No.20

Edward Lear 1812-1888

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Famous for his limericks, it’s often forgotten that he had other strings to his bow - he was author, poet, artist and illustrator.

By the time he was 16, he was already earning money by drawing, and very soon was employed by the Zoological Society as an illustrator. Aged 19 he published his first book which consisted of illustrations of parrots.

He spent 3 years travelling and painting in Italy, and later toured the Mediterranean coasts. His trips abroad also took him to Greece and India.

Here are just a few examples of his work . . .

The Vini Kuhlii are native to Rimatara in the Tubuai Islands.

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The Ara Macao which is found in the evergreen forests of the American tropics.

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This is the Maguari Stork from Argentina, Bolivia, Brazil and Colombia.

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This painting Civita Castellano is a scene in the province of Virterbo, Italy.

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A view of the pyramid road at Gizah.

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And one in Britain - at Nuneham near Oxford.

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This is his famous drawing of the owl and the pussy cat.

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From his illustrations of imaginary plants, Manypeeplia Upsidownia,

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And his drawing of himself and his cat Foss

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Yes, he was certainly an eccentric gentleman!

Apparently he would sometimes introduce himself as Mr. Abebika
Kratoponoko Prizzikalo Kattefello Ablegorobalus Ableborinto Phashyph!!!

So it won’t surprise you to learn that when he gave some drawing lessons to Queen Victoria, there was quite a fuss over his failure to observe the proper court protocol.

Finally, a portrait of Lear as a young man by Wilhelm Marstrand

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No.19

The artist not known

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Excelsior
by
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807-1882

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I was always both fascinated and puzzled by this poem. What on earth was the young chap playing at? Why the banner? And where was he going?
I knew that the word came from old English and meant “ever higher.” Nowadays I smile when I read the poem, for I have a James Thurber book in which the humorist has drawn clever illustrations to accompany Longfellow’s story.

And here’s the poem:-

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth who bore, ‘mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad, his eye beneath
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

“Try not the Pass!” the old man said;
“Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!”
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

“Oh, stay,” the maiden said, “and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!”
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered with a sigh,
Excelsior!

“Beware the pine-tree’s withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!”
This was the peasant’s last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of St Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There, in the twilight, cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

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I was delighted to come across this next poem, completely by chance - an amusing parody on Longfellow.

Excelsior: the Shades of Night
By
A.E.Housman 1859-1936

The shades of night were falling fast
And the rain was falling faster,
When through an Alpine village passed
An Alpine village pastor;
A youth who bore through snow and ice
A bird that wouldn’t chirrup,
And a banner with the strange device
“Mrs Winslow’s Soothing Syrup.”

“Beware the pass,” the old man said,
“My bold and desperate fellah;
Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
And you’ll want your um-ber-ella;
And the roaring torrent is deep and wide,
You may hear how it washes.”
But still that clarion voice replied,
“I’ve got my old galoshes.”

“Oh, say,” the maiden said, “and rest
(For the wind blows from the nor’ward)
Thy weary head upon my breast,
And please don’t think me forward.”
A tear stood in his bright blue eye
And gladly he would have tarried;
But still he answered with a sigh,
“Unhappily I’m married!”

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Finally, another parody - this time it’s a monologue that was once popular in music halls. This version has been slightly abridged.

Uppards
By
Marriott Edgar 1880-1951

‘Twere getting dusk, one winter’s night,
When up the clough there came in sight,
A lad who carried through the snow
A banner with this ‘ere motto
“Uppards.”

A policeman on his lonely beat,
He stopped the lad up ‘t end of t’street,
He said, “Where’t going wi’ that theer?”
The lad just whispered in his ear,
“Uppards.”

“Don’t go down t’clough,” the policeman said,
“It’s mucky road for thee to tread.
Canal’s at bottom, deep and wide.”
“That’s not my road,” the lad replied,
“It’s - uppards.”

A young lass stopped him further up,
She said, “Come in wi’ me and sup.”
He said, “I’m takin’ none o’ yon,
Besides, I must be gettin’ on -
Uppards.”

Next day some lads had just begun
To tak’ their whippets for a run,
When dogs got scratching in the snow,
And found flag with this ‘ere motto
“Uppards.”

‘Twas very plain for to behold
The lad had ta’en his death o’ cold,
He’d got his feet wet early on,
And from his feet the cold had gone -
Uppards.

This story only goes to show
That, when the fields is white wi’ snow.
It’s inadvisable to go -
Uppards!!!

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I wonder if Henry Longfellow had a sense of humour.

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No.18

Erik Satie 1866-1925
French composer and pianist

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It’s difficult to believe that the studious gentleman in that photo was one of the maddest musicians around in the early part of the 20th century. But he didn’t call himself a musician - he said he was a “phonometrician" (which apparently means someone who measures sounds.)

Today, Satie is remembered for his piano compositions, particularly the Gymnopédies and the Gnossiennes.

Many of his pieces have very weird titles such as -Three pieces in the shape of a Pear, Two Préludes for a Dog, Dessicated Embryos.

Surely he was at his craziest when he composed “Vexations." This was a single sheet of piano music, at the top of which he wrote “In order to play the theme 840 times in succession, it would be advisable to prepare oneself beforehand, and in the deepest silence, by serious immobilities.”

You won’t be surprised to learn that John Cage 1912-1992, the American who produced 4’33” during which not a single note is played, arranged a performance of “Vexations” with a number of pianists taking part. The whole thing lasted more than 18 hours!!!

I hope all that hasn’t put you off listening to the music I’ve chosen. They’re really good, and at least one will be familiar.

But before that, I’ve just got to show you how Satie described his daily routine.

“An artist must regulate his life. Here is a time-table of my daily acts.

I rise at 7.18; am inspired from 10.23 to 11.47. I lunch at 12.11 and leave the table at 12.14. A healthy ride on horse-back round my domain follows from 1.19 pm to 2.53 pm. Another bout of inspiration from 3.12 to 4.7 pm. From 5 to 6.47 pm various occupations (fencing, reflection, immobility, visits, contemplation, dexterity, natation, etc.)

Dinner is served at 7.16 and finished at 7.20 pm. From 8.9 to 9.59 pm symphonic readings (out loud). I go to bed regularly at 10.37 pm. Once a week (on Tuesdays) I awake with a start at 3.14 am.

My only nourishment consists of food that is white: eggs, sugar, shredded bones, the fat of dead animals, veal, salt, coco-nuts, chicken cooked in white water, mouldy fruit, rice, turnips, sausages in camphor, pastry, cheese (white varieties), cotton salad, and certain kinds of fish (without their skin). I boil my wine and drink it cold mixed with the juice of the Fuschia. I have a good appetite but never talk when eating for fear of strangling myself.

I breathe carefully (a little at a time) and dance very rarely. When walking I hold my ribs and look steadily behind me. My expression is very serious; when I laugh it is unintentional, and I always apologise very politely. I sleep with only one eye closed, very profoundly. My bed is round with a hole in it for my head to go through. Every hour a servant takes my temperature and gives me another.”

This is the well-known Gymnopédie No.1 - a lovely melody, beautifully played by an unnamed pianist.



“Le Piccadilly” a cheery little piece, played by Mari Tsuda, with a brief biography of Satie on the screen.



Finally, “Je Te Veux,” and again the pianist’s name has not been given.

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A new series of my 80 plus blog began yesterday - http://80plus.blogspot.com

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No.17

BITS AND PIECES

. . . . A small selection of unrelated items which I hope will be of interest.

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[from “A Highland Parish” by Norman Macleod 1812-1871,]

When I was young, I was sent to live among the peasantry in “the parish,” so as to acquire a knowledge of the language; and living, as I did, very much like themselves, it was my delight to spend the long evenings in their huts, hearing their tales and songs.

These huts were of the most primitive description. They were built of loose stones and clay; the walls were thick, the door low, the rooms numbered one only, or in more aristocratic cases two.

The floor was clay; the peat-fire was built in the middle of the floor, and the smoke, when amiable and not bullied by a sulky wind, escaped quietly and patiently through a hole in the roof.

The window was like a porthole, part of it generally filled with glass and part with peat.

One bed or sometimes two, a “dresser” with bowls and plates, a large chest, and a corner full of peat filled up the space beyond the circle about the fire.

Upon the rafters above, black as ebony from peat-reek, a row of hens and chickens with a stately cock roosted in a paradise of heat.

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I so liked Spring last year
Because you were here; -
The thrushes too -
Because it was these you so liked to hear -
I so liked you.

This year’s a different thing, -
I’ll not think of you.
But I’ll like Spring because it is simply Spring
As the thrushes do.
[Charlotte Mew 1880-1914]

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[from the Introduction to English Parish Churches, by John Betjeman 1906-1984]

Bell ringing in England is known among ringers as “the exercise,” rather as the rearing and training of pigeons is known among the pigeon fraternity as “the fancy.” It is a classless folk art which has survived in the church despite all arguments about doctrine and the diminution of congregations.

In many a church when the parson opens with the words “Dearly beloved, the Scripture moveth us in sundry places . . . “ one may hear the tramp of the ringers descending the newel stair into the refreshing silence of the graveyard.

Though in some churches they may come in later by the main door and sit in the pew marked “Ringers Only,” in others they will not be seen again, the sweet melancholy notes of the “exercise” floating out over the Sunday chimney-pots having been their contribution to the glory of God.

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MINSTREL MAN

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter
And my throat
Is deep with song,
You do not think
I suffer after
I have held my pain
So long?

Because my mouth
Is wide with laughter,
You do not hear
My inner cry?
Because my feet
Are gay with dancing,
You do not know
I die?
[Langston Hughes 1902-1967, African-American novelist and dramatist]

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[Some thoughts by Boutros Boutros-Ghali b.1922, Secretary-General of the UN 1992-1996]

Ever since my youth I have been inspired whenever I contemplate the Nile, the river-god my ancestors worshipped.

The Nile flows on indifferent to mere events. It carries a message from the heart of Africa, our common home. It brings life to all who live near its banks. It contributes its water to the Mediterranean and the great civilisations which surround its shores. And ultimately it flows and merges with all the world’s oceans which link every continent and all the people of our planet.

To me, it is a constant reminder of our common humanity.

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Happy the man, and happy he alone,
He who can call today his own;
He who, secure within, can say,
Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul or rain or shine
The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine.
Not Heaven itself upon the past has power,
But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
[John Dryden 1631-1700]

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[Portia’s speech, from The Merchant of Venice, by William Shakespeare 1564-1616]

The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown;
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthroned in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence 'gainst the merchant there.

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[A popular song of 1919 by Buddy DeSylva 1895-1950]

Look for the silver lining
When e'er a cloud appears in the blue.
Remember somewhere the sun is shining,
And so the right thing to do,
Is make it shine for you.

A heart, full of joy and gladness,
Will always banish sadness and strife.
So always look for the silver lining,
And try to find the sunny side of life.

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