No.72

The Geppa Pavilion of the Katsura Imperial Villa, Kyoto

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Solitude
Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850-1919

Laugh and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain. 

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Reflections on the Thames
by Atkinson Grimshaw
1836-93

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There was a time when civil wars were common in Japan. The story is told of a Zen master who refused to flee from his village despite the approach of a ruthless invading army. 

 Seeing that all the villagers had fled and curious about the one person who had stayed, the general sought out the Zen master. When the latter didn’t show any deference to him, the general was angry.

“You fool,” he shouted, reaching for his sword, “don’t you realise you are standing before a man who could run you through without blinking an eye?"

"And do you realize," the master replied softly, "that you are standing before a man who can be run through without blinking an eye?"

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This is Sammy who looks after Fiona and Brian

Namasté

Next post Friday 4th May

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No.71

A Brown Squirrel

with thanks to 

Pexels.com

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Words of Wisdom?

By the time you swear you're his,
Shivering and sighing,
And he vows his passion is
Infinite, undying -
Lady, make a note of this;
One of you is lying.
- DOROTHY PARKER 1893-1967

The more I see of the moneyed classes,
The more I understand the guillotine. -
and
Beauty is all very well at first sight, but who ever
looks at it when it has been in the house three days. -
GEORGE BERNARD SHAW 1856-1950

An optimist is a person who sees 
a green light everywhere, while the
pessimist sees only the red stop-light. 
The truly wise person is colour-blind. -

ALBERT SCHWEITZER 1875-1965

There is, of course, no reason 

for the existence of the male sex

except that one sometimes needs

help with moving the piano. - 

DAME REBECCA WEST 1892-1983

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  The Revolution

painted 1896 by

Valentine Cameron Prinsep 1838-1904

Calcutta-born, British nationality

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My Fancy
A poem by Lewis Carroll
(Charles Lutwidge Dodgson 1832-98)

I painted her a gushing thing,
With years about a score;
I little thought to find they were
A least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly auburn head:
I came to find the blue a green,
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning,
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyaena's laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of a giraffe;
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
She's all my fancy painted her,
But oh! how much besides!

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A quiet spot of the
River Teith at Callander

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The next post here will be on 
Friday 27th April

namasté

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The next post here will be on Friday 20th April. 

From then on the new version of the blog will be updated every Friday

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No.70

Ill Fares the Land

from the Deserted Village by

Oliver Goldsmith 1728-74

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,

When once destroyed can never be supplied.

A time there was, ere England's griefs began,

When every rood of ground maintained its man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no more:

His best companions, innocence and health;

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.

But times are altered; trade's unfeeling train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlet's rose,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,

And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,

Those calm desires that asked but little room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.

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No.69

What is this thing called Love?

The Love Letter

c.1770
by
Jean-Honoré Fragonard
1732-1806

Oil on Canvas
83.2 cm x 67 cm

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The Love Letter
1669-70
by

Johannes Vermeer
1632-75

Oil on Canvas
44 cm x 38.5 cm

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Love's Messenger
1885
by

Marie Spartali Stillman

1844-1927
Water colour, tempera and gold colour 
on paper mounted on wood
32 cm x 26 cm

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No.68

The Things People Say

I never made a mistake in grammar but once in my life, and, as soon as I done it, I seen it. -  CARL SANDBURG 1878-1967

I have been told that Wagner's music is better than it sounds. - MARK TWAIN 1835-1910

If you think it's hard to meet new people, try picking up the wrong golf ball. - JACK LEMMON 1925-2001

This very night I am going to leave off tobacco. Surely there must be some other world in which this unconquerable purpose shall be realised. - CHARLES LAMB 1775-1834

There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them. - JOSEPH BRODSKY - 1940-96

Nowhere can a man find a quieter or more untroubled retreat than in his own soul. - MARCUS AURELIUS 121-180 AD

Good women always think it is their fault when someone else is being offensive. Bad women never take the blame for anything. -ANITA BOOKNER 1928-2015

One cannot think well, love well, sleep well, if one has not dined well. -VIRGINIA WOOLF 1882-1941

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No.67

George Gordon Byron 1788-1824 

became known as Lord Byron and was regarded as one of the greatest of British poets. He was born in London but spent much of his boyhood in the north east of Scotland. 

Among his poetry is Dark Lochnagar written in 1807. It recalls the visits he used to make to that part of Aberdeenshire. The work has been set to a tune attributed to Sir Henry Bishop and is a popular standard in Scottish folk music.

Dark Lochnagar

Away, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses,

In you let the minions of luxury rove,

Restore me the rocks where the snow-flake reposes,

Though still they are sacred to freedom and love.

Yet Caledonia, beloved are thy mountains,

Round their white summits though elements war,

Though cataracts foam ‘stead of smooth-flowing fountains,

I sigh for the valley of dark Lochnagar.

Ah! there my young footsteps in infancy wander’d,

My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid.

On chieftains long perish’d my memory ponder’d

As daily I strode through the pine-cover’d glade.

I sought not my home till the day’s dying glory

Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star,

For fancy was cheer’d by traditional story

Disclos’d by the natives of dark Lochnagar!

Shades of the dead! Have I not heard your voices

Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?

Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind o’er his own Highland vale.

Round Lochnagar while the stormy mist gathers,

Winter presides in his cold icy car.

Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers;

They dwell in the tempests of dark Lochnagar.

Lochnagar in Winter
Thanks to the photographer Bruce McAdam

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No.66

Images thanks to Pexels.com

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No.65

Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight

Rose Hartwick Thorpe

1850-1939

Slowly England's sun was setting o'er the hilltops far away,

Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;

And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,

He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;

He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,

Struggling to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,

With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,

"I've a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die

At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.

Cromwell will not come till sunset;" and her lips grew strangely white,

As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart

Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),

"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:

Now I'm old, I will not falter. Curfew bell must ring to-night!"

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,

As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.

She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,

"At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die."

And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;

One low murmur, faintly spoken. "Curfew must not ring to-night!"

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,

Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so oft before.

Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,

Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro;

As she climbed the slimy ladder on which fell no ray of light,

Upward still, her pale lips saying, "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell;

Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.

See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; 'tis the hour of curfew now,

And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.

Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,

As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Out she swung, far out. The city seemed a speck of light below,

There twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro.

And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,

Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell.

Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,

Stilled her frightened heart's wild throbbing: "Curfew shall not ring tonight!"

It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more

Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,

Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done

Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun

Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,

Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,

Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.

At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;

And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn,

Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.

"Go! your lover lives," said Cromwell. "Curfew shall not ring to-night!"

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,

All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,

Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;

Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,

Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night."

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No.64

This painting “The Princes in the Tower” by John Everett Millais 1829-1896, along with the story to which it relates, was included in a book given to me when I was a quite young, and I remember that it made me quite sad. 

Edward and Richard were the sons of Edward IV. When he died in 1483, the two immediately went to the Tower of London to prepare for the coronation of the elder boy Edward. Because he was only 13, his uncle Richard, Duke of Gloucester was made Protector, but within a few months Parliament declared the boys illegitimate and Richard was crowned King. The two brothers were never seen again, and in 1674, when two skeletons of children were discovered in the Tower, it was assumed that these were the remains of the princes.

I’ve been trying to recall what other books I had as a boy. Arabian Nights was a collection of the well-known tales and was probably my favourite. I enjoyed stories like Peter Pan, Alice in Wonderland and Treasure Island. We also had a very old Chatterbox Annual, a properly bound book, containing about 200 pages. This had belonged to someone in my father’s family, and it was full of stories, poems, pictures and paintings.

Shock-headed Peter

That picture might be familiar to older folks. I remember that it appeared in our Chatterbox Annual. Created by Heinrich Hoffman, Der Struwwelpeter consisted of ten German stories, each with a moral.

See Slovenly Peter! Here he stands, 

With his dirty hair and hands. 

See! his nails are never cut; 

They are grimed as black as soot; 

No water for many weeks, 

Has been near his cheeks; 

And the sloven, I declare, 

Not once this year has combed his hair! 

Anything to me is sweeter 

Than to see shock-headed Peter. 

One more picture from the Chatterbox Annual - another painting by John Everett Millais,  The Boyhood of Raleigh

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No.63

Clouds come floating into my life, 

no longer to carry rain or usher storm,

but to add colour to my sunset sky.

- Rabindranath Tagore

Excerpt from

The Cloud

by

Percy Bysshe Shelley

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,

And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.” 

― John Lubbock, (The Use Of Life)

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No.62

Thanks to FreeFoto.com for the image

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Wordsworth's Daffodils

The Two Versions

The First in 1804

I wandered lonely as a Cloud

That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd

A host of dancing Daffodils;

Along the Lake, beneath the trees,

Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they

Outdid the sparkling waves in glee: --

A poet could not but be gay

In such a laughing company:

I gazed -- and gazed -- but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the Daffodils.

The Second in 1815

I wandered lonely as a Cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and Hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host of golden Daffodils

Beside the Lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-

A Poet could not but be gay

In such a jocund company:

I gazed - and gazed - but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude,

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the Daffodils.

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No.61

In 1848 three young British artists rebelled against the academic style of painting and founded the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.

The eldest of the trio was William Holman Hunt who was just 21 and the others were John Everett Millais and Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

What they proposed was a return to the style of the Italian painters who had lived prior to Raphael. They wanted to find again the simple naturalism of artists like Fra Angelico and Botticelli.

So, avoiding the dark shadows which were typical of their contemporaries, they used bright colours on white backgrounds.

The Brotherhood was later joined by a number of other artists who produced a huge number of paintings varying in subject matter and in style.

Here are three examples:-

Amaryllis

William Holman Hunt

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Vanessa

John Everett Millais

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The Day Dream

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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No.60

An ornamental garden

in the Auburn Botanical Gardens, Sydney, Australia

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Leisure
by W.H. Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare?

No time to stand beneath the boughs,
And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

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No.59

Unicorn in Captivity

A 15th Century Tapestry

Tapestry is a form of textile art, woven on a vertical loom. It is composed of two sets of interlaced threads, those running parallel to the length (called the warp) and those parallel to the width (called the weft); the warp threads are set up under tension on a loom, and the weft thread is passed back and forth across part or all of the warps. 

Tapestry is weft-faced weaving, in which all the warp threads are hidden in the completed work, unlike cloth weaving where both the warp and the weft threads may be visible. In tapestry weaving, weft yarns are typically discontinuous; the artisan interlaces each coloured weft back and forth in its own small pattern area. It is a plain weft-faced weave having weft threads of different colours worked over portions of the warp to form the design.

Most weavers use a naturally based warp thread such as linen or cotton. The weft threads are usually wool or cotton, but may include silk, gold, silver, or other alternatives.

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The Farm Cart

by Myles Birket Foster 1825-99

The name of this English watercolour artist will be unfamiliar to most people. Yet for many years he was highly regarded and around 400 of his paintings were exhibited at the Royal Academy. Also known as an illustrator, he worked for a time for Punch magazine and the Illustrated London News.

Later he was criticised for his idealised pictures of country life. He was one of a number of artists whose works were used by Cadbury to decorate their boxes of chocolates.

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No.58

Paul Robeson 1898-1976

American athlete, singer, actor and civil rights activist

While a student at university, he experienced a great deal of prejudice and even violence because of his colour. He excelled in basketball, baseball and track events, and was twice named to the All-American Football Team.

In 1923 he left university with a lawyer’s degree, but the problem about not being white was always present. When a secretary refused to take dictation from him, he gave up his job with a legal firm and went on the stage.

He appeared in 11 films including “Showboat” (1936).

Here he is with Uta Hagen in "Othello"

In 1944 following his success in “Othello” he won the Donaldson Award for Best Acting performance.

Outside the USA Paul Robeson was welcomed warmly everywhere he went, but at home life was very different for him and all coloured people.

In 1950 he appeared before the All-American Activities Committee and from that year till 1958 his passport was denied him.

Ol' man river,

Dat ol' man river

He mus' know sumpin'

But don't say nuthin',

He jes' keeps rollin'

He keeps on rollin' along.

He don' plant taters,

He don' plant cotton,

An' dem dat plants 'em

Is soon forgotten,

But ol' man river,

He jes keeps rollin' along.

You an' me, we sweat an' strain,

Body all achin' an' racked wid pain'

Tote dat barge, Lift dat bale, 

Git a little drunk an' you lands in gaol,

Ah gits weary an' sick of tryin'

Ah'm tired of livin' an' feered of dyin',

But ol' man river,

He jes' keeps rolling' along.

Interestingly, after he became involved in the struggle for racial equality, he changed 2 lines in the song. At the end, instead of the sad “I’m tired of livin’ and feared of dyin” he substituted the confident declaration “I must keep fightin’ until I’m dyin’!”

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