It was not part of their blood,
It came to them very late
With long arrears to make good,
When the English began to hate.
They were not easily moved,
They were icy-willing to wait
Till every count should be proved,
Ere the English began to hate.
Their voices were even and low,
Their eyes were level and straight.
There was neither sign nor show,
When the English began to hate.
It was not preached to the crowd,
It was not taught by the State.
No man spoke it aloud,
When the English began to hate.
It was not suddenly bred,
It will not swiftly abate,
Through the chill years ahead,
When Time shall count from the date
That the English began to hate.
Rudyard Kipling, "The Beginnings"
My son," said the Norman Baron, "I am dying, and you will be heir
To all the broad acres in England that William gave me for my share
When we conquered the Saxon at Hastings, and a nice little handful it is.
But before you go over to rule it I want you to understand this:—
"The Saxon is not like us Normans, His manners are not so polite.
But he never means anything serious till he talks about justice and right.
When he stands like an ox in the furrow with his sullen set eyes on your own,
And grumbles, "This isn't fair dealings," my son, leave the Saxon alone.
"You can horsewhip your Gascony archers, or torture your Picardy spears,
But don't try that game on the Saxon; you'll have the whole brood round your ears.
From the richest old Thane in the county to the poorest chained serf in the field,
They'll be at you and on you like hornets, and, if you are wise, you will yield.
"But first you must master their language, their dialect, proverbs and songs.
Don't trust any clerk to interpret when they come with the tale of their wrongs.
Let them know that you know what they're saying; let them feel that you know what to say.
Yes, even when you want to go hunting, hear 'em out if it takes you all day.
"They'll drink every hour of the daylight and poach every hour of the dark,
It's the sport not the rabbits they 're after (we 've plenty of game in the park).
Don't hang them or cut off their fingers. That's wasteful as well as unkind,
For a hard-bitten, South-country poacher makes the best man-at-arms you can find.
"Appear with your wife and the children at their weddings and funerals and feasts.
Be polite but not friendly to Bishops; be good to all poor parish priests.
Say 'we,' 'us' and 'ours' when you're talking instead of 'you fellows' and 'I.'
Don't ride over seeds; keep your temper; and never you tell 'em a lie!"
Rudyard Kipling, "Norman and Saxon"
7 comments:
The story of Mary Postgate touched me beyond words –– actually moved me to tears. Such is the wondrous power of old time British understatement –– and of Kipling's uncanny ability to probe the depths of the human heart with quasi-surgical precision.
I've loved Kipling all my life, but had never known this story –– or the poems accompanying it before.
Thank you, Farmer, for expanding my knowledge and for touching my sensibilities in a way totally unexpected as I approach the winter of my life this Sunday evening in September.
I am frustrated not to be able to learn the identity of the actor who read Kipling's story. I thoight he was wonderful. The presentation would not have been half as successful as it is if a reader of lesser talent had made the recording.
Kipling was quite an author.
I came across this piece before watching a Netflix movie called "The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society". You might enjoy the contrast between Mary Postgate and it.
I'll check it out later today. FJ.
I've been invited to an Afternoon Tea, believe it or not.
My hostess –– an old high school ate –– fancies herself a socialist, but of the early Fabian "Palror Pink" variety.
I have learned that when she starts spouting her pet political theories it's best for me just to SHUT UP and LISTEN politely.
After all neither of us is in a position –– or at an age –– where we can DO anything to influence the situation other than ro VOTE. So she and I undoubtedly will CANCEL ACH OTHER OUT come November.
Sounds like you'll make the perfect date for tea. Have fun!
WHEN THIS PROUD AMN LERNED HOW TO HATE:
_____ A Wry Memorial _____
The Swarthy Ones took over;
And made weapons of four planes.
The riders had no cover;
They suffered dreadful pains
That ended once their deathtraps
Burst into roaring fires
Turning instantly to mere scraps––
Cinders––made of former flyers.
The burning towers crumpled,
And fell into the street.
New York was more than rumpled;
Briefly, it knew defeat.
The nation drew together;
We felt collective grief.
Anger broke its tether;
To express it gave relief.
But just a few years hence
We're at each other's throats;
We've built ourselves a fence
Over which the Devil gloats.
We've failed to give the orders
To build a proper wall
Sealing off our borders
To the fiends who’d have us fall.
Instead, we've made division––
Went to war against ourselves––
And are mired in derision
Sparked by partisan elves,
Who forget this blessed land
In pursuit of powers lost
In close elections manned
By fraud. So, tempest-tossed
The country is in turmoil.
The enemy's our own.
He says it's all for Big Oil,
And he'll soon usurp the Throne.
The heap of twisted rubble
Raising toxic fumes for weeks
No longer gives us trouble
Because of media leaks
Designed to throw us off the scent
Of whom we need to blame
And encourage ruinous dissent
That hopes to break the frame
That holds us all together
And preserves our liberty,
So many now doubt whether
We really should be free.
And each rabble rousing louse
Should 'neath these words be pinned:
"He who troubleth his own house
Shall inherit–––the wind"
... FreeThnke
Apt!
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