For a picture of Christmas Eve, in the olden time, we can desire none better than that furnished by Sir Walter Scott in Marmion:
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then opened wide the baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doffed his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of “post and pair.”
All hailed, with uncontrolled delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down!
The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubbed till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s-head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where the monster fell
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas-eye;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce,
At such high-tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roared with blithesome din
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, oh! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
‘Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale;
‘Twas Christmas told the merriest tale
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.
The Civil War veteran above wears the cap of the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR)—the largest Union veterans’ organization—founded in 1866. The number on his cap signals that his post was 139, located in Scranton, Pennsylvania.
This prize-winning amateur photograph from the 1935 Newspaper National Snapshot Awards was taken by Mrs. Nathan Klein of Wyoming, Pennsylvania. The note on the back reads: “Old soldier talking to bootblacks.”
Source : Picture Archive: American Soldiers, National Geographic.
Sci Fi Author and Instapundit blogger Sarah Hoyt is a naturalized US citizen born in Portugal. Sarah had a few choice words about impeachers in the democrat-controlled House today.
I remember thinking Americans were completely insane. I remember it as through a glass darkly, from the other side of acculturation. But that person and I did share a brain, and I remember my utter bafflement at the American people being mad at taxes — because well, every country levies taxes, right? It’s the price to pay for civilization? — and at American people being furious that the government wanted to take their guns away — what is it with Americans and guns, anyway? The government always takes people’s guns away, to keep them safe! — and at Americans getting all hot under the collar at the idea of a national id card, and…
I also remember coming to the states and being baffled and astonished at people leaving stuff outside, just lying there, and no one stealing it. And at the way you didn’t bribe the police at a traffic stop. And at the amazing amount of civility in everyday life.
Eventually I realized those were two sides of the same coin. The respect for the law in the US, specifically the respect for our foundational law of the constitution is woven all the way through.
Which is why places like Chicago or St. Louis, or other places where corruption is naked and in your face are jokes and bywords here. In the rest of the world with the exception of certain anglophone parts of the world, they’re “Saturday Night.â€
And it’s why we’re outraged, frothing mad, chomping at the bit.
Look, let’s level set: I’m waiting for the boss over at Instapundit to tell me I stepped over the line with my intimation that I want everyone who was/is involved in this attempted coup (against we the people who voted for Trump as president,) to be hanged, cut down while still living and their entrails burned before their eyes.
For those who didn’t get the reference, it was actually the Elizabethan punishment for heresy/treason, since the two were enmeshed in that era, and as such it fits the crime against the most basic beliefs that make us a nation. So, yeah, as graphic as that was, it was a reference joke. And I was being a nerd.
On the other hand, the reason that joke was made was that a part of me is frothing at the mouth furious and has nowhere to put it.
Because the guy who jacks your car might be showing a lack of respect for the law, but he’s not in elected office, and he most likely hasn’t sworn to defend the constitution. BUT most importantly he’s probably not doing it in the full light of day. His reach is limited. The ass-clowns in government right now, however, are screaming from the rooftops that they’re no longer our countrymen and they don’t want to live by the very same constitution they swore to protect.
I think the proper term for what they’re doing is Sedition.
Every Christmas, Williams-Sonoma assumes you’re horny for tartan. Like you put on a kilt and affect a Scottish brogue and scream AYE YA WEE LADS AND LASSES! WITHOOT BOREDARE LINNUNS, THIS HULLIDAY IS SHITE!!! There must be tartan, and there must also be decorative berries that are poisonous if spotted out in the wild. That’s Christmas, baby. I like to play bagpipes in the nude and then decorate my walls with thorny brambles for unsuspecting guests to accidentally brush against. Pairs well with my contempt for society in general. …
COPY: “Bubbly & Bites! All you need is Champagne, a few easy appetizers and our elegant Marble & Brass entertaining pieces to host a fabulous holiday get-together.â€
Drew says: Hang on a minute. Let’s check out these “easy appetizers,†shall we?
“1. Crème fraiche with salmon roe and Cape gooseberries on rounds of seeded wheat breadâ€
Where the fuck am I gonna find Cape gooseberries? Do you sell them in the back of this catalog for $5.99 each? “Make your Christmas party a BREEZE by milling your own caraway seed, baking melba toasts from scratch, and then topping your creation off with a dash of Madgascar toucan bill and locally sourced uni sperm!†…
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You thought the Star Wars cookware was the end of it. You were wrong. That’s only the beginning, amigo. What do you think happens when an entire generation is raised exclusively on Marvel and Star Wars movies, and then ages into boomerdom? THIS. This is what happens. Half a century from now, you’ll walk into a Christmas party at a 6,500 sq, ft. mansion hosted by some McKinsey executive, and the whole joint will be decorated with elaborate Baby Yoda tapestries and ceramic Tony Starks hand-crafted by skilled artisans in Lombardy. You’ll never escape it. When you die, you’ll be interred in an even BIGGER Han Solo Le Creuset. In tartan.
I am old, I am old, and my eyes are grown weaker,
My beard is as white as the foam on the sea,
Yet pass me the bottle, and fill me a beaker,
A bright brimming toast in a bumper for me.
Back, back through long vistas of years I am wafted.
But the glow at my heart’s undiminished in force.
Deep, deep in that heart has fond memory engrafted
Those quick thirty minutes from Ranksboro’ Gorse.
What is time? the effluxion of life zoophitic
In dreary pursuit of position or gain.
What is life? The absorption of vapours mephitic.
And the bursting of sunlight on senses and brain!
Such a life have I lived– though so speedily over,
Condensing the joys of a century’s course,
From the find till we eat him near Woodwellhead Cover,
In thirty bright minutes from Ranksboro’ Gorse.
Last night in St. Stephen’s so wearily sitting
(The member for Boreham sustained the debate),
Some pitying spirit that round me was flitting
Vouchsafed a sweet vision my pains to abate.
The Mace, and the Speaker, and House disappearing,
The leather-clad bench is a thorough-bred horse ;
‘Tis the whimpering cry of the foxhound I’m hearing.
And my ‘seat’ is a pig-skin at Ranksboro’ Gorse.
He’s away! I can hear the identical holloa!
I can feel my young thorough-bred strain down the ride,
I can hear the dull thunder of hundreds that follow,
I can see my old comrades in life by my side.
Do I dream? all around me I see the dead riding,
And voices long silent re-echo with glee;
I can hear the far wail of the Master’s vain chiding,
As vain as the Norseman’s reproof to the sea.
Vain indeed! for the bitches are racing before us —
Not a nose to the earth — not a stern in the air;
And we know by the notes of that modified chorus
How straight we must ride if we wish to be there
With a crash o’er the turnpike, and onward I’m sailing,
Released from the throes of the blundering mass,
“Which dispersed right and left as I topped the high railing,
And shape my own course o’er the billowy grass.
Select is the circle in which I am moving,
Yet open and free the admission to all;
Still, still more select is that company proving.
Weeded out by the funker and thinned by the fall;
Yet here all are equal — no class legislation,
No privilege hinders, no family pride:
In the ‘image of war’ show the pluck of the nation;
Ride, ancient patrician! democracy, ride!
Oh! gently, my young one; the fence we are nearing
Is leaning towards us — ’tis hairy and black.
The binders are strong, and necessitate clearing,
Or the wide ditch beyond will find room for your back.
Well saved! We are over! now far down the pastures
Of Ashwell the willows betoken the line
Of the dull-flowing stream of historic disasters;
We must face, my bold young one, the dread Whissendine!
No shallow-dug pan with a hurdle to screen it.
That cock-tail imposture the steeple chase brook;
But the steep broken banks tell us plain, if we mean it,
The less we shall like it the longer we look.
Then steady, my young one, my place I’ve selected,
Above the dwarf willow ’tis sound I’ll be bail,
With your muscular quarters beneath you collected,
Prepare for a rush like the ‘limited mail.’
Oh ! now let me know the full worth of your breeding,
Brave son of Belzoni, be true to your sires,
Sustain old traditions — remember you’re leading
The cream of the cream in the shire of the shires!
With a quick shortened stride as the distance you measure,
With a crack of the nostril and cock of the ear,
And a rocketing bound, and we ‘re over, my treasure.
Twice nine feet of water, and landed all clear!
What! four of us only? Are these the survivors
Of all that rode gaily from Ranksboro’s ridge?
I hear the faint splash of a few hardy divers,
The rest are in hopeless research of a bridge;
Vae Victis! the way of the world and the winners!
Do we ne’er ride away from a friend in distress?
Alas! we are anti- Samaritan sinners,
And streaming past Stapleford, onward we press.
Ah! don’t they mean mischief, the merciless ladies?
What fox can escape such implacable foes?
Of the sex cruel slaughter for ever the trade is,
Whether human or animal — Yonder he goes!
Never more for the woodland! his purpose has failed him,
Though to gain the old shelter he gallantly tries;
In vain the last double, for Jezebel’s nailed him!
Whoohoop! in the open the veteran dies!
Yes, four of us only! but is it a vision?
Dear lost ones, how came ye with mortals to mix?
Methought that ye hunted the pastures Elysian,
And between us there rolled the unjumpable Styx!
Stay, stay but a moment! the grass fields are fading,
And heavy obscurity palsies my brain:
Through what country, what ploughs, and what sloughs
am I wading?
Alas! ’tis the member for Boreham again!
Oh, glory of youth! consolation of age!
Sublimest of ecstasies under the sun;
Though the veteran may linger too long on the stage,
Yet he’ll drink a last toast to a fox-hunting run.
And oh! young descendants of ancient top-sawyers!
By your lives to the world their example enforce;
Whether landlords, or parsons, or statesmen, or lawyers.
Ride straight as they rode it from Ranksboro’ Gorse.
Though a rough-riding world may bespatter your breeches.
Though sorrow may cross you, or slander revile.
Though you plunge overhead in misfortune’s blind ditches.
Shun the gap of deception, the hand-gate of guile:
Oh, avoid them! for there, see the crowd is contending,
Ignoble the object — ill-mannered the throng;
Shun the miry lane, falsehood, with turns never ending.
Ride straight for truth’s timber, no matter how strong.
I’ll pound you safe over! sit steady and quiet;
Along the sound headland of honesty steer;
Beware of false holloas and juvenile riot.
Though the oxer of duty be wide, never fear!
And when the run ‘s over of earthly existence.
And you get safe to ground, you will fear no remorse.
If you ride it — no matter what line or what distance —
As straight as your fathers from Ranksboro’ Gorse.
“τὸ κακὸν δοκεῖν ποτ᾽ á¼ÏƒÎ¸Î»á½¸Î½ τῷδ᾽ ἔμμεν’ ὅτῳ φÏÎνας θεὸς ἄγει Ï€Ïὸς ἄταν” [“Evil appears as good in the minds of those whom god leads to destruction”.]
— Sophocles, Antigone, 620-623.
I have to acknowledge that I never thought it would get this far. I didn’t think that the instinct of self preservation had been entirely bred out of Democrats. I realize that they have been talking about impeaching Donald Trump from before he took office. Rashida Tlaib really countered the ‘crude’ Donald Trump when, upon being elected in 2018, she promised ‘we’re gonna go in there and we’re going to impeach the motherfucker’. She seems nice.
I thought that the prospect of the 2020 election would have made the Democrats fold their cards before now and retreat muttering, ‘well, anyway, we don’t like him’. Yet here we are. If anything has become clear over the past couple of months, it is that the Democrats have no case against the president; there are no crimes alleged, just the emission of a turgid vapor about ‘abuse of power’ and ‘obstruction of Congress’. There was no ‘quid pro quo’, no ‘pressure’, no ‘abuse of power’. All people with first hand knowledge of the infamous conversation between President Trump and President Zelensky acknowledge this. There was just the president doing the people’s business, legitimately exercising his power.
The public is sick, sick, sick of the spectacle. Not the news media, of course: drama sells papers and commercials. But the voters have seen, and seen through, this nakedly partisan folly. We know this in part because of the polls, which have the president riding high, but even more because of the current of feeling — ‘incapable of definition’, as Edmund Burke said in another context, ‘but not impossible to be discerned’ — that all cultural barometers are registering. Donald Trump has enjoyed ostentatious success during his first term: the economy, the stock market, the unemployment figures, the vibrant business environment, at long last tearing the albatross of misguided regulation of its neck — all that and more. Indeed, perhaps even more central is the rebirth of patriotic pride that ordinary Americans feel, in their country, and in themselves.
This was a theme that Rep. Jim Jordan stressed in his brief remarks this evening. Donald Trump has been a great success, and the Democrats hate him for it. ‘Democrats,’ he noted, ‘have never accepted the will of the American people’.
