Christmas – a time of excitement for children, greatly anticipated and eagerly awaited for many weeks before. For many adults too, it is a time of joy and happiness; an opportunity to excel in excess without too much of a guilty conscience: ‘well, it is Christmas,’ is the excuse all too often heard. For some, it is not the same unless as many family and friends are invited to participate in a communal festivity. For others, it is spoiled by the absence of those very same people, with new cases of depression reaching a peak during the months of December and January.
Most of these peaks and troughs of emotion are fuelled year upon year by a common falseness of expectation. Whilst Charles Dickens did much to spread the concept of what is required for that cosy traditional Christmas, much loved by the Victorians and promulgated to this day from the fronts of thousands of greetings cards, he was also responsible for building people’s expectations of what the perfect Christmas should be like; to the point whereby any lesser experience is considered to be a failure.
I often wonder whether I am a lone voice in standing out against the falseness of all we have come to expect. I would not go as far as saying that I dislike Christmas – especially as I am in the process of experiencing one of the best I can remember from within my adult phase of life. However, I can remember, since early teenage years, having a recurrent sense of unease regarding the futility of most Christmas activities. Even then, the only parts of Christmas that really seemed to hold anything special for me were those parts where I was expected to be present at the local parish church by virtue of my membership of the choir. The Family Carol Service on Christmas Eve, followed by Midnight Mass and then the Christmas Day Morning Prayer were the events which most pleased me and gave me a true sense of belonging. Everything else paled into insignificance or, at worst, became a trial of endurance.
In order for me to have an enjoyable Christmas I need to escape the commercialisation, the artificial expectations of conformity to traditions, the moral pressures to be with family and thereby suffer numerous conversations about inane subjects about which I have no interest, have probably heard many times before, and really do not want to have again.
For me, Christmas is about regaining my inner self. It is the one time of the year where I want to step away from the world in which I spend the rest of my life pandering to the needs of others. It is a period of time when I want to stop giving and instead wish, quite selfishly, to take; and what I want to take is time itself – time for physical and mental rest, time for quiet reflection, time for the re-charging of my spiritual batteries and, of equally great importance, time for the re-affirmation of my love and commitment to the person who has chosen to accompany me through the rough seas of life – my wife.
As a Christian, I do not believe that my duty of care to my fellow man is just at this particular time of year. Effectively, it is throughout the other three hundred and sixty two days of the year. The rest of the world can have its share of my time and effort after these few days are over. In the meantime, being shut away in the peace and tranquillity of the English Lakes has given me the most relaxing and regenerating Christmas I could possibly desire. For the first time ever at this time of year, I feel content and at ease, not only with myself but also the world around me.
It may not be to everyone’s desire. However, if you ever suspect that you harbour something of the same feelings, have the courage to listen to that inner voice. Stop bowing to the pressures of the masses. Make your stand: refuse to send numerous pointless cards that will only end up in a rubbish bin in a few days time. Instead, make a donation to your favourite charity. Then take yourself and the person dearest to you to wherever you think you will find the peace your heart desires. The experience will be uplifting and change your view against conformity forever after. Your true friends will understand and will still be there on your return. What is more, you will be the much nicer person for it.
I know that I, for one, will be entering 2007 re-energised and with an enhanced sense of benevolence towards my fellow man. Now, surely that has everything to do with celebrating the birth of Christ?
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Postcard from the Lake District (3)
Christmas Day – 25th December 2006
Waking on Christmas Day morning to nothing more than the gentle sounds of wild ducks and swans, with the occasional call of a moorhen, a few gulls and the odd rook or two, must rank amongst the most idyllic moments in life. This gentle alarm call from nature is complimented as soon as the curtain is drawn back, when the gentle waters of Lake Windermere appear just fifty yards from the window. Set to a backdrop of the gently rising green fells, their tops just covered by a fine mist, and with one or two white yachts quite still at their moorings, the scene is one of tranquillity and peace.
The Lakeside Hotel commands one of the most picturesque locations on the lake. Situated on the south-western shore of the lake, just one mile north of Newby Bridge, this four-star hotel is the antidote to the fast pace of modern life. Guests have a choice of exquisitely furnished rooms or suites within the hotel itself, or can opt for one of the two Executive Lodges built within the hotel grounds but set apart from the main building and having the advantage of their own private gardens and moorings. Built in the style of a converted boathouse, the lodge in which I now write has been designed as a studio apartment, full of space, light, large picturesque windows and, yes, its own sauna.
Today, the lake is perfectly calm, thereby allowing a perfect reflection of the hills and trees in its glassy surface. Just to my left, on the opposite shore, the slopes of Gummer’s How rise away from the rest of the fells. At 1053 feet above sea level, it is the highest point in this area and, from its top, gives a commanding view of almost all of the ten miles of Lake Windermere. Indeed, when we climbed it two days ago, and despite a fine haze, we could just discern the sands of Morecambe Bay. From the same point, one could look down upon the land of the Swallows and Amazons along the lakeshore, whilst further south is Fell Foot. Now owned by the National Trust, Fell Foot was once part of a large Victorian Estate with extensive lakeside lawns and gardens.
The small, grassed garden of the lodge is like a meeting place for 'Woodland Friends'. A rabbit is usually in evidence, quietly grazing the lawn, unperturbed by our presence at the window. Just above the rabbit, on a piece of wooden fencing, sits a robin. Occasionally joined by a second robin, it flits back and forth, capturing the odd tasty meal disturbed by the rabbit. Within a few feet feed a cock blackbird and song thrush, whilst in a tree nearby, a chaffinch moves from branch to branch with a flick of white feathers.
A few miles to the south lies the village of Cartmel. Famous for its pocket-sized racecourse at which races are held on only six days per year, Cartmel is also home to Cartmel Priory. Built by Augustinian monks around 1200 A.D., the priory church survived the Dissolution of the Monasteries and now serves as a wonderful parish church, with fine Renaissance screens and delightful misericords in the choir. It is a fitting venue for the celebration of Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, as we discovered for ourselves last night. The warmth of the church itself, combined with the collective voices of a full congregation and choir, help one to touch base with the spirituality within us, reminding us as to what this time of year is really all about and building resolve for the forthcoming New Year.
With the excellent food of the hotel’s restaurant and some fine wines from its cellars (including a Chateau Chasse Spleen 1983, Chateau Leoville Barton 1993 and a Chateau Talbot 1994 and not forgetting an exquisite bottle of Tokay), accompanied by the resident pianist and a small jazz band, the celebration of Christmas 2006 will certainly leave this writer suitably refuelled with a sense of goodwill.
A very happy Christmas and healthy New Year to all my readers.
Waking on Christmas Day morning to nothing more than the gentle sounds of wild ducks and swans, with the occasional call of a moorhen, a few gulls and the odd rook or two, must rank amongst the most idyllic moments in life. This gentle alarm call from nature is complimented as soon as the curtain is drawn back, when the gentle waters of Lake Windermere appear just fifty yards from the window. Set to a backdrop of the gently rising green fells, their tops just covered by a fine mist, and with one or two white yachts quite still at their moorings, the scene is one of tranquillity and peace.
The Lakeside Hotel commands one of the most picturesque locations on the lake. Situated on the south-western shore of the lake, just one mile north of Newby Bridge, this four-star hotel is the antidote to the fast pace of modern life. Guests have a choice of exquisitely furnished rooms or suites within the hotel itself, or can opt for one of the two Executive Lodges built within the hotel grounds but set apart from the main building and having the advantage of their own private gardens and moorings. Built in the style of a converted boathouse, the lodge in which I now write has been designed as a studio apartment, full of space, light, large picturesque windows and, yes, its own sauna.
Today, the lake is perfectly calm, thereby allowing a perfect reflection of the hills and trees in its glassy surface. Just to my left, on the opposite shore, the slopes of Gummer’s How rise away from the rest of the fells. At 1053 feet above sea level, it is the highest point in this area and, from its top, gives a commanding view of almost all of the ten miles of Lake Windermere. Indeed, when we climbed it two days ago, and despite a fine haze, we could just discern the sands of Morecambe Bay. From the same point, one could look down upon the land of the Swallows and Amazons along the lakeshore, whilst further south is Fell Foot. Now owned by the National Trust, Fell Foot was once part of a large Victorian Estate with extensive lakeside lawns and gardens.
The small, grassed garden of the lodge is like a meeting place for 'Woodland Friends'. A rabbit is usually in evidence, quietly grazing the lawn, unperturbed by our presence at the window. Just above the rabbit, on a piece of wooden fencing, sits a robin. Occasionally joined by a second robin, it flits back and forth, capturing the odd tasty meal disturbed by the rabbit. Within a few feet feed a cock blackbird and song thrush, whilst in a tree nearby, a chaffinch moves from branch to branch with a flick of white feathers.
A few miles to the south lies the village of Cartmel. Famous for its pocket-sized racecourse at which races are held on only six days per year, Cartmel is also home to Cartmel Priory. Built by Augustinian monks around 1200 A.D., the priory church survived the Dissolution of the Monasteries and now serves as a wonderful parish church, with fine Renaissance screens and delightful misericords in the choir. It is a fitting venue for the celebration of Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, as we discovered for ourselves last night. The warmth of the church itself, combined with the collective voices of a full congregation and choir, help one to touch base with the spirituality within us, reminding us as to what this time of year is really all about and building resolve for the forthcoming New Year.
With the excellent food of the hotel’s restaurant and some fine wines from its cellars (including a Chateau Chasse Spleen 1983, Chateau Leoville Barton 1993 and a Chateau Talbot 1994 and not forgetting an exquisite bottle of Tokay), accompanied by the resident pianist and a small jazz band, the celebration of Christmas 2006 will certainly leave this writer suitably refuelled with a sense of goodwill.
A very happy Christmas and healthy New Year to all my readers.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
The Power of the Human Mind
I was simply astonished when I came across the following. It demonstrates how extraordinarily clever the brain is.
Try reading this without hesitating:
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdgnieg.
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy: it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteres be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.
Now tell me that you are not amazed!
Try reading this without hesitating:
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdgnieg.
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid aoccdrnig to rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy: it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoatnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteres be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit a porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.
Now tell me that you are not amazed!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Ploughing a Straight Furrow
One of the great delights of being a country G.P. is the opportunity to become involved with wider areas of the community, often under circumstances that have little to do with the practise of medicine. However, there are also pitfalls for the unwary.
When I first joined the practice, a retired partner gave me some sound advice:
‘Become involved with the local community,’ he said, ‘but never, ever agree to judge the “Bonny Baby Competition” .’
His reasoning, of course, was that there was no way I could make the “right” decision. I would immediately become the focus of hate for all those mothers who considered themselves (and, more importantly, their “darling little coochy-woochy”) overlooked and deprived of first prize “which really ought to have been theirs”.
He was right, of course, and it was advice that rang in my ears several years later when asked to judge the “Miss Slinky of the Year Competition” by the proprietor of a local slimming club. Not only was the aforementioned person my patient, but I was aware that several of her members, who had been working hard on their slinkiness for the past year, were also female patients of mine. How was I ever to make a decision as to whom the first prize should be awarded and hope to be alive by the time I reached the car park? Furthermore, if I did escape the braying mob, there would be the inevitable ninth-degree from my wife on my arrival home. Questions such as ‘why did you select that particular woman?’ and ‘do you fancy her then?’ interspersed by long periods of awkward silences, were just not worth the five minutes of playing the local celebrity role. I gently declined the invitation.
The prospect was very different when I was approached by a District Nurse and asked whether I would be willing to present the prizes at the local ploughing match. Following a quick risk assessment, I decided that I was on safe ground (so to speak) with this one and accepted.
The irony of the situation, however, did not escape my wife:
‘You? A ploughing match?’ she asked in-between wiping the tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘What do you know about ploughing? You can’t even cut a loaf of bread in a straight line!’
‘They want me to present the prizes, not judge the quality of the furrows,’ I replied, slightly wounded at this sleight on my practical abilities.
She was right, of course. Straight lines and me just do not go together. Loaves of bread assume a wedge shape in my presence; likewise pieces of wood when brought in contact with a saw wielded by my hand. The strange thing is that I do have a critical eye for the precise levelling of a picture on a wall. It is when the hands become involved that things seem to go haywire. Which is one reason why I opted to be a G.P. and not a surgeon.
I guess I was also concerned at any allusion to my really being a “townie”. I vehemently defend my country pedigree. After all, I am a Kentish Man. (See A Matter of Identity - 23 Jan 06 - on this blog). That is most certainly not the same as being a Londoner, as my wife assumes all people born in the South East of England to be. However, even there I have to concede a point. A Kentish Man I may be, but that is clearly not the same as being the daughter of a Lincolnshire farmer - which my wife is. More to the point, she has recollections of ploughing fields using a crawler. Now, that is serious prior-knowledge when it comes to attending a ploughing match. There was nothing for it – she had to come with me to ensure my respectability amongst the rural folk.
Thus, it was that we attended the 29th District Ploughing Match on a wind swept expanse of farmland one October Sunday afternoon.
To be truthful, the afternoon was enjoyable and informative. Of course, I started by not being able to visually tell the difference between one furrow and another. However, after a few hours I found myself boldly uttering words of criticism and praise as I moved from one competition site to another. I even developed a superficial interest in the different types of tractors, which for me, being someone who, as a child, spurned anything resembling Mechano, was a major leap in my lack of fascination for all things mechanical.
The afternoon’s feverish activity soon done, I was positioned by the organisers in front of a large crowd of burly farmers, all eagerly awaiting the announcement of the results whilst trying to look nonchalant as though they did not really care for such trivialities. It was a formidable moment and I tried to look my confident best as a gentleman of the country. In that respect, I am sure I failed miserably. After all, it was most evident that, apart from on the feet of my wife and I, there were no other green wellies to be seen. A dead give away if there ever was one. ‘He’s really a townie,’ was what I feared they were whispering to themselves.
Class by class, the winners were named and each stepped forward to receive his trophy and rosette amidst polite applause. The only one who was sure his name would be called was the single entrant in the Crawler Class. He would have won even if his furrows were the shape of figure-of-eights. However, I thanked him for giving my wife a nostalgic trip down memory lane.
Interestingly, the one abiding recollection I have of the prize ceremony itself is not the crowd or the bitter wind, or the speech I had to give before presenting the prizes (which my wife inevitably said was too long). It is the size of all those hands I shook. They were enormous bunches of Lincolnshire sausages attached to rough, hairy lumps of muscle the size of spades. They looked as though they had been hewn out of the local bedrock. Another giveaway, I thought. By comparison, my own hands looked so small and soft as to make it clear to the farmers that the most strenuous undertaking I must subject them to is the occasional piece of embroidery. (Actually, I don’t know one cross stitch from another – honestly!)
However, the joking aside, there is a serious message behind all the fun and competitive demonstration of farming skills at such an event. The English countryside is only the marvellous place it is because of the labour of love, which those farmers and their ancestors have applied to it. They are the true trustees of what is at the heart of England. As I said in my speech, when I drive around the countryside in autumn and see the neat latticework of expertly ploughed fields, I intrinsically know that all is well in the world.
Coincidently, the night before the ploughing match, I happened to come across a television programme, which was part of a series of Billy Connolly’s World Tour of Scotland. Connolly made a comment that seemed most apt in view of the impending ploughing match. He said:
‘People in cities rarely get in touch with the countryside. However, when they do, it does something to them. If we truly have a soul, then it is our souls that the countryside gets in touch with.’
As I said to the farmers at the ploughing match, they are the, often unsung, guardians to that which lifts our souls and makes us feel alive. May they forever continue to take pride and pleasure in ploughing their straight furrows.
When I first joined the practice, a retired partner gave me some sound advice:
‘Become involved with the local community,’ he said, ‘but never, ever agree to judge the “Bonny Baby Competition” .’
His reasoning, of course, was that there was no way I could make the “right” decision. I would immediately become the focus of hate for all those mothers who considered themselves (and, more importantly, their “darling little coochy-woochy”) overlooked and deprived of first prize “which really ought to have been theirs”.
He was right, of course, and it was advice that rang in my ears several years later when asked to judge the “Miss Slinky of the Year Competition” by the proprietor of a local slimming club. Not only was the aforementioned person my patient, but I was aware that several of her members, who had been working hard on their slinkiness for the past year, were also female patients of mine. How was I ever to make a decision as to whom the first prize should be awarded and hope to be alive by the time I reached the car park? Furthermore, if I did escape the braying mob, there would be the inevitable ninth-degree from my wife on my arrival home. Questions such as ‘why did you select that particular woman?’ and ‘do you fancy her then?’ interspersed by long periods of awkward silences, were just not worth the five minutes of playing the local celebrity role. I gently declined the invitation.
The prospect was very different when I was approached by a District Nurse and asked whether I would be willing to present the prizes at the local ploughing match. Following a quick risk assessment, I decided that I was on safe ground (so to speak) with this one and accepted.
The irony of the situation, however, did not escape my wife:
‘You? A ploughing match?’ she asked in-between wiping the tears of laughter from her cheeks. ‘What do you know about ploughing? You can’t even cut a loaf of bread in a straight line!’
‘They want me to present the prizes, not judge the quality of the furrows,’ I replied, slightly wounded at this sleight on my practical abilities.
She was right, of course. Straight lines and me just do not go together. Loaves of bread assume a wedge shape in my presence; likewise pieces of wood when brought in contact with a saw wielded by my hand. The strange thing is that I do have a critical eye for the precise levelling of a picture on a wall. It is when the hands become involved that things seem to go haywire. Which is one reason why I opted to be a G.P. and not a surgeon.
I guess I was also concerned at any allusion to my really being a “townie”. I vehemently defend my country pedigree. After all, I am a Kentish Man. (See A Matter of Identity - 23 Jan 06 - on this blog). That is most certainly not the same as being a Londoner, as my wife assumes all people born in the South East of England to be. However, even there I have to concede a point. A Kentish Man I may be, but that is clearly not the same as being the daughter of a Lincolnshire farmer - which my wife is. More to the point, she has recollections of ploughing fields using a crawler. Now, that is serious prior-knowledge when it comes to attending a ploughing match. There was nothing for it – she had to come with me to ensure my respectability amongst the rural folk.
Thus, it was that we attended the 29th District Ploughing Match on a wind swept expanse of farmland one October Sunday afternoon.
To be truthful, the afternoon was enjoyable and informative. Of course, I started by not being able to visually tell the difference between one furrow and another. However, after a few hours I found myself boldly uttering words of criticism and praise as I moved from one competition site to another. I even developed a superficial interest in the different types of tractors, which for me, being someone who, as a child, spurned anything resembling Mechano, was a major leap in my lack of fascination for all things mechanical.
The afternoon’s feverish activity soon done, I was positioned by the organisers in front of a large crowd of burly farmers, all eagerly awaiting the announcement of the results whilst trying to look nonchalant as though they did not really care for such trivialities. It was a formidable moment and I tried to look my confident best as a gentleman of the country. In that respect, I am sure I failed miserably. After all, it was most evident that, apart from on the feet of my wife and I, there were no other green wellies to be seen. A dead give away if there ever was one. ‘He’s really a townie,’ was what I feared they were whispering to themselves.
Class by class, the winners were named and each stepped forward to receive his trophy and rosette amidst polite applause. The only one who was sure his name would be called was the single entrant in the Crawler Class. He would have won even if his furrows were the shape of figure-of-eights. However, I thanked him for giving my wife a nostalgic trip down memory lane.
Interestingly, the one abiding recollection I have of the prize ceremony itself is not the crowd or the bitter wind, or the speech I had to give before presenting the prizes (which my wife inevitably said was too long). It is the size of all those hands I shook. They were enormous bunches of Lincolnshire sausages attached to rough, hairy lumps of muscle the size of spades. They looked as though they had been hewn out of the local bedrock. Another giveaway, I thought. By comparison, my own hands looked so small and soft as to make it clear to the farmers that the most strenuous undertaking I must subject them to is the occasional piece of embroidery. (Actually, I don’t know one cross stitch from another – honestly!)
However, the joking aside, there is a serious message behind all the fun and competitive demonstration of farming skills at such an event. The English countryside is only the marvellous place it is because of the labour of love, which those farmers and their ancestors have applied to it. They are the true trustees of what is at the heart of England. As I said in my speech, when I drive around the countryside in autumn and see the neat latticework of expertly ploughed fields, I intrinsically know that all is well in the world.
Coincidently, the night before the ploughing match, I happened to come across a television programme, which was part of a series of Billy Connolly’s World Tour of Scotland. Connolly made a comment that seemed most apt in view of the impending ploughing match. He said:
‘People in cities rarely get in touch with the countryside. However, when they do, it does something to them. If we truly have a soul, then it is our souls that the countryside gets in touch with.’
As I said to the farmers at the ploughing match, they are the, often unsung, guardians to that which lifts our souls and makes us feel alive. May they forever continue to take pride and pleasure in ploughing their straight furrows.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Art in the East End in Aid of the St John Eye Hospital in Jerusalem
The 5th November 2006 promises to be extra special for lovers of art, especially if they also enjoy good company, fireworks and the opportunity to support the Order of St John Eye Hospital in Jerusalem (see my entry on this blog 'The St John of Jerusalem Eye Hospital' 14th May 2006).
The flyer gives further details. Do come and have an enjoyable evening whilst supporting a wonderful cause.
(Those interested in the Bankruptbank.com will apparently find the website live as from the 24th/25th October.)
www.stjohneyehospital.org
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Thought for the Day
People are always blaming their circumstances for what they are. I don't believe in circumstances. The people who get on in this world are the people who get up and look for the circumstances they want, and, if they can't find them, make them.
- George Bernard Shaw
- George Bernard Shaw
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Friday, October 13, 2006
The Dash
I was sent the following link by a friend. Whilst slightly on the 'twee' side, I think it is worth looking at (with the speakers turned on).
It strongly reminded me of the sentiments I wrote within an earlier piece on this blog (see Reflections after the Memorial Service - 05 Feb 2006).
It strongly reminded me of the sentiments I wrote within an earlier piece on this blog (see Reflections after the Memorial Service - 05 Feb 2006).
The question I ask myself is 'why do we constantly need reminding about such an important aspect of life?' Do we ever learn?
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
The Dales' Perspective
Sign seen above the front door of a cafe in the Yorkshire Dales:
The Dalesman Cafe
Welcomes
Cyclists, Walkers and Civilians
Monday, September 04, 2006
Words, Glorious Words
Well, that long awaited moment has arrived. This very weekend I took delivery of the Folio Society’s facsimile of the first edition of Johnson’s Dictionary. (See Lexicographic Seduction, May 2006, for the background to this particular piece of debauchery). In two enormous volumes, beautifully bound in calf-leather, the dictionary is every much the delight it had promised to be.
One of the first pleasures on opening volume one is to be able to read Samuel Johnson’s own preface. Once one has become accustomed to the portrayal of the letter ‘s’ in the style of an ‘f’, it makes for fascinating reading. Here, Johnson depicts his life as a lexicographer in terms which suggest that he came to see his great work as a ‘drudge’ and expected little thanks for his efforts. He believed that he was:
“…doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths of Learning and Genius, who press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their progress.”
The compilation of the first dictionary of the English language was clearly a far greater task than Johnson had initially believed it was going to be. However, the result was worth the effort. Indeed, many of Johnson’s own definitions have withstood the test of time and are to be found in the modern day Oxford English Dictionary.
That said, there were times when Johnson had to admit defeat. In his own words:
“Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand them…”
- a wonderfully honest statement from someone in his position.
It is probable that only someone with an immense love of books and words would share the spine-tingling pleasure achieved by the holding of one of these volumes. The delight and wonder comes from the fact that this is, as truly made as it can be, the next best thing to holding the original dictionary. That, and the overwhelming fact that the work was only published in 1755: a mere two hundred and fifty years ago. Bear in mind the significant works of literature which had been brought to the world by writers in the English language for several hundred years or more before that (Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and so on) and it becomes even more astonishing that nobody had written a dictionary before 1755. Equally astounding to the modern writer, armed with a whole armoury of dictionaries, encyclopaedias, electronic spell-checkers and the odd thesaurus or two to help him on his literary way, is that some of our country’s greatest writers were completely devoid of such lexicographical assistance. A thought for which I, for one, am all the humbler.
Johnson’s Dictionary promises to be a treasure box in which the most delightful of nuggets will be found. Only the repeated perusal of its pages will uncover them all: a task that will happily fill any wet, wintry afternoon for years to come. Thus far, I have only uncovered two such amuse-gueules.
The first relates to the word ‘twank’. ‘Twank’ is not a word to be found in the latest version of the Oxford Dictionary of English. No doubt, those with a Freudian disposition will take pleasure in the fact that this word, amongst thousands of others, stood out to me on my first perusal of the dictionary. However, putting aside such school-boy witticisms, it was the definition which first caught my eye, relating, as it does, to Freemen of the City of London; a status which I have the honour of holding. According to Johnson:
“A freeman of London has the privilege of disturbing a whole street with twanking of a brass kettle”.
I never knew I was so lucky – I must put it to the test sometime!
On a more serious note, the second enchanting entry for me relates not to a single word but to the whole section dedicated to words beginning with the letter ‘x’. There is not one! Samuel Johnson, for all his literary research, had to succumb to the following entry:
“X is a letter, which, although found in Saxon words, begins no word in the English language.”
…letter dismissed!
Times have, of course, moved on and language does not stagnate. The Oxford Dictionary of English now lists ninety-three entries under the letter ‘x’, which is good for the richness of our language, but detracts nothing from the quaintness of Johnson’s own entry.
Enough for now. The volumes must be re-cased and put away for another day. One can only cope with so much excitement in one go. I will bring future discoveries to you as and when they arise.
One of the first pleasures on opening volume one is to be able to read Samuel Johnson’s own preface. Once one has become accustomed to the portrayal of the letter ‘s’ in the style of an ‘f’, it makes for fascinating reading. Here, Johnson depicts his life as a lexicographer in terms which suggest that he came to see his great work as a ‘drudge’ and expected little thanks for his efforts. He believed that he was:
“…doomed only to remove rubbish and clear obstructions from the paths of Learning and Genius, who press forward to conquest and glory, without bestowing a smile on the humble drudge that facilitates their progress.”
The compilation of the first dictionary of the English language was clearly a far greater task than Johnson had initially believed it was going to be. However, the result was worth the effort. Indeed, many of Johnson’s own definitions have withstood the test of time and are to be found in the modern day Oxford English Dictionary.
That said, there were times when Johnson had to admit defeat. In his own words:
“Some words there are which I cannot explain, because I do not understand them…”
- a wonderfully honest statement from someone in his position.
It is probable that only someone with an immense love of books and words would share the spine-tingling pleasure achieved by the holding of one of these volumes. The delight and wonder comes from the fact that this is, as truly made as it can be, the next best thing to holding the original dictionary. That, and the overwhelming fact that the work was only published in 1755: a mere two hundred and fifty years ago. Bear in mind the significant works of literature which had been brought to the world by writers in the English language for several hundred years or more before that (Shakespeare, Milton, Pope and so on) and it becomes even more astonishing that nobody had written a dictionary before 1755. Equally astounding to the modern writer, armed with a whole armoury of dictionaries, encyclopaedias, electronic spell-checkers and the odd thesaurus or two to help him on his literary way, is that some of our country’s greatest writers were completely devoid of such lexicographical assistance. A thought for which I, for one, am all the humbler.
Johnson’s Dictionary promises to be a treasure box in which the most delightful of nuggets will be found. Only the repeated perusal of its pages will uncover them all: a task that will happily fill any wet, wintry afternoon for years to come. Thus far, I have only uncovered two such amuse-gueules.
The first relates to the word ‘twank’. ‘Twank’ is not a word to be found in the latest version of the Oxford Dictionary of English. No doubt, those with a Freudian disposition will take pleasure in the fact that this word, amongst thousands of others, stood out to me on my first perusal of the dictionary. However, putting aside such school-boy witticisms, it was the definition which first caught my eye, relating, as it does, to Freemen of the City of London; a status which I have the honour of holding. According to Johnson:
“A freeman of London has the privilege of disturbing a whole street with twanking of a brass kettle”.
I never knew I was so lucky – I must put it to the test sometime!
On a more serious note, the second enchanting entry for me relates not to a single word but to the whole section dedicated to words beginning with the letter ‘x’. There is not one! Samuel Johnson, for all his literary research, had to succumb to the following entry:
“X is a letter, which, although found in Saxon words, begins no word in the English language.”
…letter dismissed!
Times have, of course, moved on and language does not stagnate. The Oxford Dictionary of English now lists ninety-three entries under the letter ‘x’, which is good for the richness of our language, but detracts nothing from the quaintness of Johnson’s own entry.
Enough for now. The volumes must be re-cased and put away for another day. One can only cope with so much excitement in one go. I will bring future discoveries to you as and when they arise.
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