Learning is its own exceedingly great reward

William Hazlitt

I’m not really one for essays, but I recently read one online called, On the pleasure of hating by William Hazlitt. It struck me as very familiar and although it was written around the 1820’s I realised that when it comes to the nature of the topic, society hasn’t really changed a great deal since that time.

Over the past 12 months I’ve come across Hazlitt’s name on many occasions but never having read any of his essays until now, didn’t think to include him in my blog before reading his work.  After further investigation, I learned that William Hazlitt was born in 1778 and at the age of two, he embarked on a sort of journey with his migratory family. Although, you might say he was dragged from pillar to post. Primarily educated at home, Hazlitt went on to study a broad curriculum at Hackney College. He was only there for two years, but his studies had quite an impact on him. He was vastly interested in politics and philosophy of the mind which we all know as psychology.

Throughout his life, he wrote several essays on human behaviour and also critical work of other writers and their characters, including Shakespeare.  His book was revolutionary in the sense that the study was comprehensive of all of Shakespeare’s plays and somewhat of a guide to understanding the work. Due to his criticism of several writers, his reputation took a dive and he was attacked and ridiculed publicly – in a magazine of course and we all know that the pen is mightier than the sword.

A failing marriage led to frequent visits to prostitutes and due to his reputation he was unable to earn a living. Eviction and solace took him to the country where he focussed on his writing where he wrote essays which were outstanding. This work included On the pleasure of hating, which kind of sums up the bitterness in his life to that date. This is the essay that caught my attention and made me pursue the writer and ask myself the question, do we really love to hate?

Throughout my own life, I’ve moved in many circles and they all have the same thing in common. People like to bitch about each other.  Some do it more than others and I’m not sure that it could be described as hate, but I think there’s something in this. When you look at small communities, there’s usually someone a little different or a recluse type that the rest like to ridicule or taunt. As Hazlitt also points out, in history we burnt those that we believed were witches and took great pleasure in it. He also touches on the tall poppies of society and we love to see them fall, don’t we?  So, is it human nature to turn upon our friends? Is the concept of love folly? Every honeymoon has an ending and even the sweetest strawberries turn rotten eventually, but it doesn’t mean that we can’t love our neighbour.

His grave in the churchyard of St Anne's Soho

William Hazlitt did marry again and he wrote a lot more than I have mentioned here. Although he was critical of others, he was also very critical of himself which is something we all have in common too. The human race is a long one and whether you’re out in front, or lagging behind, you’re still running it. So I guess if you want to remain positive about your place, you sometimes have to vent a little. When Hazlitt passed away in 1830 his burial was attended by a handful of close family and friends, but he doesn’t know that. His life was rewarded by the knowledge he gathered along the way, not by the friends he didn’t manage to make. So when I think about this in detail it reaffirms that Once upon a time in London, I ventured into a literary mind that introduced an insight which hasn’t changed in centuries and isn’t likely to.

 

Fear of danger is ten thousand times more terrifying than danger itself.

Daniel Defoe

A stone memorial stands in Bunhill Fields, City Road, London.  Like every other memorial or statue in London, it’s there for a reason.  In this incredible city with its remarkable history there are heroes and villains, some who are more obvious than others, but all have left some sort of mark.  From the dark streets of the east end to the vibrant more opulent west, history explains who and what have shaped this, in some respects, not so fair city. The stone memorial in Bunhill Fields is dedicated to a writer by the name of Daniel Defoe.

Born Daniel Foe around 1660 allegedly in the parish of St Giles Cripplegate, he added the De to his surname later in life so that he sounded more prestigious. Of course I couldn’t find any exact records of his birth so I’m going on the estimate. When the great fire of London swept through the city in 1665, 70,000 were killed and strangely his family home and two others in the neighbourhood were left standing. It’s incredible when you think about the magnitude of the fire. Unfortunately for Daniel, two years later Chatham was attacked by a Dutch Fleet that sailed up the Medway via the Thames. So by the age of let’s say seven, he had experienced two significant events in the history of London as we know it today.

Memorial in Bunhill Fields

Defoe was ambitious, although, he was rarely out of debt.  He married in 1684 and the dowry of his wife was a considerable amount which helped somewhat, but didn’t clear the debt. Like so many others, Defoe was arrested for his debts.  Upon his release, he travelled for a while, but returned to England and started writing by way of political pamphlets and essays.  Arrested again he went to prison once more and it wasn’t until 1719 that Robinson Crusoe was published.

Most of us know the story of Crusoe and how he was shipwrecked, but there’s more to it than a man surviving on an island.  The book includes Crusoe’s creation of his own community and when you create your own community, you can govern the way you want to. Perhaps this had something to do with Defoe’s political views.  In the book it seems that Robinson Crusoe can do anything including rescue people and converting them to Christianity.  It seems a little far-fetched, but when you write a novel it comes from you and your own ideas.

Defoe was one of the pioneers of the English novel as we know it and helped to make this form of writing popular. Along with writers such as John Bunyan and Jonathan Swift, he played an extremely important part in the history of literature by writing over 500 books, pamphlets and journals all on several different topics and while I’ve found out quite about the writer, I wish I knew more about his personal life.

I kind of stumbled across this by accident.

In this ever-changing world where one man’s views aren’t always shared by others, it’s sometimes difficult to stand up and say what’s on your mind.  Every now and then you find someone who has a voice and isn’t swayed by popular opinion. I believe Daniel Defoe was one such person. Brave and heroic and an individual like his Robinson Crusoe. That’s why it gives me great pleasure to tell you that Once upon a time in London, a man had not just an idea, but the strength to go through with it.

With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes……

Recently somebody asked me why I had returned to live in this strange country.  My reply of course was home is where the heart is.  But it did prompt me to think about a few things.  In this land of constant rain and lush vegetation there are some things that seem just a little peculiar.  If you look at the coat of arms, one of the creatures is mythical and although I find this a little strange, it didn’t surprise me at all to discover that there is such a thing as the Banbury Cross.

Considering it was International Women’s day on Friday, and its Mother’s Day here tomorrow, I thought this might be a fitting weekend to follow this up, considering the content of the rhyme and all. So, I travelled by train from London Marylebone station to Banbury in search of something that had been introduced to me years ago when I was very young.  In my eagerness to research the cross, I also discovered that there is also a statue of a fine Lady upon a white horse.  There are a few different interpretations of what the rhyme may mean, but I think I’ve worked it out, so let’s break it down.

Ride a cock horse, cock in this case refers to the male of the species so I would envision myself riding in on a fine stallion – although on this occasion I took the train.

To Banbury Cross, goes without saying that the cross would be your preferred destination.  I have discovered though that the existing Banbury Cross is the third to be erected.  The first two were torn down by puritans. The cross that stands today was to commemorate the marriage of Queen Victoria’s eldest daughter.

Banbury Cross

 

To see a fine Lady, this was thought to be a member of the Fiennes family, Queen Elizabeth I or Lady Godiva. However, it was more than likely to be a local girl who rode in a May Day procession.  I also found out that there is a burlesque dancer called Miss Banbury Cross, but I don’t think she has anything to do with the nursery rhyme.

The statue of the Lady

 

Upon a white horse, I don’t want to state the obvious, but perhaps her horse was white.

With rings on her fingers, these represent power, affluence, status and so on.  I guess if she could afford a horse and she was wearing rings and people were encouraged to visit Banbury to see her, then she must have been a little bit special.

And bells on her toes, your guess is as good as mine.  I kind of think they just put this line in to fill the space, but the statue that’s in Banbury has Bluebells on the feet and these supposedly represent constancy.

She shall have music where ever she goes. This rhyme has been around for quite some time so I’m sure that this line doesn’t refer to an iPod. I remember reading something about minstrels and if you look at history, the more privileged in the communities such as knights had minstrels.  Although, I don’t know if I’d enjoy being followed around by someone strumming a lute and singing about me but I’m a pauper so I suppose I’ll never find out.

So that’s the rhyme, now for the town. When I arrived in Banbury, I headed straight for the information centre and found that this historic place has a lot to offer.  I found a cafe to get myself a cup of tea and a bacon and brown sauce sandwich, and looked at a map I’d picked up from the centre.

I wandered around looking at some of the lovely old buildings that date back to the 1100’s. Banbury even has a town crier. After taking the pictures I needed for this week’s blog, I went back to the tourist info place and bought some Banbury cakes which we’ll be having for breakfast tomorrow morning. I will let you know what they taste like though.

Hmm, so after revisiting my nursery years and taking a day trip to North Oxfordshire, I can happily tell you that Once upon a time in this strange country, although I’ve never seen a Unicorn and I’m not bloody likely to, I did enjoy my saunter through Banbury to discover a cross and a fine Lady upon a white horse.

Down With Big Brother!

George Orwell

 

All Saints Churchyard in Sutton Courtenay is quiet and unassuming.  The village itself is quaint and typically English with the old-world thatched cottages and stone walls that one might see in shows like Escape to the Country. The Churchyard is the resting place of many and some of the headstones are weathered and unreadable; but there is one that although is as humble as the rest, caught my attention enough to inspire me to travel to this village for a glimpse. On the headstone the name reads Eric Arthur Blair, but I only ever knew him as George Orwell.

The headstone that marks the resting place of George Orwell

On the 25^th of June in 1903 in Motihari India, Eric Arthur Blair was born. In 1904, his mother brought him and his sister to England and they settled at Henley-on-Thames. Blair always dreamed of being a writer and won scholarships and competitions throughout his school years.  However due to his poor performance at college, he was unable to continue his education and was encouraged to join the Imperial Police.  He was successful at gaining entry and chose a posting in Burma. After returning to England due to illness, Blair continued writing and his first book was published in 1934.  His pen-name, George Orwell, was inspired by the river Orwell.

Plaques on houses in Hampstead and Notting Hill
where he once lived

When I was in High School, one of the books included in the curriculum for English was called Nineteen Eighty-Four. When I first read the title, I thought to myself, ‘how can somebody write a book about a time that hasn’t happened and this is probably going to be boring.’ I’m not above admitting that I was wrong.  I loved the book and have read it more than once.  I distinctly remember the part where Winston Smith is sitting in the alcove of his flat writing in his journal. I admired Winston Smith for his rebellious nature.

So if you thought that Big Brother was just a crappy reality television show then think again; and if you haven’t read Nineteen Eighty-Four then shame on you. The book was published in 1949 and is a sort of futuristic depiction of what Orwell though the forthcoming world might be like if British democracy did not survive the war. In some respects, he was kind of right.  Although to my knowledge there’s nobody watching me write this, there are plenty of cameras out there watching our every move and you can spot them as you walk through the city. Luckily for me, I don’t have to deal with the Thought Police because I probably would have been tortured for my independent thinking by now.  But as long as they continue to call this country England and not Oceania, I might just stay out of trouble.

I know that George Orwell has written other classics, but Nineteen Eighty-Four is my favourite and one of my favourite books of all time.  I praise the Department of Education for introducing me to this particular writer and his amazing work. Sometimes I wonder what he would have thought of the real 1984, but sadly Eric Arthur Blair aka George Orwell, passed away in 1950 at the age of 46. I’m pleased he finished the book though and also pleased to say that Once upon a time in the past, a forward thinking writer dreamt up a futuristic society that hasn’t quite become reality. Let’s hope the clocks never strike thirteen.