Y hubiera valido la pena después de todo, después de las Pintas, los full english breakfast, el whisky, entre la lluvia y el barro de un fría mañana dominical, hubiera valido la pena enfundados en las albinegras camisetas del Mareantes por su vigésimo aniversario, haber ganado la Cup, traedla a Galiza, las risas en el Fat Cat con la victoria de nuestro lado.
Y valió la pena después de todo, mereció la pena despues de los crepúsculos, las rodillas jodidas, los gritos gritados, la seriedad risueña, las ocasiones marradas, el asedio final, mereció la pena el bebernos las excusas, lamernos las heridas , rearmarnos para el Otoño.
Merecerán la pena las ediciones futuras, merecerán la pena las que vendrán con otras voces y en otros ámbitos.
Y merece la pena antes de cada partido, merece la pena cuando escuchamos por encima de las voces del viento We Happy, We Happy Few, We
100 comentarios:
Diga que si. Lonxe de nós o vicio de vivir cara o pasado, pensando que nada volverá ser como antes. É certo, non volverá, porque cada momento é diferente, e mesmo pode ser mellor.
Precisamos dun exército de termitas que socaven desde dentro todas as nosas atadures e costumes.
Lo que hubiese merecido la pena es que no fueseis tan jodidamente vividores. O que jodieseis las rodillas de verdad para no hacer más el ridículo,vividores.
Estas son verdaderas lamentaciones no las mías.Un muro se levanta en algún lugar de Sheffield.
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon San Isquirión y compañeros day
Una entrada muy bonita y triste Gracias a Henry V por acordarse de mis cinco compañeros y un servidor.Espero que Os Porcos tengáis más suerte que nosotros en el futuro si vais a Egipto.
Pieza clave, sincera,emotiva, punta de lanza de todos los documentos que integran el Corpus Hermeticum de este Blog.Pieza afortunada porque desde el rencor,el agravio y la tristeza por la derrota se crece en la adversidad,se encauza la revancha, se atisba el desquite y no es por casualidad que Os Porcos no hayan vuelto a perder desde este texto.No fue en vano pues este vómito descarnado,este llamamiento a las armas,esta oración laica.
Que buena letra para un tango. Tiene todos los ingredientes si consideras la Cup una mina:Desarraigo,negación,ira,negociación,depresión,aceptación y revancha.
Hay que joderse.Lo mejor de esta entrada es el resultado que la provoca.Esperemos que haya más por el estilo.
Es interesante este blog.Era necesari este Blog.
Tan lleno de historias peregrinas, de cabos sueltos, de trivialidades de las que nadie se acordaba nunca de recoger, de lo que unos hacen o dijeron, de gestos cara a la galería o de espaldas a ella, de los chismorreos,de las pintas bebidas,de rajadas,rumores,derrotas o victorias, vitales o intrascendentes.
Es característico de este tipo de movimientos que sus objetivos y premisas no tengan limitaciones.Una lucha deportiva que no se entiende,a pesar de estas lamentaciones,con la única finalidad expresa de la conquista de la A-G C sino como un evento de importancia excepcional,diferente a todas las clases de lucha conocidas,un cataclismo del cual nuestro mundo saldrá completamente transformado y redimido.
Hubiera o hubiese merecido la pena que no se escribiese esta entrada.Que no la leyese y que no la comentase.Pero soy débil de espíritu. Lo único bueno que merece la pena es el resultado que se dió en el partido.Que espero que repitan los ingleses para que Hubiera o hubiese merecido la pena que no se escribiese esta entrada.Que no la leyese y que no la comentase.
Dentro de poco volvera a estar de moda. No el resultado,que a Os Porcos les va a caer un saco, más sí la plúmbea temática de que injusto es el football.
Fucking Brilliant.
Esta entrada es al blog,lo que Bramall Lane al futbol inglés.La joya menos publicitada de este cosmos de cerveza,football y huérfanas.
Supongo que la línea" de albinegras camisetas del Mareantes" no se volvera a repetir.Espero que el resultado tampoco.
El sospechoso revival de estas líneas pueda que sirva como acicate pero no deja de ser otra manera grosera de manipulación sentimental para, con, Os Porcos,que combatimos en la III.
El resumen de todo esta elegía lacrimogena es historicamente conocido:llorar como porcas lo que no se supo defender como Bravos.
Esta entrada pide gritos ser decorada.
Lámina,cuadro,fotografía,
canción,fragmento de película,esputo o pañuelo lleno de excusas a juego.Da igual,pero debe ilustrase con algo,fijo.Aunque sea con una alineación que no se corresponda con la edición perdida.
Aún así, merecerá la pena.
ni cayendo en una tina de melaza se puede aguantar esta sensibleria disfrazada burdamente de
poesía épica, inseparable de su manera de contar mal, las historias de sus derrotas..
uno cero y para casa,camisetas del mareantes,haber llegado antes.
¿Hasta dónde puede llegar su sensiblería?.
¡Oh, cínica Inglaterra! ¡Oh, beoda imprudente!
¿Qué deben tus colonias a tu gran corazón?
La hipocresía, la Biblia, el aguardiente:
la mortaja de Cristo les diste, largamente.
Vendes tu amor a metros con tus manos bastardas
y vendes a tu Dios, sólo atenta a tu fin;
de su vieja cruz haces culatas de espingardas,
su cuerpo lo conviertes en pólvora y bombardas,
su sangre la transformas en aguarrás y gin.
Tus apóstoles van, prostituta insolente
con el fin de salvar a la negra ralea
en busca de los negros de oriente y occidente,
bautizándolos en jordanes de aguardiente,
mostrándoles tu Dios en tu hostia: la Guinea.
Tu honra te importa menos que moneda constante
y tu pudor es como un matabel en cueros;
ladrón de cuenta abierta, bárbaro traficante,
entregas a los negros, para hacerlos corderos,
tu Biblia, a cambio de colmillos de elefantes.
Ahora está claro mi camino, ahora es su sentido manifiesto
La tentación no volverá de esta forma
La tentación postrera es la traición más grande
Hacer lo que conviene por un motivo falso.
No más camisetas de rugby,jamás excusas baratas,never no dejarselo todo en el campo del honor.
Nos podrán volver a derrotar pero jamás a vencer.
Para vivir el hombre debe actuar; para actuar, debe tomar decisiones; para tomar decisiones, debe definir un código de valores; para definir un código de valores debe saber qué es y dónde está
( Sheffield-Galiza),esto es, debe conocer su propia naturaleza -incluyendo sus medios de conocimiento y la naturaleza del universo anglogallego en el cual actúa- esto es, necesita metafísica, epistemología y ética, lo cual significa la filosofía plena del Porco Bravo.
El autor de esta entrada esta más allá de toda ayuda psiquiátrica.
No hay problemas solo oportunidades.No estabamos amargados,estabamos enfadados.Se sacaron conclusiones qye se resumen en un nuevo lema para Os Porcos bravos,:"la próxima vez que hafgas algo,hazlo con más fuerza".
Un whisky doble para el alma.
La incertidumbre delporco bravo que duda de todo, se acerca a demasiado y consigue nada.Derrotado bajo los cielos mineros de Sheffield.La desesperación más absoluta tiene que provenir del desacierto. Y lo peor es que no conozco otra manera de aprender.Le pregunté a f(also)
m(esías)si mi interpretación de su texto era la corecta.Llevaba puesta la camiseta de los Stags y cuatro pintas de más.Me contestó:
No es eso, en absoluto,
no es eso lo que quise decir, en absoluto
Si un porco, acomodando una venda junto a su cabeza herida por el resultado de la I,II,III y VI,
me lo preguntase la respuesta cambiaría a está: “No es eso lo que quise decir, no es eso.
No se trata, en absoluto, de eso”.
Sin pretender ser original.Porque todo plagio es una declaración de amor:Si en el alba de la III lloras lágrimas de borracho por la Cup,los ojos borrosos te impedirán ver a esas huérfanas de la VIII.
Z brutalną zdecydowanie najlepszy obraz, który ilustruje swoje dziecko dziki i jelenie historia
Cada derrota de Os Porcos Bravos es un sublime poema de melancolía.
Porque es exactamente el espejo del melancólico recuerdo por el que yo penetraba -cuando podía penetrar- a una huérfana.
A sus pies rendido un león,en esta fábula entre jabatos y ciervos,
donde la moneda común es la melacolía y todo se encuadra en el simbolismo más elitista.Son ustedes grandes,mis bravos porcos, y lo mejor de todo es que lo saben y no se arrepienten de ello.
Ni piden perdón
Soy como un Porco Bravo. Voy sin rumbo y ando a tientas.
Voy bajo tempestades y tormentas,
ciego de ensueño y loco de armonía.
Ese es mi mal. Soñar.Con una victoria en la Anglo Galician Cup.
Y así voy, ciego de cerveza y loco, por este mundo amargo;
a veces me parece que el camino a Sheffield es muy largo,y a veces que es muy corto.
¿ No oyes caer las gotas de mi melancolía ?
Con ustedes,la "Melancolía" de Jacek Malczewski
(1854-1929).El pintor polaco empleó 4 años en terminarlo,desde 1890-1894.
Malczewski murió en Cracovia,ciudad polaca que ha tenido la suerte,por ahora, de haber sido visitada por hasta tres porcos bravos.
En el camino de regreso a Galicia,las calles,los edificios,las cervecerías,inclso los árboles les parecían en blanco y negro como sus camisetas del mareantes,como la melancolía que les atenazaba,como su propia visión del mundo.
Enséñame un héroe y te escribiré una tragedia.
Enséñame una manada de porcos bravos y te escribiré un blog.
¿A qué llorar por el caído fruto,
por el fracaso de ese deseo hondo?
Que se jodan las derrotas.
Ese es el único camino.Odiarlas.
La lágrima fue dicha.
No es bueno repetir lo que está escrito.
Después de haber perdido,
de haber vertido odios,
silencio y sonreíd:
Nada es lo mismo.
Habrá palabras nuevas para la nueva edición
habrá motivos viejos para armar la revancha
y es preciso encontrarlas antes de que sea tarde.
Atrás quedaron los escombros:
humeantes pedazos de vuestra esperanza,
ediciones incendiados,
partidos perdidos, sangre seca
sobre la que se ceba -último ciervo stag- el viento inglés-.
Sí; definitivamente éste día se ha ido.
Es vuestro deber la venganza.Huir de la fácil melancolía.
Pero no será igual. Será otro día.
Será otro porco bravo de la misma raza.
LA ÚNICA BATALLA QUE SE PIERDE, ES LA QUE SE OLVIDA.
2007,2008,2010.NO OLVIDAMOS.
Ve dibujarse ligeramente la victoria.Espejismo hacia el final de la segunda parte.Después todo se borra.En definitiva no hay nada.Otra victoria para los Stgas.
Así ocurría casí siempre en esas tierras de Yorkshire.
La palabra melancolia,melan kole:bilis negra.
Ese dolor oscuro que se extiende por un amplio abanico de sentimientos.Afortunadamente no hubo ni un senetül hüzn.El rearme porcobravo fue efectivo en el 2008.
Lo será para el 2011.
Intentó imaginarse que le pasaba a la llama de una vela cuando se apaga de un soplo.Luego pensó que eso era una gilipollez.Se acaba.Y Os Porcos Bravos,estamos de todo menos acabados.
Apretó los puño,rebudió a la luna,se preparó para el futuro inmediato.
El Porco Bravo es adicto a la esperanza.
Remember those few porcos bravos with hope in our hearts and wings on our heels.
agora xa foi,porquiño bravo meu,non chores.
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile of blood ,
To have squeezed the universe into a pint
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Porco Bravo, come from the defeat,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her orphan head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
Brindo por lo incómodo de la melancolía.Soís el desierto,los viajeros y os porcos bravos.
Ya no seré feliz tras la derrota (Tristeza que va de 2008 a 2008)ALMA EN PENA DE MARZO DE 2010 A MARZO DE 2011.
Tal vez no importa.
A VOSOTROS.
Hay tantas otras cosas en el mundo; GALIZALBIÓN EMERGENTE,
un instante cualquiera es más profundo
y diverso que el mar.Pero el mar lo és todo
La vida es corta,mi polla no,
y aunque las horas son tan largas, una oscura maravilla nos acecha,
la derrota, ese otro mar, esa otra flecha inglesa
ue nos libra del sol y de la luna
y del amor de la húmeda huérfana. La dicha que me diste
y me quitaste debe ser borrada;
lo que era todo tiene que ser nada.
Sólo que me queda el goce de estar triste,pero vengativo (2008-2009)
esa vana costumbre que me inclina
al Norte, a cierta puerta de pub de Sheffield, a cierta esquina de orgullo patrio.
Siempre y bajo cualquier circunstancia merecerá la pena jugar con Os Porcos Bravos.
Siempre.En Sheffield,en Pontevedra,en todo rincón conocido de Galizalbión.Del uno al otro confín.Siempre.
POstdata: La melancolía era verde y se la comió una vaca que odiaba a los ciervos.
A ti, la dama victoriosa.
La audaz melancolía, que con grito solitario hiendes mis carnes ofreciéndolas a la orfandad.
Tú, que atormentas mis noches inglesas cuando no sé qué camino de mi vida tomar.
Te he pagado cien veces mi deuda con fentos porcobravos.
Te he gozado tanto que debo repetir.
Tristeza post-coito en la III edición.
Ya lo dijo otro inglés:Nada, salvo una derrota, es tan melancólico como una victoria.
Bonito cuadro de os porcos bravos, por cierto.
Mi única estrella ha muerto y mi laúd lleva el sol negro de la melancolía.
Entierro de tercera,vestidos mareantes.
Hubiese merecido la pena.Lo hizo.
Corrimos tres más.Aún quedan.
La gente del 2008,Os benqueridos porcos bravos de entonces,siguen siendo los mismos.
Una edición como fue la III, como si fuese un viaje a Sheffield, se comienza con inquietud de porco bravo y se termina con melancolía
Nunca he lamentado no tener que mear de pie,perdon,leer, pero algunos días,no sé,un viaje con ustedes en las islas...¡hasta huérfanos/as y demas poetas para su causa su criquet o rugby o lo que sea los hago mios!Soy tan dulce que consigo la copa sin que ustedes tengan que sudar.Entre tanto sigo con Platón dilucidando sobre el amor a la ovalada en el banquete del ciervo.
Siempre la melancolía fue pariente de la Anglogalician Cup.Después de la victoria o la derrota,aferrados a nuestras pintas,sacando conclusiones tras cada edición.Más fiel que una huérfana,más fiable que un tractor de South Yorkshire.La querida melancolía.Yo no lucho contra ella; después de la ebriedad cervecera , es el mejor de los males.
Estremecedora entrada.
Tales palabras son azote doloroso para mi conciencia.
Caéis Os Porcos Bravos por uno a cero en la gélida lama inglesa.
Y el resto es melancolía.
Porco bravo, abre tu ala negra, y honda,
cobíjeme en un pub de Sheffield sin medida,aquí no pintas mucho,
y que a su abrigo bienechor se esconda
la incurable tristeza de esta derrota.
Porco bravo, ángel bíblico, ángel fuerte,
ángel de redención, ángel sombrío,
ya es tiempo que consagres a la venidera victoria
mi cerebro sin luz: altar vacío…
Porco bravo, mi esperanza es una enferma;un tractor sin cerveza
ya tramonta mi fe; llegó el ocaso,
ven, ahora es preciso que yo duerma…
¿Morir…, dormir…, dormir…,empujar....,zumbar con huérfanas ? ¡Soñar acaso!
Con la Anglogalician Cup.
Acaba la batalla del bosque.Los stags se han impuesto por uno.El perro negro de Os Porcos Bravos está panza arriba.
¡Oh, orgullosa melancolía! , sus férreos altares
la caliente flama del espíritu alimenta hoy un violento dolor de un uno a cero,
De nietos nunca nacidos.
De huérfanas no catadas.
De porcos bravos derrotados.
Pero callada en el fondo de los prados de Galicia
nubarrón rojo, donde habita un grito de revancha ,
la cerveza derramada, frío de Luna en Sheffield;
Todas las calles acaban en una venganza vestida de negra.
VII,octava y la Novena.
Repaso a ete vómito de 2008
sobre la III y vuestros porcos bravos:Su escalofrío de melancolía lúcida y de ironía alucinada no ha perdido nada de su belleza, y ha ganado en verdad.
Galicia es un país sensual y fúnebre.Dado a la melancolía,pero no es un país de espectros.La patria de los especros es el Norte:Por la calles de Galicia tropieza uno con porcos bravos,pero no con stags,
Hay carcajadas que te hacen cerrar los ojos al leer la entrada.
Ni defensa ni anatomía de la melancolía.
Maís xogar y menos literatura barata.
Es éste un dolor común a todos,
y llegó inmerecidamente.
Son muchas las lágrimas
que ahora se derramarán,
pues por la III y los porcos bravos,las voces luctuosas,
perduran no poco.
Así que golpeamos lentamente el tambor y tocamos el pífano suavemente.
Y lloramos en silencio mientras la cargamos a hombros.
Porque amábamos a la III,tan valiente y disputada.
Amábamos a la III,aunque hubiera pecado futbolísticamente.
Os esforzos inútiles conducen á melancolía
Se la suda. Se la suda.
Es un viejo porco bravo,como los otros de la III . Todos lo sabemos. Ha sido víctima de todas las cosas, de todas las fiebres, de todas las verrugas genitales, de todas las humedades y mordiscos que pueda ofrecer un tractor o una trichera. Ha sido el marginado, el loco, el indecoroso, el pequeño miserable que no merece ni el esfuerzo de ser noqueado por los stags , a su vez irrelevantes. Y entonces, después de todo un relato de parsimonioso recelo ante todas las posibilidades de una vida, esta declaración de melancolía,ilumina el cielo del blog y nos reconcilia con el mismo.
El porcobravismo es un sol poniente; al igual que el astro que declina, es soberbio, privado de calor y pletórico de melancolía.
Acumulando méritos.
Soy de los que creen que para ser elegante es necesario gozar del ocio sin haber pasado por el trabajo.Es una actitud muy de Os Porcos Bravos.Ese uniforme negro imperial.
¿Cómo va mi solicitud ?
No ha probado usted un buen asado de rabo de jabalí -dijo la doctora Moss-; es un manjar de primer orden aunque a mí me da melancolía.
-Parece usted melancólica aun sin haberlo comido.¿ le hace un bukkake con la manada,doctora?
No viene al caso,acaso "lo" viene mezclar a Eliot (one more time) Shakespeare y el simbolismo poloca con la Fratría Mesnada que aquí no pasa nada.
Pues eso:El barman, que era Dios, limpió los cuatro cercos húmedos de la barra, de mármol verde, y uno de los ángeles se sacó la polla y tocó el piano. Y no lo hizo bien, desafinó. Su pulso fue destemplado y hambriento, apresurado. Así la ira de Dios se hizo de fuego y el piano desapareció entre las brasas, y un sonido de porco bravos acuchillados cubrió la Tierra de Minas Sheffield durante unos minutos hasta que no quedaron allí ni música ni teclas de piano ni nada.
Post-scriptum: En el podio de las mejores entradas del blog.
Melancolía épica.
Un subgénero dentro de la prosa farragosa que tan exitoso a este lado del Paraíso.
Me lo van a permitir:con diferencia,la mejor entrada del Blog
Una entrada ideal para todos aquellos interesados en la melancolía, depresión y tristeza ajenas porque no se han dado cuenta que los depresivos y tristes son ellos.
No hay melancolía sin memoria, ni memoria sin melancolía
quizá porque él escribía sin ambages ni abalorios o porque su mirada literaria era absolutamente descarnada: sus criaturas solían carecer de cualidades, sólo eran cáscaras humanas cuyas esencias estaban a flor de piel, en los rostros o en las encías, en las orejas, los dientes, el abdomen, la nariz o los mentones, por lo que sus héroes debían echar mano de una frenológica intuición para determinar quién o quiénes eran aliados o enemigos, aunque algunas veces caían en el engaño, y la fábula se engarzaba en una espiral de impensados desenlaces. quizá porque él dejó el blog en enero de 2008, hoy lo echamos tanto de menos.
6. Hades
Que la técnica narrativa, conforme a la solipsista clasificación de Joyce, se denomine incubismo responde tal vez al hecho de que nos hallamos cerca de los dominios del diablo. Para los miembros de la Orden del Finnegans este es uno de los capítulos más importantes, por el punto de llegada: el cementerio de Glasnevin, junto al cual se halla el pub de los enterradores, al que acuden a beber una vez cumplidas las funciones de su tenebroso oficio. A las 11 en punto de la mañana Bloom se sube a un carruaje en el que aguardan tres conocidos del difunto Dignam, uno de ellos Simon Dedalus, padre de Stephen. En uno de los múltiples asaeteamientos visuales de la narración, en un punto del trayecto Bloom y sus amigos verán a Stephen Dedalus desde el coche de caballos. La narración se detiene en algunos puntos del recorrido efectuado por el cortejo fúnebre. Cuando llega al Gran Canal, Bloom piensa en la muerte de su perro favorito y observando el cielo repara en que va a cambiar el tiempo. Le viene a la cabeza la carta erótica de Martha, causándole una momentánea inquietud, ya que no recuerda muy bien dónde la ha guardado. Leopold Bloom es un portentoso dispositivo narrativo dotado de una capacidad de observación que le permite detectar y registrar cuanto hay y sucede en torno a él. Estudia atentamente a cuantos se cruzan con el cortejo, así como los lugares por donde pasa, todos llenos de asociaciones que proliferan constantemente. Así, cuando divisa el Teatro de la Reina, piensa en sus programas y decide que tiene que acudir allí con más frecuencia. La comitiva divisa a su némesis, Blazes Boylan, que despierta simpatías por doquier y todos lo saludan. Sabiendo el daño que irremisiblemente le ha de infligir en unas horas, Bloom lo declara para sí “la peor persona de Dublín”. El motivo del adulterio de su mujer es uno de los ejes que vertebran la narración. La visión de un judío que deambula tranquilamente por la calle provoca risas y comentarios racistas que cesan cuando alguien repara en que Bloom es judío. La palabra Rubén sirve de desencadenante de la historia de un hombre así llamado cuyo hijo intentó suicidarse durante un viaje en barca a la Isla de Man. El barquero logró rescatarlo y el padre le dio un florín como recompensa. Es así cómo se encadenan los motivos narrativos a lo largo de toda la novela. La historia hace que la conversación gire en torno al tema del destino de los suicidas. Uno de los acompañantes de Bloom, un tal Cunninghan, sabe que el padre de Bloom se quitó la vida y se apresura a decir que es un asunto sobre el que es mejor no emitir juicio alguno. Bloom evoca mentalmente las circunstancias del suicidio de su padre. Antes de quitarse la vida escribió una nota que su hijo guarda celosamente bajo llave. En este capítulo es divertido seguir los peculiares pensamientos de Bloom. El cortejo divisa otra comitiva funeraria con todos los asistentes vestidos de blanco, porque el muerto es un niño. Bloom piensa en el código indumentario concebido por la iglesia, con su complejo inventario de colores. La comitiva se tiene que detener para dar paso a un rebaño de ovejas y a unas vacas y Bloom recuerda que el día siguiente es de matanza. Cuando pasan por delante de la casa de Samuel Childs, que fue acusado de asesinar a su hermano, la conversación se centra en las circunstancias del tenebroso caso.
Bloom piensa en la fruición sensacionalista con que los periódicos cubren las historias de asesinatos. De repente se pregunta qué habrá sido del cortejo fúnebre del niño. Observando el movimiento de los caballos que tiran del coche fúnebre se pregunta si los animales serán conscientes del contenido de la carga que han de transportar al cementerio dos veces al día. Piensa en la viudedad y el destino de quien pierde a un cónyuge, en el hecho de que en las parejas uno de los componentes morirá irremisiblemente antes que quien lo ha acompañado durante un largo trecho de su vida. ¿Qué significa una herida así? Cuando quienes portan el féretro hacen su entrada en la capilla Bloom se pregunta en qué dirección estará la cabeza del muerto, lo cual se relaciona con su costumbre de dormir con los pies en la almohada. Viendo al cura rociar el cadáver con agua bendita y rezar, se pregunta cuántas veces tiene que repetir aquel ritual el sacerdote. Al pasar por delante de la tumba de May Dedalus, Simon, su viudo, rompe a llorar desconsoladamente y Bloom concluye que el corazón es una vieja máquina de bombear que un día acaba por averiarse. ¿Qué sentirá la esposa del enterrador? ¿Será cierto que la gente utiliza los cementerios para llevarse allí a las prostitutas? ¿No sería sumamente práctico e interesante enterrar a la gente de pie? Otra idea que le viene a la cabeza es que los cadáveres humanos serían un fertilizante excelente. Tiene una visión de los gusanos en pleno proceso de devorar cadáveres y se acuerda de lo contentos que están los enterradores de Hamlet. Si la gente pudiera leer su propio obituario tendría una segunda oportunidad y escribiría un guión mejor para el recorrido de su vida. La costumbre de enterrar a los muertos le parece una práctica de lo más extraña, entre otras cosas por el enorme desperdicio de madera que supone. De repente repara en que hay muy poca gente en el sepelio y cuenta el número de asistentes: 13 en total. Mientras los enterradores depositan el féretro en la fosa, se imagina que el vigilante que los observa estará pensando quién de entre los circunstantes será el próximo en llegar al cementerio metido en un ataúd. Sus pensamientos siguen su curso sin que nadie se lo estorbe. Ahora se le ocurre pensar en las palabras con que los moribundos expresan sus últimos deseos, cuestión a la postre irrelevante, ya que todos estamos destinados a caer irremisiblemente en el olvido. Difícil acordarse de los muertos, lo es incluso cuando están aún vivos. Cerca de donde tiene lugar la ceremonia se encuentran los restos de su madre y su hijo Rudy, muerto prematuramente. La sombra de su recuerdo puntúa emotivamente varios momentos del relato, en distintos capítulos de la novela.
Algún día lo enterrarán junto a ellos, piensa Bloom, mientras ve cómo la fosa engulle el féretro de Dignam, activando los resortes del olvido, aunque él sí tiene presente a su hijo: nunca se olvida de dar propina al jardinero para que la tumba de Rudy esté limpia de malas yerbas. De repente ve un pájaro, lo cual le hace pensar en que su hija Milly enterró una vez un pajarito en una caja de cerillas. Piensa en cómo todos los muertos que se encuentran en derredor de él en Glasnevin pasearon alegremente por Dublín cuando estaban vivos. Viendo salir a una rata de una cripta, se imagina que viene de dejar limpios los huesos de algún muerto, y piensa en las ventajas de la cremación. La frase final del capítulo es la que proferían los caballeros de la Orden del Finnegans desde el escenario de Meeting Square donde se leen fragmentos del Ulises, por su valor irónico. Nuestra visión coincidía con las lúgubres elucubraciones de los asistentes al funeral y los enterradores que se congregan tras cumplir con su trabajo tomar una pinta de Guinness en Gravediggers, el pub que hay junto al cementerio: ¡Qué grandes estamos esta mañana! era nuestro grito, tomado del de los asistentes al sepelio de Dignam. El público dublinés, que llegó a cobrarnos gran aprecio, se regocijaba tras oírnos. Después, todos seguíamos nuestro feliz periplo por Dublín y alrededores.
Los caballos ya se lanzaron instintivamente al galope tendido ante la lluvia de fuego que estaban recibiendo y no había tiempo ya para más órdenes y formaciones. Los que quedaban iban cerrando distancias con los cañones rusos a toda velocidad mientras éstos seguían disparando a bocajarro. A cien yardas de la batería del Don, Cardigan seguía encabezando el ataque erguido como una estatua mientras detrás cada vez eran más los caballos que llevaban sobre si cuerpos inertes como el del sargento Talbot, que recorrió los últimos metros de la carga sin cabeza y aún con el brazo levantado empuñando el sable. A 30 yardas una última salva rusa hizo desaparecer prácticamente la primera línea de la que tan sólo 40 hombres de los 270 que la formaban llegarían a asaltar los cañones. Los que venían detrás empezaban a verse obstaculizados por el creciente número de muertos que se amontonaba ante ellos y por las monturas que daban la vuelta al perder a su dueño, y al ralentizar el paso todavía presentaban un mejor blanco a los cañones de los costados.
Cardigan llegó milagrosamente ileso al humo que cubría a los cañones. Y tras él, regimiento tras regimiento, impulsados por la furia del combate y la sed de venganza, los ingleses abatían a los artilleros que les habían estado martirizando. Lograron silenciarlos a todos para después darse de bruces con los restos de la caballería rusa, contra la que en el frenesí volvieron a cargar los más animosos, lo que les costaría la vida o el cautiverio después de haber sobrevivido a lo peor. Cardigan ni siquiera se dignó a intentar sacar a aquellos hombres del atolladero y en cuanto salió de la niebla de la pólvora dio media vuelta creyendo que él ya había cumplido. Mientras, sus hombres aún luchaban por su vida e iban escapando como podían, los que podían, de las lanzas cosacas. Al llegar al puesto de Lucan, lo primero que hizo fue quejarse de la indisciplina de Nolan. “Acaba usted de cabalgar sobre su cadáver”, fue la cortante respuesta que recibió. El resto del ejército esperaba ansioso la llegada de cada superviviente y estallaba en gritos ante los hombres que iban apareciendo a caballo. Cuando se tocó reagrupamiento, sólo 195 hombres respondieron a la llamada y Cardigan les explicó entre sollozos que él no era responsable de aquello. Inexplicablemente querido por sus soldados, éstos se ofrecieron para volver a cargar si era necesario. El último que acudió a la llamada de la corneta fue Jemmy el terrier, con dos esquirlas de metrallas en el cuello.
eliot no varía mucho de postura, se queja Violet
Los 40 hombres que habían sido hechos prisioneros seguían soportando los golpes y las maliciosas lanzadas de los cosacos mientras sus oficiales les preguntaban si es que estaban borrachos para haber cargado de aquella manera contra unos cañones. “Si tan sólo hubiésemos olido un barril, señor, en este momento ya habríamos conquistado media Rusia” fue la respuesta que recibieron y que sin lugar a dudas hacía justicia al carácter de aquellos hombres. Raglan, conmocionado por lo que acababa de presenciar, renunció a continuar de cualquier manera la batalla.
Los aliados habían conseguido mantener sus fuentes de suministro, pero esta última fase de la batalla supuso para los rusos un espaldarazo moral que les permitiría vender el día como una victoria y continuar la lucha. Lucha que siguió casi año y medio más con los dos bandos estancados en una guerra de posiciones en unas condiciones inhumanas, que provocarían más muertos por enfermedades como el cólera que por fuego enemigo. Finalmente, Sebastopol caería, y Alejandro II, como nuevo Zar, firmaría el tratado de París en febrero de 1856, garantizando la integridad del Imperio Otomano y comprometiéndose a aceptar unas durísimas clausulas restrictivas para la navegación rusa en el Mar Negro y el Mediterráneo Oriental.
Más de medio millón de hombres causarían baja en aquella guerra. Medio millón de hombres que, como los seiscientos de la Brigada Ligera, no fueron otra cosa que víctimas de la incompetencia y la falta de comunicación, no sólo entre sus jefes militares, sino principalmente entre sus gobernantes. Quizá una victoria decisiva aquel día en Balaclava hubiese acabado con la guerra y se hubiese ahorrado mucho dolor. Pero eso carecía de importancia para hombres como Nolan, Lucan o Cardigan, para quienes la reputación mal entendida lo era todo. El único e insignificante consuelo que nos queda es que sus nombres serán para siempre sinónimo de estupidez cuando del arte de combatir hablemos, y que desde entonces los oficiales, al menos los que lucen galones con responsabilidad, consultan los mapas y las órdenes dos veces antes de atacar. Aunque viendo lo que sucedió sesenta años después, bastantes no parecieron tener muy clara la lección.
La melancolía. El alma de la melancolía. Todos y cada uno de nosotros somos unos melancólicos, de tal manera estamos construidos en lo más íntimo; sin embargo, nos pasamos la vida negándolo, intentamos esquivar el estado natural que más propio no es; aun así, con que estemos un rato solos, aflora la melancolía, siempre está ahí, inagotable, incólume. Los filósofos han tildado la melancolía de enfermedad, aseguran que es una tristeza sin razón, pero yo estaba convencido de que era la tristeza de la razón. Cuando uno está melancólico, ve la realidad con total lucidez
- You kidnapped an Irish midget.
- No! I caught you a leprechaun.
There are in Oxford 17 colleges, and seven halls, some of these colleges as particularly, Christ Church, Magdalen, New College, Corpus Christi, Trinity, and St. John's will be found to be equal, if not superior to some universities abroad; whether we consider the number of the scholars, the greatness of their revenues, or the magnificence of their buildings.
I thought my self oblig'd to give a more particular account of the colleges here, than I have done of those at Cambridge; because some false and assuming accounts of them have been publish'd by others, who demand to be credited, and have impos'd their accounts upon the world, without sufficient authority.
Besides the colleges, some of which are extremely fine and magnificent; there are some publick buildings which make a most glorious appearance: The first and greatest of all is the theatre, a building not to be equall'd by any thing of its kind in the world; no, not in Italy itself: Not that the building of the theatre here is as large as Vespasian's or that of Trajan at Rome; neither would any thing of that kind be an ornament at this time, because not at all suited to the occasion, the uses of them being quite different.
We see by the remains that those amphitheatres, as they were for the the exercise of their publick shews, and to entertain a vast concourse of people, to see the fighting of the gladiators, the throwing criminals to the wild beasts, and the like, were rather great magnificent bear-gardens, than theatres, for the actors of such representations, as entertain'd the polite part of the world; consequently, those were vast piles of building proper for the uses for which they were built.
What buildings were then made use of in Rome for the fine performances of------who acted that of Terence, or who wrote that, we can not be certain of; but I think I have a great deal of reason to say, they have no remains of them, or of any one of them at Rome; or if they are, they come not near to this building.
The theatre at Oxford prepared for the publick exercises of the schools, and for the operations of the learned part of the English world only, is in its grandeur and magnificence, infinitely superiour to any thing in the world of its kind; it is a finish'd piece, as to its building, the front is exquisitely fine, the columns and pilasters regular, and very beautiful; 'tis all built of freestone: The model was approv'd by the best masters of architecture at that time, in the presence of K. Charles II. who was himself a very curious observer, and a good judge; Sir Christopher Wren was the director of the work, as he was the person that drew the model: Archbishop Sheldon, they tell us, paid for it, and gave it to the university: There is a world of decoration in the front of it, and more beautiful additions, by way of ornament, besides the antient inscription, than is to be seen any where in Europe; at least, where I have been.
The Bodleian Library is an ornament in it self worthy of Oxford, where its station is fix'd, and where it had its birth. The history of it at large is found in Mr. Speed, and several authors of good credit; containing in brief, that of the old library, the first publick one in Oxford, erected in Durham now Trinity College, by Richard Bishop of Durham, and Lord Treasurer to Ed. III. it was afterward joined to another, founded by Cobham Bishop of Worcester, and both enlarg'd by the bounty of Humphry Duke of Gloucester, founder of the divinity schools: I say, these libraries being lost, and the books embezzled by the many changes and hurries of the suppressions in the reign of Hen. VIII. the commissioner appointed by King Edw. VI. to visit the universities, and establish the Reformation; found very few valuable books or manuscripts left in them. In this state of things, one Sir Thomas Bodley, a wealthy and learned knight, zealous for the encouragement both of learning and religion, resolv'd to apply, both his time, and estate, to the erecting and furnishing a new library for the publick use of the university.
In this good and charitable undertaking, he went on so successfully, for so many years, and with such a profusion of expence, and obtain'd such assistances from all the encouragers of learning in his time, that having collected books and manuscripts from all parts of the learned world; he got leave of the university, (and well they might grant it) to place them in the old library room, built as is said, by the good Duke Humphry. To this great work, great additions have been since made in books, as well as contributions in money, and more are adding every day; and thus the work was brought to a head, the 8th of Nov. 1602, and has continued encreasing by the benefactions of great and learned men to this day: To remove the books once more and place them in beauty and splendor suitable to so glorious a collection, the late Dr. Radcliff has left a legacy of 4ooool . say some, others say not quite so much, to the building a new repository or library for the use of the university: This work is not yet built, but I am told 'tis likely to be such a building as will be greater ornament to the place than any yet standing in it.
I shall say nothing here of the benefactions to this library. Unless I had room to mention them all, it would be both partial and imperfect. And as there is a compleat catalogue of the books preparing, and that a list of the benefactors and what books they gave, will be speedily publish'd; it would be needless to say any thing of it here.
Other curious things in Oxford are, the museum, the chamber of rarities, the collection of coins, medals, pictures and antient inscriptions, the physick-garden, &.
The buildings for all these are most beautiful and magnificent, suitable for the majesty of the university, as well as to the glory of the benefactors.
Oxford, had for many ages the neighbourhood of the Court, while their kings kept up the royal palace at Woodstock; which tho' perhaps it was much discontinu'd, for the fate of the fair Rosamond, mistress to Henry Fitz Empress, or Henry II. of which history tells us something, and fable much more; yet we after find that several of the kings of England made the house and park at Woodstock, which was always fam'd for its pleasant situation, the place of their summer retreat for many years. Also for its being a royal palace before, even beyond the certainty of history, there is abundant reason to believe it; nay some will have it to have been a royal house before Oxford was an university. Dr. Plott allows it to have been so ever since King Alfred; and a manuscript in the Cotton Library confirms it; and that King Henry I. was not the founder of it, but only rebuilt it: And as for Henry II. he built only some additions; namely, that they call'd the Bower, which was a building in the garden (or labyrinth,) for the entertainment and security of his fair mistress, of whose safety he was it seems very careful. Notwithstanding which the queen found means to come at her, and as fables report, sent her out of the way by poison. The old buildings are now no more, nor so much as the name, but the place is the same and the natural beauty of it indeed, is as great as ever.
It is still a most charming situation, and 'tis still disputable after all that has been laid out, whether the country round gives more lustre to the building, or the building to the country. It has now chang'd masters, 'tis no more a royal house or palace for the king; but a mark of royal bounty to a great, and at that time powerful subject, the late Duke of Marlborough. The magnificence of the building does not here as at Canons, at Chatsworth, and at other palaces of the nobility, express the genius and the opulence of the possessor, but it represents the bounty, the gratitude, or what else posterity pleases to call it, of the English Nation, to the man whom they delighted to honour: Posterity when they view in this house the trophies of the Duke of Marlborough's fame, and the glories of his great atchievements will not celebrate his name only; but will look on Blenheim House, as a monument of the generous temper of the English Nation; who in so glorious a manner rewarded the services of those who acted for them as he did: Nor can any nation in Europe shew the like munificence to any general, no nor the greatest in the world; and not to go back to antient times, not the French nation to the great Luxemberg, or the yet greater Turenne: Nor the emperor to the great Eugene, or to the yet greater Duke of Lorrain; whose inimitable conduct saved the imperial city of Vienna, and rescued the whole house of Austria; retook the whole kingdom of Hungary, and was victorious in seaventeen pitch'd battles. I say none of these ever receiv'd so glorious a mark of their country's favour. Again, It is to be consider'd, that not this house only, built at the nation's expence, was thus given; but lands and pensions to the value of above one hundred thousand pounds sterl. and honours the greatest England can bestow: These are all honours indeed to the duke, but infinitely more to the honour of the nation.
The magnificent work then is a national building, and must for ever be call'd so. Nay, the dimensions of it will perhaps call upon us hereafter, to own it as such in order to vindicate the discretion of the builder, for making a palace too big for any British subject to fill, if he lives at his own expence. Nothing else can justify the vast design, a bridge or ryalto rather, of one arch costing 2ooool . and this, like the bridge at the Escurial in Spain, without a river. Gardens of near 100 acres of ground. Offices fit for 300 in family. Out-houses fit for the lodgings of a regiment of guards, rather than of livery servants. Also the extent of the fabrick, the avenues, the salons, galleries, and royal apartments; nothing below royalty and a prince, can support an equipage suitable to the living in such a house: And one may without a spirit of prophecy, say, it seems to intimate, that some time or other Blenheim may and will return to be as the old Woodstock once was, the palace of a king.
I shall enter no farther into the description, because 'tis yet a house unfurnish'd, and it can only be properly said what it is to be, not what it is: The stair-case of the house is indeed very great, the preparations of statues and paintings, and the ornament both of the building and finishing and furnishing are also great, but as the duke is dead, the duchess old, and the heir abroad, when and how it shall be all perform'd, requires more of the gift of prophecy than I am master of.
From Woodstock I could not refrain taking a turn a little northward as high as Banbury to the banks of the Charwell, to see the famous spot of ground where a vigorous rencounter happen'd between the Royalists in the grand Rebellion, and the Parliament's forces, under Sir William Waller; I mean at Croprady Bridge, near Banbury. It was a vigorous action, and in which the king's forces may be said fairly to out-general their enemies, which really was not always their fate: I had the plan of that action before me, which I have had some years, and found out every step of the ground as it was disputed on both sides by inches, where the horse engaged and where the foot; where Waller lost his cannon, and where he retired; and it was evident to me the best thing Waller cou'd do, (tho' superiour in number) was to retreat as he did, having lost half his army.
From thence, being within eight miles of Edge-Hill, where the first battle in that war happen'd, I had the like pleasure of viewing the ground about Keinton, where that bloody battle was fought; it was evident, and one could hardly think of it without regret, the king with his army had an infinite advantage by being posted on the top of the hill, that he knew that the Parliament's army were under express orders to fight, and must attack him lest his majesty who had got two days march of them, should advance to London, where they were out of their wits for fear of him.
The king I say knowing this, 'tis plain he had no business but to have intrench'd, to fight upon the eminence where he was posted, or have detach'd 15000 men for London, while he had fortify'd himself with a strong body upon the hill: But on the contrary, his majesty scorning to be pursued by his subjects, his army excellently appointed, and full of courage, not only halted, but descended from his advantages and offer'd them battle in the plain field, which they accepted.
Here I cannot but remark that this action is perhaps the only example in the world, of a battle so furious, so obstinate, manag'd with such skill, every regiment behaving well, and doing their duty to the utmost, often rallying when disorder'd, and indeed fighting with the courage and order of veterans; and yet not one regiment of troops that had ever seen the face of an enemy, or so much as been in arms before. It's true, the king had rather the better of the day; and yet the rebel army though their left wing of horse was entirely defeated, behav'd so well, that at best it might be call'd a drawn battle; and the loss on both sides was so equal, that it was hard to know who lost most men.
But to leave the war, 'tis the place only I am taking notice of. From hence I turn'd south, for I was here on the edge both of Warwickshire, and Gloucestershire: But I turned south, and coming down by and upon the west side of Oxfordshire, to Chipping-Norton, we were shew'd Roll-Richt-Stones, a second Stone-Henge; being a ring of great stones standing upright, some of them from 5 to 7 foot high.
I leave the debate about the reason and antiquity of this antient work to the dispute of the learned, who yet cannot agree about them any more than about Stone-Henge in Wiltshire. Cambden will have them be a monument of victory, and the learned Dr. Charleton is of the same mind. Mr. Cambden also is willing to think that they were erected by Rollo the Dane, because of the town of Rollwright, from which they are call'd Rolle Right or Rolle Richt Stones. Aiston wou'd have them to be a monument of the dead, perhaps kill'd in battle; and that a great stone 9 foot high, at a distance, was over a king; and 5 other great ones likewise at a distance, were great commanders and the like.
The ingenious and learned Dr. Plot wou'd have us think it was a cirque or ring for their field elections of a king, something like the Dyetts on horseback in Poland; that they met in the open field to choose a king, and that the persons in competition were severally placed in such a cirque, surrounded by the suffrages or voters; and that when they were chosen, the person chosen was inaugurated here.
We were very merry at passing thro' a village call'd Bloxham, on the occasion of a meeting of servants for hire, which the people there call a Mop; 'tis generally in other places vulgarly call'd a Statute, because founded upon a statute law in Q. Elizabeth's time for regulating of servants. This I christn'd by the name of a Jade-Fair, at which some of the poor girls began to be angry, but we appeas'd them with better words. I have observ'd at some of these fairs, that the poor servants distinguish themselves by holding something in their hands, to intimate what labour they are particularly qualify'd to undertake; as the carters a whip, the labourers a shovel, the wood men a bill, the manufacturers a wool comb, and the like. But since the ways and manners of servants are advanc'd as we now find them to be, those Jade Fairs are not so much frequented as formerly, tho' we have them at several towns near London; as at Enfield, Waltham, Epping, &.
Here we saw also the famous parish of Brightwell, of which it was observed, that there had not been an alehouse nor a dissenter from the church, nor any quarrel among the inhabitants that rise so high as to a suit of law within the memory of man. But they could not say it was so still, especially as to the alehouse part; tho' very much is still preserved, as to the unity and good neighbourhood of the parishioners, and their conformity to the church.
Being now on the side of Warwickshire, as is said before, I still went south, and passing by the four Shire Stones, we saw where the counties of Oxford, Warwick, and Gloucester joyn all in a point; one stone standing in each county, and the fourth touching all three.
Hence we came to the famous Cotswold-Downs, so eminent for the best of sheep, and finest wool in England: It was of the breed of these sheep. And fame tells us that some were sent by King Rich. I. into Spain, and that from thence the breed of their sheep was raised, which now produce so fine a wool, that we are oblig'd to fetch it from thence, for the making our finest broad cloaths; and which we buy at so great a price.
In viewing this part of England, and such things as these, and considering how little notice other writers had taken of them, it occur'd to my thoughts that it wou'd be a very useful and good work, if any curious observer would but write an account of England, and oblige himself to speak of such things only, as all modern writers had said nothing of, or nothing but what was false and imperfect. And there are doubtless so many things, so insignificant, and yet so omitted, that I am persuaded such a writer would not have wanted materials; nay, I will not promise that even this work, tho' I am as careful as room for writing will allow, shall not leave enough behind, for such a gleaning to make it self richer than the reapings that have gone before; and this not altogether from the meer negligence and omissions of the writers, as from the abundance of matter, the growing buildings, and the new discoveries made in every part of the country.
Upon these downs we had a clear view of the famous old Roman high-way, call'd the Fosse, which evidently crosses all the middle part of England, and is to be seen and known (tho' in no place plainer than here,) quite from the Bath to Warwick, and thence to Leicester, to Newark, to Lincoln, and on to Barton, upon the bank of Humber.
Here it is still the common road, and we follow'd it over the downs to Cirencester. We observ'd also how several cross roads as antient as it self, and perhaps more antient, joyn'd it, or branch'd out of it; some of which the people have by antient usage tho' corruptly call'd also Fosses, making the word Fosse as it were a common name for all roads. For example, The Ackemanstreet which is an antient Saxon road leading from Buckinghamshire through Oxfordshire to the Fosse, and so to the Bath; this joyns the Fosse between Burford and Cirencester. It is worth observing how this is said to be call'd Ackeman's Street; namely, by the Saxon way of joyning their monosyllables into significant words, as thus, ackman or achman a man of aching limbs, in English a cripple travelling to the Bath for cure: So Achmanstreet was the road or street for diseased people going to the Bath; and the city of Bath was on the same account call'd Achmanchester, or the city of diseased people; or, Urbs Ægrotorum hominum. Thus much for antiquity. There are other roads or fosses which joyn this grand highway, viz. Grinnes Dike, from Oxfordshire, Wattle Bank, or Aves Ditch from ditto. and the Would Way, call'd also the Fosse crossing from Gloucester to Cirencester.
In passing this way we very remarkably cross'd four rivers within the length of about 10 miles, and enquiring their names, the country people call'd them every one the Thames, which mov'd me a little to enquire the reason, which is no more than this; namely, that these rivers, which are, the Lech, the Coln, the Churn, and the Isis; all rising in the Cotswould Hills and joyning together and making a full stream at Lechlade near this place, they become one river there, and are all call'd Thames, or vulgarly Temms; also beginning there to be navigable, you see very large barges at the key, taking in goods for London, which makes the town of Lechlade a very populous large place.
On the Churne one of those rivers stands Cirencester, or Ciciter for brevity, a very good town, populous and rich, full of clothiers, and driving a great trade in wool; which as likewise at Tetbury, is brought from the midland counties of Leicester, Northampton, and Lincoln, where the largest sheep in England are found, and where are few manufactures; it is sold here in quantities, so great, that it almost exceeds belief: It is generally bought here by the clothiers of Wiltshire and Gloucestershire, for the supply of that great clothing trade; of which I have spoken already: They talk of 5000 packs in a year.
As we go on upon the Fosse, we see in the vale on the left hand, the antient town of Malmsbury, famous for a monastary, and a great church, built out of the ruins of it; and which I name in meer veneration to that excellent, and even best of our old historians Gulielmus Malmsburiensis, to whom the world is so much oblig'd, for preserving the history and antiquities of this kingdom.
We next arriv'd at Marshfield, a Wiltshire clothing town, very flourishing and where we cross'd the great road from London to Bristol, as at Cirencester, we did that from London, to Gloucester; and in the evening keeping still the Fosse-Way, we arriv'd at Bath.
My description of this city would be very short, and indeed it would have been a very small city, (if at all a city) were it not for the hot baths here, which give both name and fame to the place. The antiquity of this place, and of the baths here, is doubtless very great, tho' I cannot come in to the inscription under the figure, said to be of a British king, placed in that call'd the King's Bath, which says that this King Bladud, (Mr. Cambden calls him Blayden, or Blaydon Cloyth; that is, the south-sayer) found out the use of these baths, 300 years before our Saviour's time. I say, I cannot come into this, because even the discovery is ascribed to the magick of the day, not their judgment in the physical virtue of minerals, and mineral-waters. The antiquities of this place are farther treated of by Mr. Cambden, as the virtues of the waters, are, by several of the learned members of that faculty, who have wrote largely on that subject; as particularly, Dr.------, Dr. Baynard, Dr.------ and others.
There remains little to add, but what relates to the modern customs, the gallantry and diversions of that place, in which I shall be very short; the best part being but a barren subject, and the worst part meriting rather a satyr, than a description. It has been observ'd before, that in former times this was a resort hither for cripples, and the place was truly Urbs Ægrotorum Hominum: And we see the crutches hang up at the several baths, as the thank-offerings of those who have come hither lame, and gone away cur'd. But now we may say it is the resort of the sound, rather than the sick; the bathing is made more a sport and diversion, than a physical prescription for health; and the town is taken up in raffling, gameing, visiting, and in a word, all sorts of gallantry and levity.
The whole time indeed is a round of the utmost diversion. In the morning you (supposing you to be a young lady) are fetch'd in a close chair, dress'd in your bathing cloths, that is, stript to the smock, to the Cross-Bath. There the musick plays you into the bath, and the women that tend you, present you with a little floating wooden dish, like a bason; in which the lady puts a handkerchief, and a nosegay, of late the snuff-box is added, and some patches; tho' the bath occasioning a little perspiration, the patches do not stick so kindly as they should.
Here the ladies and the gentlemen pretend to keep some distance, and each to their proper side, but frequently mingle here too, as in the King and Queens Bath, tho' not so often; and the place being but narrow, they converse freely, and talk, rally, make vows, and sometimes love; and having thus amus'd themselves an hour, or two, they call their chairs and return to their lodgings.
The rest of the diversion here, is the walks in the great church, and at the raffling shops, which are kept (like the cloyster at Bartholomew Fair,) in the churchyard, and ground adjoyning. In the afternoon there is generally a play, tho' the decorations are mean, and the performances accordingly; but it answers, for the company here (not the actors) make the play, to say no more. In the evening there is a ball, and dancing at least twice a week, which is commonly in the great town hall, over the market-house; where there never fails in the season to be a great deal of very good company.
There is nothing in the neighbourhood of this city worth notice, except it be Chipping-Norton-Lane, where was a fight between the forces of King James II. and the Duke of Monmouth, in which the latter had plainly the better; and had they push'd their advantage, might have made it an entire victory. On the N.W. of this city up a very steep hill, is the King's Down, where sometimes persons of quality who have coaches go up for the air: But very few people care to have coaches here, it being a place where they have but little room to keep them, and less to make use of them. And the hill up to the Downs is so steep, that the late Queen Anne was extremely frighted in going up, her coachman stopping to give the horses breath, and the coach wanting a dragstaff, run back in spight of all the coachman's skill; the horses not being brought to strain the harness again, or pull together for a good while, and the coach putting the guards behind it into the utmost confusion, till some of the servants setting their heads and shoulders to the wheels, stopt them by plain force.
When one is upon King-Down, and has pass'd all the steeps and difficulties of the ascent, there is a plain and pleasant country for many miles, into Gloucestershire, and two very noble palaces, the one built by Mr. Blathwait, late Secretary of War; and the other is call'd Badminton, the mansion of the most noble family of the Dukes of Beaufort, the present duke being under age. The lustre and magnificence of this palace is magnify'd by the surprise one is at, to see such a house in such a retreat, so difficult of access, at least this way, so near to so much company, and yet, so much alone.
From Bristol West, you enter the county of Gloucester, and keeping the Avon in view, you see King Road, where the ships generally take their departure, as ours at London do from Graves-End; and Hung Road, where they notify their arrival, as ours for London do in the Downs: The one lyes within the Avon, the other, in the open sea or the Severn; which is there call'd the Severn Sea. Indeed great part of Bristol is in the bounds of Gloucestershire, tho' it be a county of itself. From hence going away a little north west, we come to the Pill, a convenient road for shipping, and where therefore they generally run back for Ireland or for Wales. There is also a little farther, an ugly, dangerous, and very inconvenient ferry over the Severn, to the mouth of Wye; namely, at Aust; the badness of the weather, and the sorry boats, at which, deterr'd us from crossing there.
As we turn north towards Gloucester, we lose the sight of the Avon, and in about two miles exchange it for an open view of the Severn Sea, which you see on the west side, and which is as broad as the ocean there; except, that you see two small islands in it, and that looking N.W. you see plainly the coast of South Wales; and particularly a little nearer hand, the shore of Monmouthshire. Then as you go on, the shores begin to draw towards one another, and the coasts to lye parallel; so that the Severn appears to be a plain river, or an æstuarium , somewhat like the Humber, or as the Thames is at the Nore, being 4 to 5 and 6 miles over; and to give it no more than its just due, a most raging, turbulent, furious place. This is occasion'd by those violent tides call'd the Bore, which flow here sometimes six or seven foot at once, rolling forward like a mighty wave: So that the stern of a vessel shall on a sudden be lifted up six or seven foot upon the water, when the head of it is fast a ground. After coasting the shore about 4 miles farther, the road being by the low salt marshes, kept at a distance from the river: We came to the ferry call'd Ast Ferry, or more properly Aust Ferry, or Aust Passage, from a little dirty village call'd Aust; near which you come to take boat.
This ferry lands you at Beachly in Monmouthshire, so that on the out-side 'tis call'd Aust Passage, and on the other side, 'tis call'd Beachly-Passage. From whence you go by land two little miles to Chepstow, a large port town on the river Wye. But of that part I shall say more in its place.
When we came to Aust, the hither side of the Passage, the sea was so broad, the fame of the Bore of the tide so formidable, the wind also made the water so rough, and which was worse, the boats to carry over both man and horse appear'd (as I have said above) so very mean, that in short none of us car'd to venture: So we came back, and resolv'd to keep on the road to Gloucester. By the way we visited some friends at a market-town, a little out of the road, call'd Chipping-Sodbury, a place of note for nothing that I saw, but the greatest cheese market in all that part of England; or, perhaps, any other, except Atherstone, in Warwickshire.
Hence we kept on north, passing by Dursley to Berkley-Castle; the antient seat of the Earls of Berkley, a noble tho' antient building, and a very fine park about it. The castle gives title to the earl, and the town of Dursly to the heir apparent; who during the life of his father, is call'd the Lord Dursley. I say nothing of the dark story of King Edward II. of England; who, all our learned writers agree, was murther'd in this castle: As Richard II. was in that of Pontefract, in Yorkshire; I say I take no more notice of it here, for history is not my present business: 'Tis true, they show the apartments where they say that king was kept a prisoner: But they do not admit that he was kill'd there. The place is rather antient, than pleasant or healthful, lying low, and near the water; but 'tis honour'd by its present owner, known to the world for his many services to his country, and for a fame, which our posterity will read of, in all the histories of our times.
From hence to Gloucester, we see nothing considerable, but a most fertile, rich country, and a fine river, but narrower as you go northward, 'till a little before we come to Gloucester it ceases to be navigable by ships of burthen, but continues to be so, by large barges, above an hundred miles farther; not reckoning the turnings and windings of the river: Besides that, it receives several large and navigable rivers into it.
Gloucester is an antient middling city, tolerably built, but not fine; was fortify'd and stood out obstinately against its lord King Charles the Ist, who befieged it to his great loss in the late Rebellion, for which it had all its walls and works demolish'd; for it was then very strong: Here is a large stone bridge over the Severn, the first next the sea; and this, and the cathedral is all I see worth recording of this place. Except that the late eminent and justly famous Sir Thomas Powel, commonly call'd Judge Powel, one of the judges of the King's Bench Court; and contemporary with Sir John Holt lived and dyed in this city, being one of the greatest lawyers of the age.
The cathedral is an old venerable pile, with very little ornament within or without, yet 'tis well built; and tho' plain, it makes together, especially the tower, a very handsome appearance. The inhabitants boast much of its antiquity, and tell us, that a bishop and preachers were plac'd here, in the very infancy of the Christian religion; namely, in the year 189. But this I take ad referendum. The cathedral they tell us, has been three times burnt to the ground.
The first Protestant bishop of this church, was, that truly reverend and religious Dr. John Hooper, set up by King Edward VI. and afterwards martyr'd for his religion in the Marian tyranny: Being burnt to death in the cimitary of his own cathedral.
The whispering place in this cathedral, has for many years pass'd for a kind of wonder; but since, experience has taught us the easily comprehended reason of the thing: And since there is now the like in the church of St. Paul, the wonder is much abated. However, the verses written over this whispering place, intimate, that it has really past for something miraculous; and as the application rather shows religion, than philosophy in the author, the reader may not like them the worse.
From Gloucester we kept the east shore of the Severn, and in twelve miles came to Tewksbury, a large and very populous town situate upon the river Avon, this is call'd the Warwickshire Avon, to distinguish it from the Avon at Bristol and others, for there are several rivers in England of this name; and some tell us that avona was an old word in the British tongue signifying a river.
This town is famous for a great manufacture of stockings, as are also, the towns of Pershore, and Evesham, or Esham; on the same river.
The great old church at Tewksbury may indeed be call'd the largest private parish church in England; I mean, that is not a collegiate or cathedral church. This town is famous for the great, and as may be said, the last battle, fought between the two houses of Lancaster and York, in which Edward IV. was conqueror; and in, or rather after which, Prince Edward the only surviving son of the House of Lancaster, was kill'd by the cruel hands of Richard the king's brother; the same afterwards Richard III. or Crookback Richard. In this place begins that fruitful and plentiful country which was call'd the Vale of Esham, which runs all along the banks of the Avon, from Tewksbury to Pershore, and to Stratford upon Avon, and in the south part of Warwickshire; and so far, (viz. to Stratford,) the river Avon is navigable.
At this last town, going into the parish church, we saw the monument of old Shakespear, the famous poet, and whose dramatick performances so justly maintain his character among the British poets; and perhaps will do so to the end of time. The busto of his head is in the wall on the north side of the church, and a flat grave-stone covers the body, in the isle just under him.
The navigation of this river Avon is an exceeding advantage to all this part of the country, and also to the commerce of the city of Bristol. For by this river they drive a very great trade for sugar, oil, wine, tobacco, iron, lead, and in a word, all heavy goods which are carried by water almost as far as Warwick; and in return the corn, and especially the cheese, is brought back from Gloucestershire and Warwickshire, to Bristol.
This same vale continuing to extend it self in Warwickshire, and under the ridge of little mountains call'd Edge-Hill, is there call'd the vale of Red-Horse. All the grounds put together, make a most pleasant corn country, especially remarkable for the goodness of the air, and fertility of the soil.
Gloucestershire must not be pass'd over, without some account of a most pleasant and fruitful vale which crosses part of the country, from east to west on that side of the Cotswold, and which is call'd Stroud-Water; famous not for the finest cloths only, but for dying those cloths of the finest scarlets, and other grain colours that are any where in England; perhaps in any part of the world: Here I saw two pieces of broad cloth made, one scarlet, the other crimson in grain, on purpose to be presented, the one to His Majesty King George, and the other to the prince; when the former was Elector of Hanover, and the latter, electoral prince: And it was sent to Hanover, presented accordingly, and very graciously accepted. The cloth was valued including the colour, at 45s . per yard: Indeed it was hardly to be valued, nothing so rich being ever made in England before, at least as I was informed.
The clothiers lye all along the banks of this river for near 20 miles, and in the town of Stroud, which lyes in the middle of it, as also at Paynswick, which is a market-town at a small distance north. The river makes its way to the Severn about 5 miles below Gloucester.
The town of Ludlow is a tolerable place, but it decays to be sure with the rest: It stands on the edge of the two counties, Shropshire, and Worcestershire, but is itself in the first; 'tis on the bank of the Teme, over which it has a good bridge, and it was formerly a town of good trade; the Welch call this town Lye Twysoe, which is in English, the Prince's Court. Mr. Cambden calls the river Teme the Tem'd, and another river which joyns it just at this town, the Corve, whence the rich flat country below the town is call'd Corvesdale.
King Henry VIII. established the Court of the President here, and the Council of the Marches and all causes of nisi prius , or of civil right were try'd here, before the Lord President and Council; but this Court was entirely taken away by Act of Parliament in our days, and this, as above, tends to the sensible decay of the town as well as of the castle.
From Ludlow we took our course due south to Lemster, or Leominster, a large and good trading town on the River Lug. This river is lately made navigable by Act of Parliament, to the very great profit of the trading part of this country, who have now a very great trade for their corn, wool, and other products of this place, into the river Wye, and from the Wye, into the Severn, and so to Bristol.
Leominster has nothing very remarkable in it, but that it is a well built, well inhabited town: The church which is very large, has been in a manner rebuilt, and is now, especially in the inside, a very beautiful church. This town, besides the fine wool, is noted for the best wheat, and consequently the finest bread; whence Lemster Bread, and Weobly Ale, is become a proverbial saying.
The country on our right as we came from Ludlow is very fruitful and pleasant, and is call'd the Hundred of Wigmore, from which the late Earl of Oxford at his creation, took the title of Baron of Wigmore: And here we saw two antient castles, (viz.) Brampton-Brian, and Wigmore-Castle, both belonging to the earl's father, Sir Edward Harley; Brampton is a stately pile, but not kept in full repair, the fate of that antient family not permitting the rebuilding it as we were told was in tended. Yet it is not so far decay'd as Ludlow, nor is it abandoned, or like to be so, and the parks are still very fine, and full of large timber.
We were now on the borders of Wales, properly so call'd; for from the windows of Brampton-Castle, you have a fair prospect into the county of Radnor, which is, as it were, under its walls; nay, even this whole county of Hereford, was, if we may believe antiquity, a part of Wales, and was so esteem'd for many ages. The people of this county too, boast that they were a part of the antient Silures, who for so many ages withstood the Roman arms, and who could never be entirely conquer'd. But that's an affair quite beyond my enquiry. I observ'd they are a diligent and laborious people, chiefly addicted to husbandry, and they boast, perhaps, not without reason, that they have the finest wool, and best hops, and the richest cyder and cum in all Britain.
Indeed the wool about Leominster, and in the Hundred of Wigmore observ'd above, and the Golden Vale as 'tis call'd, for its richness on the banks of the river Dove, (all in this county) is the finest without exception, of any in England, the South Down wool not excepted: As for hops, they plant abundance indeed all over this county, and they are very good. And as for cyder, here it was, that several times for 20 miles together, we could get no beer or ale in their publick houses, only cyder; and that so very good, so fine, and so cheap, that we never found fault with the exchange; great quantities of this cyder are sent to London, even by land carriage tho' so very remote, which is an evidence for the goodness of it, beyond contradiction.
One would hardly expect so pleasant, and fruitful a country as this, so near the barren mountains of Wales; but 'tis certain, that not any of our southern counties, the neighbourhood of London excepted, comes up to the fertility of this county, as Gloucester furnishes London with great quantities of cheese, so this county furnishes the same city with bacon in great quantities, and also with cyder as above.
From Lemster it is ten miles to Hereford, the chief city, not of this county only, but of all the counties west of Severn: 'Tis a large and a populous city, and in the time of the late Rebellion, was very strong, and being well fortify'd, and as well defended, supported a tedious and very severe siege; for besides the Parliament's Forces, who could never reduce it, the Scots army was call'd to the work, who lay before it, 'till they laid above 4000 of their bones there, and at last, it was rather taken by the fate of the war, than by the attack of the besiegers.
Coming to Hereford, we could not but enquire into the truth of the story so famous, that the Reverend Dr. Gibson had mentioned it in his continuation of Cambden; of the removing the two great stones near Sutton, which the people confirm'd to us. The story is thus,
Between Sutton and Hereford, is a common meadow call'd the Wergins, where were plac'd two large stones for a watermark; one erected upright, and the other laid a-thwart. In the late Civil Wars, about the Year 1652, they were remov'd to about twelve score paces distance, and no body knew how; which gave occasion to a common opinion, That they were carried thither by the Devil. When they were set in their places again, one of them requir'd nine yoke of oxen to draw it.
Not far from Lidbury, is Colwal; near which, upon the waste, as a countryman was digging a ditch about his cottage, he found a crown or a .coronet of gold, with gems set deep in it. It was of a size large enough to be drawn over the arm, with the sleeve. The stones of it are said to have been so valuable, as to be sold by a jeweller for fifteen hundred pounds.
It is truly an old, mean built, and very dirty city, lying low, and on the bank of Wye, which sometimes incommodes them very much, by the violent freshes that come down from the mountains of Wales; for all the rivers of this county, except the Driffin-Doe, come out of Wales, rtegular winners of 6 Nations
The chief thing remarkable next to the cathedral, is the college, which still retains its Foundation Laws, and where the residentiaries are still oblig'd to celibacy, but otherwise, live a very happy, easy, and plentiful life; being furnish'd upon the foot of the foundation, besides their ecclesiastical stipends.
The great church is a magnificent building, however ancient, the spire is not high, but handsome, and there is a fine tower at the west end, over the great door or entrance. The choir is very fine, tho' plain, and there is a very good organ: The revenues of this bishoprick are very considerable, but lye under. some abatement at present, on account of necessary repairs.
There are several monuments in it of antient bishops, but no other of note. Between Leominster and this city, is another Hampton Court, the seat of the Lord Conningsby, who has also a considerable interest in the north part of this county; a person distinguishing himself in the process or impeachment against the late Earl of Oxford, his neighbour; who, to his no small disappointment, escap'd him. There is nothing remarkable here that I could observe: But the name putting me in mind of another Hampton Court, so much beyond it, that the house seems to be a foil to the name; the house was built by Rowland Lenthall, Esq; who was Guard de Robe to Henry IV. so that it is old enough, if that may recommend it, and so is its master.
From Hereford keeping the bank of Wye as near as we could, we came to Ross, a good old town, famous for good cyder, a great manufacture of iron ware, and a good trade on the River Wye, and nothing else as I remember, except it was a monstrous fat woman, who they would have had me gone to see. But I had enough of the relation, and so I suppose will the reader, for they told me she was more than three yards about her wast; that when she sat down, she was oblig'd to have a small stool plac'd before her, to rest her belly on, and the like.
Lower down upon the Wye stands Chepstow, the sea port for all the towns seated on the Wye and Lug, and where their commerce seems to center. Here is a noble bridge over the Wye: To this town ships of good burthen may come up, and the tide runs here with the same impetuous current as at Bristol; the flood rising from six fathom, to six and a half at Chepstow Bridge. This is a place of very good trade, as is also Newport, a town of the like import upon the River Uske, a great river, tho' not so big as Wye, which runs thro' the center of the county, and falls also into the Severn Sea.
This county furnishes great quantities of corn for exportation, and the Bristol merchants frequently load ships here, to go to Portugal, and other foreign countries with wheat; considering the mountainous part of the west of this county, 'tis much they should have such good corn, and so much of it to spare; but the eastern side of the county, and the neighbourhood of Herefordshire, supplies them.
I am now at the utmost extent of England west, and here I must mount the Alps, traverse the mountains of Wales, (and indeed, they are well compar'd to the Alps in the inmost provinces;) But with this exception, that in abundance of places you have the most pleasant and beautiful valleys imaginable, and some of them, of very great extent, far exceeding the valleys so fam'd among the mountains of Savoy, and Piedmont.
The two first counties which border west upon Monmouthshire, are Brecknock, and Glamorgan, and as they are very mountainous, so that part of Monmouthshire which joyns them, begins the rising of the hills. Kyrton-Beacon, Tumberlow, Blorench, Penvail, and Skirridan, are some of the names of these horrid mountains, and are all in this shire; and I could not but fansy my self in view of Mount Brennus, Little Barnard, and Great Barnard, among the Alps. When I saw Plinlimmon Hill, and the sources of the Severn on one side of it, and the Wye and Rydall on the other: it put me in mind of the famous hill, call'd-----in the cantons of Switzerland, out of which the Rhine rises on one side, and the Rhosne, and the Aa on the other. But I shall give you more of them presently.
We now entered South Wales: The provinces which bear the name of South Wales, are these, Glamorgan, Brecknock, Radnor, Caermarthen, Pembroke, and Cardigan. We began with Brecknock, being willing to see the highest of the mountains, which are said to be hereabouts; and indeed, except I had still an idea of the height of the Alps, and of those mighty mountains of America, the Andes, which we see very often in the South-Seas, 20 leagues from the shore: I say except that I had still an idea of those countries on my mind, I should have been surprized at the sight of these hills; nay, (as it was) the Andes and the Alps, tho' immensly high, yet they stand together, and they are as mountains, pil'd upon mountains, and hills upon hills; whereas sometimes we see these mountains rising up at once, from the lowest valleys, to the highest summits which makes the height look horrid and frightful, even worse than those mountains abroad; which tho' much higher, rise as it were, one behind another: So that the ascent seems gradual, and consequently less surprising.
Brecknockshire is a meer inland county, as Radnor is; the English jestingly (and I think not very improperly) call it Breakneckshire: 'Tis mountainous to an extremity, except on the side of Radnor, where it is something more low and level. It is well watered by the Wye, and the Uske, two rivers mentioned before; upon the latter stands the town of Brecknock, the capital of the county: The most to be said of this town, is what indeed I have said of many places in Wales, (viz.) that it is very antient, and indeed to mention it here for all the rest, there are more tokens of antiquity to be seen every where in Wales, than in any particular part of England, except the counties of Cumberland, and Northumberland. Here we saw Brecknock-Mere, a large or long lake of water, two or three miles over; of which, they have a great many Welch fables, not worth relating: The best of them is, that a certain river call'd the Lheweni runs thro' it, and keeps its colour in mid-chanel distinguish'd from the water of the lake, and as they say, never mingles with it. They take abundance of good fish in this lake, so that as is said of the river Thysse in Hungary; they say this lake is two thirds water, and one third fish. The country people affirm, there stood a city once here, but, that by the judgment of Heaven, for the sin of its inhabitants, it sunk into the earth, and the water rose up in the place of it. I observe the same story is mentioned by Mr. Cambden with some difference in the particulars: I believe my share of it, but 'tis remarkable, that Mr. Cambden having lost the old city Loventium, mentioned by Ptolemy to be hereabouts, is willing to account for it, by this old story.
It was among the mountains of this county that the famous Glendower shelter'd himself, and taking arms on the deposing Richard II. proclaimed himself Prince of Wales; and they shew us several little refuges of his in the mountains, whither he retreated, and from whence, again, he made such bold excursions into England.
Tho' this county be so mountainous, provisions are exceeding plentiful, and also very good all over the county; nor are these mountains useless, even to the city of London, as I have noted of other counties; for from hence they send yearly, great herds of black cattle to England, and which are known to fill our fairs and markets, even that of Smithfield it self.
entre el aroma de las violetas y las campánulas, los pensamientos y los nomeolvides, la melancolía por perder se solapa con el orgasmo de ganar.
ILWT
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