rebels who disagree with his views. After the three remaining Springers flee, they come in contact with Colonel Butler and his Butler's Rangers, and eventually Daniel and his brother Richard join the Rangers. Part of the narrative follows Daniel as he grows from a young boy into a man, whilst fighting for God, King, and Country. The other part of the narrative follows the overall exploits and the daring raids on rebels , by the Rangers, and in many of these Daniel is involved. This second part is a more general, broad sweep of the time period in which the Rangers fought, which I think was a necessary part of the book, in order that those who are first encountering the brave Loyalists, the courageous Butler's Rangers, and those who remained loyal to the King, could understand the narrative of Daniel's life with a greater clarity and depth. 

Ostensibly the majority of all the characters in this book are real and true to life, which makes the tale an even greater one. 

So, in conclusion, a fine novel for anyone who loves British History. Americans probably wouldn't like it much, but it made my heart stir with pride as I read it.

O Holy Night

Can it be said that when compared with such music as that above, all else pales in comparison? Aye, I think it might. 

On a side note, I am currently preparing for... my first social event of the year, family gatherings aside. And no, I do not mean of 2012, but rather of 2011. My Mom and sister have been baking all day; all that has gone well, the best part was no doubt the flaming cookie. We quickly put pains to that cookies idea of being one of those foreign dishes which involve large amounts of flames. I think those are rather silly, anyway.... who wants to eat food that is on fire? But I suppose it comes from the Continent, or something of that sort. Silly, silly.  

EDIT: There is a youtube video posted there, my apologies if it is not working correctly. 

Considerings

My siblings and I agreed about the following:

When others played pirates....we were the Royal Navy chasing down the pirates.

When others played cowboys and Indians...we were the Northwest Mounted Police bringing law & order.

When others played Anglo-Saxons...we were the Normans with William the Conqueror.

When others played Americans in the Revolutionary War...we were the Loyalists.

When others played Americans in the War of 1812...we were Lt. Fitzgibbon's British men in his Green Tigers.

When others played Roundheads in the English Civil War...we were the Cavaliers, defenders of the Crown & Monarchy.

When others played Napoleon...we were with the Duke of Wellington defeating the French at Waterloo.

When others played characters in Ancient Israel and area...we were the Roman soldiers.

As you can see, we had a very normal childhood.

Secondly, the question arose after dinner tonight about when and where we would go back in time, if we could. Aside from the obvious answer, I decided that I would go back to before the Agadir crisis, and stop it, as it was one of the events which set off the First World War. After some discussion about the causes of the First World War, we ascertained and agreed that even if we caused both the Agadir crisis not to occur and also stopped the assassination of the Archduke, that would not necessarily stop the Great War, even though it would change its shape somewhat. Alas, stopping the Agadir crisis and the assassination would only be treating the symptoms, and not, to a large extent, the underlying reasons for the Great War.

But, as Sir Robert Ensor, in his excellent book on Britain from 1870 to 1914, said about the War, all this is a matter for speculation....

Tis Almost Like...

      Spring! It's a gorgeous day out there- the sun is shining, the wind is blowing, the blue sky is a light blue only to be found after a long winter. I was out there in a t-shirt to-day (admittedly I like wearing t-shirts out of doors when it's still a teensy touch cool, too cool for the rest of the populace), and it was lovely. It felt just like spring, except, of course, it's almost the middle of December, with only ten days to go until Christmas. No doubt we shall get one of those lovely green Christmases. Or a winter like those in the Motherland (a friend who hails directly from England said that this type of weather we've been having is very English. Hurrah, said I!). 

   But alas, it is not spring. It is not my favourite time of the year. At all. No matter, it still gives me hope.

P.S.: I learned something shocking about a book I read once, which made me very, very glad of my original opinion of the book, and also my original stance on certain characters, and also the original side I took in the conflict. I am now glad of this as it shows that I have been a real conservative and a real monarchist for much longer than I previously thought, and much longer than simply the past few years when I have been pointedly examining and deciding my beliefs on matters of right and wrong. I also wonder how anyone sensible can like the characters I disliked, due to certain role models which they uphold, but perhaps it proves that common sense is not so common now a days, which is something I've known for a while.

P.P.S.: Also, shall I have the freedom to be insulted that a website listing the different milestones of 2011 listed the Royal Wedding as "entertainment"? Entertainment?!? That I thinkest most decidedly not. People just do not get it these days.

"I have loved you dearly More dearly than the spoken word can tell..."

There's a ship lies rigged and ready in the harbor
Tomorrow for old England she sails
Far away from your land of endless sunshine
To my land full of rainy skies and gales
And I shall be aboard that ship tomorrow
Though my heart is full of tears at this farewell

For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell
For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell

I've heard there's a wicked war a-blazing
And the taste of war I know so very well
Even now I see the foreign flag a-raising
Their guns on fire as we sail into hell
I have no fear of death, it brings no sorrow
But how bitter will be this last farewell

For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell
For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell

Though death and darkness gather all about me
My ship be torn apart upon the seas
I shall smell again the fragrance of these islands
And the heaving waves that brought me once to thee
And should I return home safe again to England
I shall watch the English mist roll through the dale

For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell
For you are beautiful, I have loved you dearly
More dearly than the spoken word can tell

"Whether via relic or relative, we seem to await that fairy tale moment..."

"Of course the biography of a figure from the past escapes time in a more overt sense, too, by seeming to resurrect the subject of the biography. Inside the small eternity of the book the subject is once again brought to life, and in a kind of flipbook illusion he again disports himself through the trompe-l'oeil decades- and then, of course, dies once more. But his death at the end of the book comes to us afresh, as if we had just read about it in that morning's newspaper. We mourn his passing, and wish that we might see him once more alive, might have him with us for a few more pages, our new friends. And so it is that we sometimes find ourselves stumbling through such things as are called epilogues, looking again for the one just lost."

"Who among us doesn't at some time long to re-enter the past, to touch and hear again what is lost? No human impulse is more fundamental than our desire to transcend time, and none argues better that time is not the medium for which we are finally meant. And in the case of such as Wilberforce, we strain for some link, some palpable connection, whether to stand where he stood or touch what he touched, or perhaps even to speak to a living descendant, and stare at their faces. Whether via relic or relative, we seem to await that fairy tale moment when the dead, grey façade of years between us at last cracks and crumbles and falls away, revealing the real thing hiding beneath: eternity, fresh and green."

Eric Metaxas, in the epilogue of his book Amazing Grace: William Wilberforce and the Heroic Campaign to End the Slavery

"Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die..."

The Charge of the Light Brigade

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

1. Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward, the Light Brigade! "Charge for the guns!" he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 2. "Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. 3. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. 4. Flash'd all their sabres bare, Flash'd as they turn'd in air, Sabring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder'd: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro' the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel'd from the sabre stroke Shatter'd and sunder'd. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. 5. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. 6. When can their glory fade? O the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honor the charge they made, Honor the Light Brigade, Noble six hundred.

As For Me...

"As for me, I will behold thy face in righteousness: I shall be satisfied, when I awake, with thy likeness." ~Psalm 17:15

The Life of an Amateur Film Director Part the First

Clean Jeans + making football films + stunts +  half frozen ground  =  bad idea.

On the Christian Faith of the Victorians

"New fashions in ideas and conduct were not popularised then so quickly as now; and down at least until the queen's first jubilee in the year following the sixteen with which this chapter deals, the mass of her subjects, high as well as low, lived much the same mental life as they had done when the Prince Consort died. At the core of it was religion. No one will ever understand Victorian England who does not appreciate that among highly civilised, in contradistinction to more primitive, countries it was one of the most religious countries that the world has known. Moreover its particular type of Christianity laid a peculiarly direct emphasis upon conduct; for, though it recognised both grace and faith as essentials to salvation, it was in practice also very largely a doctrine of salvation by works. This type, which had come to dominate churchmen and nonconformists alike, may be called, using the term in a broad sense, evangelicalism. Starting early in the eighteenth century as far back as William Law, author of the Serious Call, coming down through the Wesleys and Whitefield, Johnson and Cowper, Clarkson and Wilberforce and the Clapham 'sect', great schoolmasters like Thomas Arnold and Charles Wordsworth, great nobles like the Greys on the whig side and the philanthropic Lord Shaftesbury on the tory, not to mention the eighteenth century preachers and divines, it became after Queen Victoria's marriage practically the religion of the court, and it gripped all ranks of conditions of society. After Melbourne's departure it inspired nearly every front-rank public man, save Palmerston, for four decades. That does not mean that they were all Evangelicals in the sense of being ... for the low church, as Shaftesbury and Cairns were- Bright was a quaker; Gladstone and Selborne and Salisbury were pronounced high churchmen; Livingstone, like many another, was reared in Scottish presbyterianism. But nothing is more remarkable than the way in which evangelicalism in the broader sense overleaped sectarian barriers and pervaded men of all creeds, so that even T.H. Huxley, the agnostic, oozed it from every pore of his controversial writing.... Even Disraeli, by nature as remote from it as Palmerston, paid every deference to it in politics, and conformed to all its externals in the Hughenden church. 

The essentials of evangelicalism were three. First, its literal stress on the Bible. It made the English the "people of a book", somewhat as devout as Moslems are, but as few other Europeans were. Secondly, its certainty about the existence of an afterlife of rewards and punishments. If one asks how nineteenth century English merchants earned the reputation of being the most honest in the world (a very real factor in the nineteenth century primacy of English trade), the answer is: because hell and heaven seemed as certain to them as to-morrow's sunrise, and the Last Judgement as real as the week's balance sheet. This keen sense of moral accountancy had also much to do with the success of self government in the political sphere. Thirdly, its corollary that the present life is only important as a preparation for eternity. Exalted minds in abnormal moments may have reached that feeling in al ages, and among primitive peoples it has often moved mass enthusiasms. But the remarkable feature of evangelicalism was that it came so largely to dispense with the abnormal; made other-worldliness an everyday conviction and, so to say, a business proposition; and thus induced a highly civilised people to put pleasure in the background, and what it conceived to be duty in the foreground, to a quite exceptional degree. A text from the Epistle to the Hebrews, 'He endured as seeing Him who is invisible,' has often and very aptly been used to commemorate General Gordon. It might equally have been applied to Livingstone's lonely heroism in midmost Africa, to Gladstone laying daily before God the issues of right and wrong in national politics, to Shaftesbury championing oppressed classes who could never conceivably repay him, to Clarkson and Wilberforce in an earlier day climbing their 'obstinate hill' to end the slave trade and slavery; and no less truly, though on a lower spiritual plane, to the common conscientious Victorian:

Staid Englishman, who toil and slave

From your first childhood to your grave

And seldom spend and always save-

And do your duty all your life

By your young family and your wife.

This is not the place to evaluate Victorian evangelicalism on religious or theological grounds. But to ignore its effect on outward life would be to render much of the period's history unintelligible. It is often accused of being gloomy, but it seemed less so at the time of its votaries; who for their self denials had compensations not visible to their latter day critics. Certainly, however, it was anti-hedonistic. To-day's passion for pleasure would have shocked it profoundly. Its own corresponding passion was for self-improvement; and perhaps there never has been an age and a country in which so many individuals climbed to outstanding excellences or achievements of one sort or another across the most discouraging barriers. 

This religion was sustained by a vast amount of external observance. The evangelicals set relatively little store by sacraments; to communicate only twice a year (the practice of the prince consort and Queen Victoria) was quite normal even in the church of England. But they spent a remarkable amount of time on organised prayer, praise, and preaching. The pulpit dominated. In typical English villages in the seventies and eighties practically all the inhabitants above infancy attended either church or chapel every Sunday, many of them twice or even three times. The children also went twice to Sunday schools. Apart from cases of necessity, the only exceptions to this universal worship would be, here and there, a few known village ne'er-do-wells. In addition, the chapels held prayer meetings during the week, and the church often a regular week-night service- both numerously attended. In towns of moderate size there was almost a strictness, though different regions showed a prevalence of different sects. Thus in many Lancashire manufacturing towns a low-church anglicanism predominated; in their Yorkshire equivalents, dissent. This was reflected in politics, where parts of Lancashire developed a conservative and Yorkshire a liberal tradition. Local distribution varied similarly among dissenters themselves; e.g. primitive methodists would preponderate in some regions, and weslyans in others. Only in the dozen largest English cities were there considerable areas, whose growth neither church nor chapel had overtaken, and extensive 'heathen' populations who attended no place of worship. In London these areas and populations were of enormous size, and from the middle of the century onward much devoted but quite inadequate missionary effort was spent on them by both the anglicans and the nonconformists. But public worship was not all; a great feature of the period was the almost universal practice in the upper, middle, and lower-middle classes of family prayers. The observance, too, of Sunday was almost a religion in itself. No games of any kind were ever played on it; no field-sports indulged in; no entertainment given, public or private. Even books were censored for the day; novels were banned; you might only read the Bible or serious, preferably religious, works. Thus sermons had large sales, and so did 'magazines for Sunday reading'. It is easy now to see the ludicrous side of these restraints; but they had another. The habit of setting a part one rest-day in the week for religion and serious thinking deepened the character of the nation. And some high peaks of literature- the Bible, Paradise Lost, and the Pilgrim's Progress, for instance- became extremely familiar to very wide classes who to-day would never read anything on that level."

~England 1870-1914 by Robert Ensor, later Sir, part of the Oxford History of England series.

Beautiful...

You can have your country and your wide open spaces. I love the city.

Sad am I, glad am I, For today I’m dreaming of Yesterdays.

Yesterdays, Yesterdays, 

Days I knew as happy, 

Sweet sequester days. 

Olden days, golden days,

Days of mad romance and love. 

Then youth was mine, truth was mine,

Joyous free and flaming life, 

Forsooth, was mine. 

Sad am I, glad am I, 

For today I’m dreaming of Yesterdays. 

(Musical Break) 

Olden days, golden days, 

Days of mad romance and love. 

Then youth was mine, truth was mine, 

Joyous free and flaming life, 

Forsooth, was mine. 

Sad am I, glad am I, 

For today I’m dreaming of Yesterdays.

On My Mind