A favorite passage

"As they entered the little street, it was so dark with the promise of snow that the shops were being lighted. They were all decked out with holly, mistletoe, tinsel, crackers, toys, oranges, model Christmas trees with tapers and glass balls, apples, sweets, sucking pigs, sides of beef, turkeys, geese, Christmas cakes and big plum puddings.

'I say, I do love Christmas,' Kay said."

--The Box of Delights by John Masefield, first published 1935

Excerpt from my current reading

[Excerpt taken from my 1909 Lippincott Juniors edition, with charming illustrations by Maria L. Kirk...]


"So Diamond sat down again, took the baby in his lap, and began poking his face into its little body, laughing and singing all the while, so that the baby crowed like a little bantam. And what he sang was something like this -- such nonsense to those that couldn't understand it! but not to the baby, who got all the good in the world out of it: --

baby's a-sleeping
wake up baby
for all the swallows
are the merriest fellows
and have the yellowest children
who would go sleeping
and snore like a gaby
disturbing his mother
and father and brother
and all a-boring
their ears with his snoring
snoring snoring
for himself and no other
for himself in particular
wake up baby
sit up perpendicular
hark to the gushing
hark to the rushing
where the sheep are the woolliest
and the lambs the unruliest
and their tails the whitest
and their eyes the brightest
and baby's the bonniest
and baby's the funniest
and baby's the shiniest
and baby's the tiniest
and baby's the merriest
and baby's the worriest
of all the lambs
that plague their dams
and mother's the whitest
of all the dams
that feed the lambs
that go crop-cropping
without stop-stopping
and father's the best
of all the swallows
that build their nest
out of the shining shallows
and he has the merriest children
that's baby and Diamond
and Diamond and baby
and baby and Diamond
and Diamond and baby

Here Diamond's knees went off in a wild dance which tossed the baby about and shook the laughter out of him in immoderate peals. His mother had been listening at the door to the last few lines of his song, and came in with the tears in her eyes. She took the baby from him, gave him a kiss, and told him to run to his father."

--At the Back of the North Wind by George MacDonald, first published in 1871

Excerpt from my current reading

[Mr. Pickwick and his friends are celebrating Christmas Eve with the Wardle family...]

"From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended, with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and delightful struggling and confusion; in the midst of which, Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have done honour to a descendent of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but the younger ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration for the custom: or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost a little trouble to obtain it: screamed and struggled, and ran into corners, and threatened and remonstrated, and did everything but leave the room, until some of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good grace. Mr. Winkle kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass kissed Emily, and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he caught them. As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer portions of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right under the mistletoe, as soon as it was hung up, without knowing it! Wardle stood with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction; and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summarily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by for somebody else."

--The Pickwick Papers by Charles Dickens, first published 1836-37

A favorite passage

"Louisa was slow and still in her movements; it took her a long time to prepare her tea; but when ready it was set forth with as much grace as if she had been a veritable guest to her own self. The little square table stood exactly in the center of the kitchen, and was covered with a starched linen cloth whose border pattern of flowers glistened. Louisa had a damask napkin on her tea-tray, where were arranged a cut-glass tumbler full of teaspoons, a silver cream-pitcher, a china sugar-bowl, and one pink china cup and saucer. Louisa used china every day -- something which none of her neighbors did. They whispered about it among themselves. Their daily tables were laid with common crockery, their sets of best china stayed in the parlor closet, and Louisa Ellis was no richer nor better bred than they. Still she would use the china. She had for her supper a glass dish full of sugared currants, a plate of little cakes, and one of little white biscuits. Also a leaf or two of lettuce, which she cut up daintily. Louisa was very fond of lettuce, which she raised to perfection in her little garden. She ate quite heartily, though, in a delicate, pecking, way; it seemed almost surprising that any considerable bulk of the food should vanish.

After tea she filled a plate with nicely baked thin corn-cakes, and carried them out into the back-yard.

"Caesar!" she called. " Caesar! Caesar!"

There was a little rush, and the clank of a chain, and a large yellow-and-white dog appeared at the door of his tiny hut, which was half hidden among the tall grasses and flowers.

Louisa patted him and gave him the corn-cakes. Then she returned to the house and washed the tea-things, polishing the china carefully. The twilight had deepened; the chorus of the frogs floated in at the open window wonderfully loud and shrill, and once in a while a long sharp drone from a tree-toad pierced it. Louisa took off her green gingham apron, disclosing a shorter one of pink and white print. She lighted her lamp, and sat down again with her sewing."

--excerpt from A New England Nun by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, first published 1891

A favorite passage

...They came to the wagon, waiting for them in front of Fuller's hardware store. Something bulky stood in the wagon box, covered with a horse blanket. Laura wondered what it was, but she had no time to look, for Pa untied the horses quickly and they all started home.

"What have you got in back, Charles?" Ma asked.

"I can't show you now, Caroline. Wait until we get home," Pa answered.

At home he stopped the wagon close to the house door. "Now girls," he said, "take your own packages in, but leave mine alone until I get back from putting up the horses. Don't you peek under the blanket either!"

He unhitched the horses and hurried them away.

"Now whatever can that be?" Ma said to Laura. They waited. As soon as possible, Pa came hurrying back. He lifted the blanket away, and there stood a shining new sewing machine.

"Oh, Charles!" Ma gasped.

"Yes, Caroline, it is yours," Pa said proudly. "There'll be a lot of extra sewing, with Mary coming home and Laura going away, and I thought you'd need some help."

"But how could you?" Ma asked, touching the shiny black iron of the machine's legs.

"I had to sell a cow anyway, Caroline; there wouldn't be room in the stable next winter unless I did," Pa explained. "Now if you will help me unload this thing, we will take its cover off and see how it looks."

A long time ago, Laura remembered, a tone in Ma's voice when she spoke of a sewing machine had made Laura think that she wanted one. Pa had remembered that.

He took the endgate out of the wagon, and he and Ma and Laura lifted the sewing machine carefully down and carried it into the sitting room, while Carrie and Grace hovered around excitedly. Then Pa lifted the box-cover of the machine and they stood in silent admiration.

"It is beautiful," Ma said at last, "and what a help it will be. I can hardly wait to use it."

--excerpt from These Happy Golden Years by Laura Ingalls Wilder, published 1943

Musings on authors

Sisters Shannon at A Maiden's Musings and Tiffany at A High Calling tagged me for this literary-themed meme, so how could I resist? :-)

Who is your all-time favorite author and why?
It's tough to pick just one! I'm going to latch onto the adjective "all-time" and pick Agatha Christie, since she's been on my list of favorite authors for 13 years! I read my first Christie mystery, Murder for Christmas, when I was 11, and went through the rest of her mystery novels in the ensuing three years. Her writing style isn't particularly spectacular and some of her books can get a little tedious in the middle, but overall her plots are engaging, her characters realistic, and her books are just plain fun to read! I like to take her books travelling with me since it's easy to get lost in the plot anytime, anywhere. My personal favorite is By the Pricking of My Thumbs.

Who was your first favorite author and why? Do you still consider him/her to be among your favorites?
My first favorite author was probably Lloyd Alexander. He wrote a five-book children's fantasy series called the Prydain Chronicles, consisting of The Book of Three, The Black Cauldron, The Castle of Llyr, Taran Wanderer, and The High King. I think my mom first started reading them to me when I was 10 or 11. His books grabbed my imagination in a way that The Lord of the Rings and The Chronicles of Narnia never did (at that age, at least). I still really enjoy re-reading the Prydain Chronicles and my hardcover set is a cherished possession.

Who is the most recent addition to your list of favorite authors, and why?
Dorothy Sayers is actually a relatively recent addition. My mom had been trying to get me to read her books for years and for some reason I was just never interested. Then in spring 2005 I got sick and while I was laying on the couch in misery, I started watching my mom's DVD adaptations of Strong Poison, Have His Carcase, and Gaudy Night. I got hooked and started plowing through her books, and was delighted to find that her writing is even better than her plots!

If someone asked you who your favorite authors were right now, which authors would first pop out of your mouth?
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, John Masefield, Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers, Evelyn Waugh, Daphne du Maurier, P. G. Wodehouse, Madeleine L'Engle, Flora Thompson.

If you've made it this far, consider yourself tagged! Feel free to post your answers on your own blog or in the comments.

[EDIT: I forgot to add the official rules! Here they are:
Link to the person that tagged you, post the rules somewhere in your meme, answer the questions, tag six people in your post, let the tagees know they’ve been chosen by leaving a comment on their blog, let the tagger know your entry is posted.]

A favorite passage

"He accompanied her up the hill, explaining to her the details of his forthcoming tenure of the other farm. They spoke very little of their mutual feelings; pretty phrases and warm expressions being probably unnecessary between such tried friends. Theirs was that substantial affection which arises (if any arises at all) when the two who are thrown together begin first by knowing the rougher sides of each other's character, and not the best till further on, the romance growing up in the interstices of a mass of hard prosaic reality. This good-fellowship -- camaraderie -- usually occurring through similarity of pursuits, is unfortunately seldom superadded to love between the sexes, because men and women associate, not in their labours, but in their pleasures merely. Where, however, happy circumstance permits its development, the compounded feeling proves itself to be the only love which is strong as death -- that love which many waters cannot quench, nor the floods drown, beside which the passion usually called by the name is evanescent as a steam."

--Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy, first published 1874

The Fezziwigs

[The Ghost of Christmas Past has taken Scrooge to see his former employer, Mr. Fezziwig, at a Christmas party he once gave...]

"There were more dances, and there were forfeits, and more dances, and there was cake, and there was negus, and there was a great piece of Cold Roast, and there was a great piece of Cold Boiled, and there were mince-pies, and plenty of beer. But the great effect of the evening came after the Roast and Boiled, when the fiddler (an artful dog, mind. The sort of man who knew his business better than you or I could have told it him.) struck up ‘Sir Roger de Coverley.’ Then old Fezziwig stood out to dance with Mrs. Fezziwig. Top couple, too; with a good stiff piece of work cut out for them; three or four and twenty pairs of partners; people who were not to be trifled with; people who would dance, and had no notion of walking.

But if they had been twice as many – ah, four times – old Fezziwig would have been a match for them, and so would Mrs. Fezziwig. As to her, she was worthy to be his partner in every sense of the term. If that’s not high praise, tell me higher, and I’ll use it. A positive light appeared to issue from Fezziwig’s calves. They shone in every part of the dance like moons. You couldn’t have predicted, at any given time, what would have become of them next. And when old Fezziwig and Mrs. Fezziwig had gone all through the dance; advance and retire, both hands to your partner, bow and curtsey, corkscrew, thread-the-needle, and back again to your place; Fezziwig 'cut' – cut so deftly, that he appeared to wink with his legs, and came upon his feet again without a stagger."

--from "A Christmas Carol" by Charles Dickens, first published 1843

Christmas at Bracebridge Hall

Another Christmas book recommendation: Christmas at Bracebridge Hall by Washington Irving. This book was written in 1822 and is Irving's charming portrait of an old English Christmas. Here's a funny excerpt from the church service on Christmas Day:

"The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the keenest fox hunter to be in at the death. But the great trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very outset -- the musicians became flurried; Master Simon was in a fever; everything went on lamely and irregularly until they came to a chorus beginning, "Now let us sing with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting company: all became discord and confusion; each shifted for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as soon as he could; excepting one old chorister, in a pair of horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous nose; who, happening to stand a little apart, and being wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration."

The Box of Delights

One of my favorite Christmas-y stories is The Box of Delights by John Masefield, the former Poet Laureate of Great Britain. My dad first introduced me to it as a girl, but I didn't much appreciate it until I was "grown up." (I had the same reaction to other well-known children's fantasy novels such as The Chronicles of Narnia or Madeleine L'Engle's Time Quartet -- ironically, now that I am older, I can more easily indulge in the willing suspension of disbelief!)

Kay Harker is on his way home to Seekings for his first school holidays when he meets an old Punch and Judy man, Cole Hawlings, who tells him that "the wolves are running." The "wolves" are arch-villain Abner Brown and his gang, who are posing as clergymen and who will stop at nothing to get the small, black box carried by Cole Hawlings. It is, of course, the Box of Delights, and it is full of magic. Cole entrusts the box to Kay to keep for him. Cole, Kay's guardian and friends, and local clergymen (including the Bishop!) are soon "scrobbled" [kidnapped] by Abner and his gang, and it's up to Kay to find a way to rescue them before Tatchester Cathedral's 1,000th Christmas service is canceled. Kay has marvelous adventures and meets some wonderful companions along the way! The book was written between the World Wars, and contains a strong flavor of an England which is now gone.

The Box of Delights is actually a sequel to The Midnight Folk, also by John Masefield, but it stands well enough on its own. And if you do decide to hunt down a copy, make sure it's unabridged! These books have been difficult to find in the U.S. in the past; however, I looked on Amazon for the purposes of this post and I found that there is a new hardcover edition being released this year, and from the page count I think it is probably unabridged.

The BBC made a film of The Box of Delights back in 1984, which I also highly recommend, if you are not bored by the outdated special effects and low-budget look of the first Chronicles of Narnia movies -- it is very similar in look and feel. Again, this is probably going to be hard to get ahold of it you live outside the UK, but try inter-library loan if you're interested!

Excerpt from my current reading

"The cottage was an old-fashioned, countrified place standing in a garden crammed with fruit trees, vegetables, flowers, and lavender bushes. Inside, it had none of the conveniences now considered essential to comfort. Water had to be drawn up with a long hooked pole from a well in the garden; paraffin lamps and candles lighted the hours of darkness, and the sanitation was primitive. There were red-tiled floors in the downstairs rooms, and the only fireplace besides the small oven grate in the kitchen was the parlour grate, of the high, bow-barred, basket-shaped kind under a high mantelpiece now seen only in old prints. But the unenlightened Finches found their house comfortable enough; indeed, they rather prided themselves upon living in one of the most commodious cottages in the village, with a parlour and three bedrooms, whereas most of their neighbours had but one room downstairs and two, at most, upstairs. The tiled floors were made warm and comfortable with home-made rugs and long strips of red and brown matting, and the low price of coals made it possible to keep up roaring great fires in cold weather. 'I'm going to make this house as warm and snug as a chaffinch's nest,' her mother had said one day, while spreading out on the floor a handsome new black-and-scarlet rug she had been making, and that idea had pleased her small daughter, for weren't they themselves Finches, and was not the cottage their nest? She liked the idea of a nest better than that of a castle, for a castle she had never seen, and there were nests in every hedgerow."

--Still Glides the Stream by Flora Thompson, published 1948

Excerpt from my current reading

After I finished off the latest Dickens tome, I wanted something fun and quick to read, so I picked up Strong Poison off my bookshelf and dived in. I've been reading with a perpetual smile plastered on my face because I love Dorothy Sayers's writing style so much! Here's a passage that had me cracking up:

[Lord Peter Wimsey has gone to a Bohemian party with his friend, Marjorie, in order to do some sleuthing. The room is small, hot, dark, and crowded, and a bushy-haired man is "playing something of a Czecho-Slovakian flavor" on the piano. Lord Peter gets pulled into a conversation with some of the party-goers...]

'...What do you think of Stanislas' tone-poem?' [said the cadaverous man.] 'Strong, modern, eh? The soul of rebellion in the crowd -- the clash, the revolt at the heart of the machinery. It gives the bourgeois something to think of, oh, yes!'

'Bah!' said a voice in Wimsey's ear, as the cadaverous man turned away, 'it is nothing. Bourgeois music. Programme music. Pretty! -- you should hear Vrilovitch's 'Ecstasy on the letter Z.' That is pure vibration with no antiquated pattern in it. Stanislas -- he thinks much of himself, but it is old as the hills -- you can sense the resolution at the back of all his discords. Mere harmony in camouflage. Nothing in it. But he takes them all in because he has red hair and reveals his bony structure.'

The speaker certainly did not err along these lines, for he was as bald and round as a billiard-ball. Wimsey replied soothingly:

'Well, what can you do with the wretched and antiquated instruments of our orchestra? A diatonic scale, bah! Thirteen miserable, bourgeois semi-tones, pooh! To express the infinite complexity of modern emotion, you need a scale of thirty-two notes to the octave.'

'But why cling to the octave?' said the fat man. 'Till you can cast away the octave and its sentimental associations, you walk in fetters of convention.'

'That's the spirit!' said Wimsey. 'I would dispense with all definite notes. After all, the cat does not need them for his midnight melodies, powerful and expressive as they are. The love-hunger of the stallion takes no account of octave or interval in giving forth the cry of passion. It is only man, trammelled by a stultifying convention -- Oh, hullo, Marjorie, sorry -- what is it?'"

--from Strong Poison by Dorothy L. Sayers, published 1930

Kneel for grace

About a year ago, I purchased a vintage 1938 dress-making book at an antique store here in town. While flipping through, I was delighted to find that there are not only sections detailing various sewing techniques, but an entire chapter of the book is devoted to "Your Physical Self: Poise, Posture, Charm."


The book has all sorts of illustrations suggesting how you can do everyday things in a graceful manner. One caption says, "From the time you get up until you go to bed, make every gesture aid you in gaining body grace. Be glad of the opportunity that housework gives for exercise."

How often do we even think of our posture these days? And yet it can make such a difference between appearing graceful and elegant, or awkward and slouchy. So, to both ladies and gentlemen -- shoulders back and head up today! :)

Excerpt from my current reading

[Nicholas Nickleby has become assistant at an abusive boys' school under the headship of Mr. Wackford Squeers, whose daughter takes an interest in Nicholas...]

"...And so Miss Squeers made up her mind that she would take a personal observation of Nicholas the very next day.

In pursuance of this design, the young lady watched the opportunity of her mother being engaged and her father absent, and went accidentally into the schoolroom to get a pen mended; where, seeing nobody but Nicholas presiding over the boys, she blushed very deeply, and exhibited great confusion.

'I beg your pardon,' faltered Miss Squeers; 'I thought my father was -- or might be -- dear me, how very awkward!'

'Mr. Squeers is out,' said Nicholas, by no means overcome by the apparition, unexpected though it was.

'Do you know will he be long, sir?' asked Miss Squeers, with bashful hesitation.

'He said about an hour,' replied Nicholas -- politely, of course, but without any indication of being stricken to the heart by Miss Squeers's charms.

'I never knew anything happen so cross,' exclaimed the young lady. 'Thank you! I am very sorry I intruded, I am sure. If I hadn't thought my father was here, I wouldn't upon any account have -- it is very provoking -- must look so very strange,' murmured Miss Squeers, blushing once more, and glancing from the pen in her hand to Nicholas at his desk, and back again.

'If that is all you want,' said Nicholas, pointing to the pen and smiling, in spite of himself, at the affected embarrassment of the schoolmaster's daughter, 'perhaps I can supply his place.'

Miss Squeers glanced at the door, as if dubious of the propriety of advancing any nearer to an utter stranger; then round the schoolroom, as though in some measure reassured by the presence of forty boys; and finally sidled up to Nicholas and delivered the pen into his hand, with a most winning mixture of reserve and condescension.

'Shall it be a hard or soft nib?' inquired Nicholas, smiling to prevent himself from laughing outright.

'He has a beautiful smile,' thought Miss Squeers.

'Which did you say?' asked Nicholas.

'Dear me, I was thinking of something else for the moment, I declare,' replied Miss Squeers. 'Oh, as soft as possible, if you please.' With which words Miss Squeers sighed. It might be to give Nicholas to understand that her heart was soft, and that the pen was wanted to match.

Upon these instructions, Nicholas made the pen. When he gave it to Miss Squeers, Miss Squeers dropped it; and when he stooped to pick it up, Miss Squeers stooped also, and they knocked their heads together; whereat five-and-twenty little boys laughed aloud, being positively for the first and only time that half-year.

'Very awkward of me,' said Nicholas, opening the door for the young lady's retreat.

'Not at all, sir,' replied Miss Squeers; 'it was my fault. It was all my foolish -- a --a -- good morning!'

'Good-bye,' said Nicholas. 'The next I make for you I hope will be made less clumsily. Take care! You are biting the nib off now.'

'Really,' said Miss Squeers; 'so embarrassing that I scarcely know what I -- very sorry to give you so much trouble.'

'Not the least trouble in the world,' replied Nicholas, closing the schoolroom door.

'I never saw such legs in the whole course of my life!' said Miss Squeers, as she walked away."

--Nicholas Nickleby by Charles Dickens, originally published 1838-39

Excerpt from my current reading

[From a humorous memoir of family hiking vacations in the Lake District in the 1930's...]

"Lobstone Band was a cleft, part mine spoil, part erosion, descending abruptly into Rosthwaite. From the top it looked like a stone and scree [loose rock debris] waterfall disappearing into a void, and Grandpa went over the edge with Rob, faithfully copying the heel and loose kneed method of descent, following after. The women were left to fend for themselves.

'Dig in your heels,' said Mother, 'and on no account run.' This was good advice if I could have followed it, but my smooth soled school shoes were like skis on the loose scree and in no time I was on a disaster course, finishing up sprawled against a boulder.

Aunt Meg followed more circumspectly but holding her stomach with an expression of agony. 'It's no good, I'll have to stop. My corselette's worked up.'

Aunt Meg wasn't exactly fat, but she wasn't exactly thin either and her corselette, a pink rubber tube, supposedly ironed out the bulges without the constriction of whalebone corsets. But, like squeezed toothpaste, the bulges had to go somewhere, and though the punched airholes in the rubber tube offered slight escape for some of it, giving her, when she removed the garment, an embossed look, like a pink blotter cover, most of it was shot up under her rib cage. This caused some distortion and danger to the lungs if the corselette lost its never secure anchorage and in working up put yet more pressure on the stomach. She was quite purple.

'Quick, behind that rock!' said Mother, and to me -- 'keep watch!'

This was my usual role at these delicate moments, but what Mother and Aunt Meg thought I could do to bar the path to a really determined band of walkers I never discovered.

When we finally picked our way to the bottom of that grim chimney my knee had bled into my sock, Aunt Meg, though a better colour, was tearful as Mother had threatened to burn her corselette, and Mother's hair was coming down again."

--A Lakeland Summer by Elizabeth Battrick, published 1979

"Subtleties of feminine refinement"

(photo by Toshi Otsuki from the July 2000 issue of Victoria --
and have you heard? Victoria is coming back!)
"He was savoring for the first time the ineffable subtleties of feminine refinement. Never had he encountered this grace of language, this quiet taste in dress, these relaxed, dovelike postures. He marveled at the sublimity of her soul and at the lace on her petticoat."

--Madame Bovary, by Gustave Flaubert (translated by Francis Steegmuller), originally published in 1857

Fashion in literature II

Various excerpts describing Harriet Vane's wedding gown in Busman's Honeymoon by Dorothy L. Sayers:

"Fierce bustle about wedding-dress -- Worth's -- period gown in stiff gold brocade, long sleeves, square neck, off-the-face headdress, no jewels except my long earrings that belonged to great-aunt Delagardie." -- The dowager Duchess of Denver

"...very well she looked, all in gold, with a beautiful bouquet of chrysanthemums." -- Bunter

"Yesterday she looked like a Renaissance portrait stepped out of its frame. I put it down first of all to the effects of gold lamé, but on consideration, I think it was probably due to 'lerve.'" -- Miss Martin

I'm fascinated by this description -- if I recall correctly, this story is set in 1935, so were past-fashions a fashionable choice for wedding dresses? I wonder where Dorothy Sayers got the idea for this dress. I've never heard of Renaissance-style dresses being popular in the '30s (or perhaps Harriet was a fashion renegade). :)

Excerpt from my current reading

"Perhaps no one is as vulnerable to the lure of England's many-layered past as a young American reader who has grown up under the wide empty skies of the Midwest. To me, the Midwest was almost featureless, compared, for instance, with New England, home of the House of the Seven Gables, or to the myth-ridden Far West. Nothing in Ames [Iowa] seemed historic or even very old. If a building did age, it was eventually renovated beyond recognition or else torn down. If I had known where to stand and how to listen, somewhere in Ames I might have been able to catch an echo from the past of the heavy rumble of wagon wheels on a prairie schooner heading west. But history seemed to have vanished from Iowa. In England, it was still alive."

--My Love Affair With England by Susan Allen Toth, published 1992

Prydain

Last week, my brother passed along the news that Lloyd Alexander has died. He wrote my favorite childhood series, The Chronicles of Prydain. The five books in the series are special to our family -- my parents first read them together when they were dating. My mom even made an embroidered banner of Hen-Wen for my dad, like Eilonwy did for Taran in The High King.

Mom started reading me the books when I was 11, and I immediately loved them. She even had to hide them from me so I wouldn't read ahead without her! I found most of her hiding places, though, and would take the books into the bathroom so I could read in peace for a few moments, before she'd get suspicious.

The last time I read through the series was about three years ago, when I read them aloud to a (then) 13-year-old friend of ours. He enjoyed them as much as I did, so I was happy to be able to pass along the pleasure that the books have given me. I'm thinking now might be a good time for another re-read.

A favorite passage

"'Oh,' Kay said, as he looked, 'there's someone wonderful coming.'

At first he thought that the figure was one of those giant red deer, long since extinct: it bore enormous antlers. Then he saw that it was a great man, antlered at the brow, dressed in deerskin and moving with the silent slow grace of a stag; and, although he was so like a stag, he was hung about with little silver chains and bells.

Kay knew at once that this was Herne the Hunter, of whom he had often heard. 'Ha, Kay,' Herne the Hunter said, 'are you coming into my wild wood?'

'Yes, if you please, sir,' Kay said. Herne stretched out his hand. Kay took it and at once he was glad that he had taken it, for there he was in the forest between the two hawthorn trees, with the petals of the may-blossom falling on him. All the may-blossoms that fell were talking to him, and he was aware of what all the creatures of the forest were saying to each other: what the birds were singing, and what it was that the flowers and trees were thinking. And he realised that the forest went on and on for ever, and all of it was full of life beyond anything that he had ever imagined: for in the trees, in each leaf, and on every twig, and in every inch of soil there were ants, grubs, worms; little, tiny, moving things, incredibly small yet all thrilling with life.

'Oh dear,' Kay said, 'I shall never know a hundredth part of all the things there are to know.'"

--The Box of Delights by John Masefield, published 1935

A favorite passage

[Catherine is dancing with Henry Tilney, but is interrupted when John Thorpe speaks to her.]

"Her partner [Mr. Tilney] now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute longer. He has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me. We have entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening, and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbours.'

'But they are such very different things!'

' -- That you think they cannot be compared together.'

'To be sure not. People that marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour.'

'And such is your definition of matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?'

'Yes, to be sure, as you state it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to them.'

'In one respect, there certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed; the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes the fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison.'

'No, indeed, I never thought of that.'

'Then I am quite at a loss. One thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing with him as long as you chose?'

'Mr. Thorpe is such a very particular friend of my brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have any acquaintance with.'

'And is that to be my only security? Alas, alas!'

'Nay, I am sure you cannot have a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody.'

'Now you have given me a security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage.'"

--Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen, first published 1818

A Christie kick

Occasionally I go on a "Christie kick," where I read several Agatha Christies back-to-back. The other night at bedtime, while looking for something light to read, I pulled out Elephants Can Remember, and now I'm on to The Mystery of the Blue Train.

I read my first Agatha Christie book (Murder for Christmas) when I was 11, and then promptly went through all of her mysteries and short stories within the next three years. We can credit Agatha Christie for the germination of my interest in England in the 1920s and 1930s.

I've been collecting hardcover Agatha Christies for some time now, mostly through library book sales and the occasional used bookstore purchase. The Poirot Facsimile Editions, as seen above, not only have the original cover art and typesetting, but are hardcover to boot! Unfortunately, they seem to be only available in the UK, thus making them a bit more expensive. Maybe I'll put a few of my favorite titles on my birthday list. :)

A favorite passage

"'Well, aged parent,' said Wemmick, shaking hands with him in a cordial and jocose way, 'how are you?'

'All right, John; all right!' replied the old man.

'Here's Mr. Pip, aged parent,' said Wemmick, 'and I wish you could hear his name. Nod away at him, Mr. Pip; that's what he likes. Nod away at him, if you please, like winking!'

'This is a fine place of my son's, sir,' cried the old man, while I nodded as hard as I possible could. 'This is a pretty pleasure-ground, sir. This spot and these beautiful works upon it ought to be kept together by the Nation, after my son's time, for the people's enjoyment.'

'You're as proud of it as Punch; ain't you, Aged?' said Wemmick, contemplating the old man, with his hard face really softened; 'there's a nod for you;' giving him a tremendous one; 'there's another for you,' giving him a still more tremendous one; 'you like that, don't you? If you're not tired, Mr. Pip -- though I know it's tiring to strangers -- will you tip him one more? You can't think how it pleases him.'

I tipped him several more, and he was in great spirits."

--Great Expectations by Charles Dickens, published 1861

Snippet from my current reading

"...life in England had a background, layers and layers of rich deep background, of history, poetry, old traditional observances, beautiful houses, beautiful landscapes, beautiful ancient buildings, palaces, churches, cathedrals."

--The Buccaneers by Edith Wharton, first published 1938

(Not a book I can particularly recommend, by the way -- I'm nearly done with it and I can't see what all the fuss is about.)

Fashion in literature

"Now she fitted the white lace into Mary's collar and pinned it so that it fell gracefully over the collar's edge and made a full cascade between the collar's ends in front.

They all stood back to admire. The gored skirt of brown cashmere was smooth and rather tight in front, but gathered full around the sides and back, so that it would be ample for hoops. In front it touched the floor evenly, in back it swept into a graceful short train that swished when Mary turned. All around the bottom was a pleated flounce.

The overskirt was of the brown-and-blue plaid. It was shirred in front, it was draped up at the sides to show more of the skirt beneath, and at the back it fell in rich, full puffs, caught up above the flounced train.

Above all this, Mary's waist rose slim in the tight, smooth bodice. The neat little buttons ran up to the soft white lace cascading under Mary's chin. The brown cashmere was smooth as paint over her sloping shoulders and down to her elbows; then the sleeves widened. A shirring of the plaid curved around them, and the wide wrists fell open, showing a lining of white lace ruffles that set off Mary's slender hands."

--Little Town on the Prairie, by Laura Ingalls Wilder, first published 1941

A favorite passage

"...This writing table, beautiful as it was, was no pretty toy where a woman would scribble little notes, nibbling the end of a pen, leaving it, day after day, in carelessness, the blotter a little askew. The pigeon-holes were docketed, "letters-unanswered," "letters-to-keep," "household," "estate," "menus," "miscellaneous," "addresses"; each ticket written in that same scrawling pointed hand that I knew already...

I opened a drawer at hazard, and there was the writing once more, this time in an open leather book, whose heading "Guests at Manderley" showed at once, divided into weeks and months, what visitors had come and gone, the rooms they had used, the food they had eaten. I turned over the pages, and saw that the book was a complete record of a year, so that the hostess, glancing back, would know to the day, almost to the hour, what guest had passed what night under her roof, and where he had slept, and what she had given him to eat. There was note-paper also in the drawer, thick white sheets, for rough writing, and the note-paper of the house, with the crest, and the address, and visiting cards, ivory-white, in little boxes."

--Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, published 1938

Recollections of Oxford

I am reading A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken -- hence these resurrected photos. I was unimpressed with the book until Chapter IV, "Encounter with Light." Aside from being emotionally moving, it brought back memories of the time my brother and I spent in Oxford three years ago.

Both photos were taken by my brother, standing near C. S. Lewis' grave.

Excerpt from my current reading

"Emma's heart pounded a bit as her partner led her out by the fingertips and she waited in line for the starting signal on the violin. But her nervousness soon wore off, and swaying and nodding in time with the orchestra, she glided forward. She responded with a smile to the violinist's flourishes as he continued to play solo when the other instruments stopped; at such moments the chink of gold pieces came clearly from the gaming tables in the next room; then everything was in full swing again: the cornet blared, once again feet tramped in rhythm, skirts ballooned and brushed together, hands joined and separated; eyes lowered one moment looked intently into yours the next."

--Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert (translated by Francis Steegmuller), originally published in 1857

Excerpt from my current reading

[This is a memoir of Agatha Christie's time in Syria with her archaeologist husband, Sir Max Mallowan.]

"Michel [the Armenian chauffeur], swerving across the road with diabolical intentions, steps heavily on the accelerator and charges a party of Arabs -- two old women and a man with a donkey.

They scatter, screaming, and Max surpasses himself in swearing angrily at Michel. What the hell does he think he's doing? He might have killed them!

That, apparently, was more or less Michel's intention.

'What would it have mattered?' he asks, flinging both hands in the air and allowing the car to take its own course. 'They are Mohammedans, are they not?'

After enunciating this, according to his views, highly Christian sentiment, he relapses into the martyred silence of one misunderstood. What kind of Christians are these, he seems to be saying to himself, weak and irresolute in the faith!

Max lays it down as a positive rule that no attempted murder of Mohammedans is to be permitted."

--from Come, Tell Me How You Live by Agatha Christie Mallowan, published 1946

Armchair travelling

Lately I have been reading and studying about archaeological excavations in the Middle East. I just finished Treasures Under the Sand, about the life of Sir Leonard Woolley (and particularly his excavations at Ur of the Chaldeans). I've been working my way through Treasures from Bible Times and Unwrapping the Pharaohs. Dad and I have been so interested in the latter book, and the accompanying DVD, that we have recently subscribed to David Down's bi-monthly magazine, Archaeological Diggings.

If you are at all interested in archaeology and enjoy some clever humor, I recommend the book Motel of the Mysteries by David Macauley. It's a satirical look at an archaeological dig some 2,000 years in the future, in which the amateur-ish archaeologist, Howard Carson, uncovers a late 20th century motel room. Carson goes on to misidentify the function and meaning of everything he finds. My favorite illustration is probably of Howard's assistant, Harriet, decked out in "jewelry" à la Sophia Schliemann. Check at the library -- it's worth a laugh!

Another favorite passage

"...Harriet, with the thermos yet in her hand, observed a heavily-laden punt approaching.

'Miss Schuster-Slatt and her party. Oh, God! and she says she knows you.'

The poles were firmly driven in at either end of the boat; escape was impossible. Ineluctably the American contingent advanced upon them. They were alongside. Miss Schuster-Slatt was crying out excitedly. It was Harriet's turn to blush for her friends. With incredible coyness Miss Schuster-Slatt apologized for her intrustion, effected introductions, was sure they were terribly in the way, reminded Lord Peter of their former encounter, recognized that he was far too pleasantly occupied to wish to be bothered with her, poured out a flood of alarming enthusiasm about the Propagation of the Fit, again drew strident attention to her own tactlessness, informed Lord Peter that Harriet was a lovely person and just too sympathetic, and favoured each of them with an advance copy of her new questionnaire. Wimsey listened and replied with imperturbable urbanity, while Harriet, wishing that the Isis would flood its banks and drown them all, envied his self-command. When at length Miss Schuster-Slatt removed herself and her party, the treacherous water wafted back her shrill voice from afar:

'Well, girls! Didn't I tell you he was just the perfect English aristocrat?'

At which point the much-tried Wimsey lay down among the tea-cups and became hysterical."

--Gaudy Night by Dorothy L. Sayers, published 1936

A favorite passage

"The governess entered.
'Put away your 'pouvoir' now, Kay,' she said. 'It's time for writing lesson. Take a piece of paper and write a nice letter to yourself while I do my books.'
Kay began his letter.

My dear Kay,
I hop you are quite well.
I hop your friends, the cats, are quite well.
I am quite well.
Please give my love to Ellen. I hop she is quite well. We have a nice dog here, but he is norty.

He sucked the end of his pen for a long time, but could think of nothing more to say, except that the norty dog was quite well."

--The Midnight Folk by John Masefield, published 1927

Excerpt from my current reading

"One of Laura's earliest memories was of her grandfather coming through the gate and up the end house garden in his old-fashioned close-fitting black overcoat and bowler hat, his beard nicely trimmed and shining, with a huge vegetable marrow under his arm. He came every morning and seldom came empty-handed. He would bring a little basket of early raspberries or green peas, already shelled, or a tight little bunch of sweet williams and moss rosebuds, or a baby rabbit, which some one else had given him -- always something. He would come indoors, and if anything in the house was broken, he would mend it, or he would take a stocking out of his pocket and sit down and knit, and all the time he was working he would talk in a kind, gentle voice to his daughter, calling her 'Emmie.' Sometimes she would cry as she told him of her troubles, and he would get up and smooth her hair and wipe her eyes and say, 'That's better! That's better! Now you're going to be my own brave little wench! And remember, my dear, there's One above who knows what's best for us, though we may not see it ourselves at the time.'"

--Lark Rise by Flora Thompson, published 1939