gerardcarey
Veteran Member
- Time of past OR future Camino
- CFx2, CPx1
"A cold coming they had of it at this time of the year, just the worst time of the year to take a journey, and specially a long journey. The ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short, the sun farthest off, in solsitio brumali, the very dead of winter."
Lancelot Andrewes is telling of three pilgrims who had come from the east. It is Christmas day 1622. He is preaching his "Nativity Sermon".
Even after such a short passage it was no suprise to find he was one of the most brilliant men of his age. Perhaps evidenced by the fact that he was chosen to lead a collection of scholars who created one of the literary wonders of the age. The King James version of the bible.
In 1927, a poetry editor at the London publishing firm of Faber & Gwyer, was so impressed by this particular section of Lancelot's sermon that he decided to use it, with minimal editing, to begin a creation of his own.
"Good poets make it into something better, or at least something different," he opined on the purloining of another's work.
His was to be a Christmas greeting poem. It would tell of this same pilgrimage, through the eyes of one of the three pilgrims.
Here then is his story of the first Christian Pilgrimage.
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.’
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
The Journey Of The Magi
T.S. Eliot
Regards and a very merry Christmas to you,
Gerard
PS
Such a melancholic, dramatic monologue. From such a different viewpoint and so full of allusion.
I'd appreciate your comments.
Lancelot Andrewes is telling of three pilgrims who had come from the east. It is Christmas day 1622. He is preaching his "Nativity Sermon".
Even after such a short passage it was no suprise to find he was one of the most brilliant men of his age. Perhaps evidenced by the fact that he was chosen to lead a collection of scholars who created one of the literary wonders of the age. The King James version of the bible.
In 1927, a poetry editor at the London publishing firm of Faber & Gwyer, was so impressed by this particular section of Lancelot's sermon that he decided to use it, with minimal editing, to begin a creation of his own.
"Good poets make it into something better, or at least something different," he opined on the purloining of another's work.
His was to be a Christmas greeting poem. It would tell of this same pilgrimage, through the eyes of one of the three pilgrims.
Here then is his story of the first Christian Pilgrimage.
A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.’
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.
The Journey Of The Magi
T.S. Eliot
Regards and a very merry Christmas to you,
Gerard
PS
Such a melancholic, dramatic monologue. From such a different viewpoint and so full of allusion.
I'd appreciate your comments.
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