An Italian Sonnet by Craig Mather

For those who have not read the comment attached to my last article, I here would like to dedicate a post entirely to its display. The following is an italian sonnet by my brother, Craig:

See how he stands by thought of death unswerved
upon the fine and verdant square Cambronne
its namesake rising from the earth in stone
by sacred kiss of history preserved
Hear as he cries out "vive Napoleon!"
"A challenge to you men of noble birth:
dare fight this blood you think of little worth?"
the highborn turn and answer: "nous osons!"
Now one steps out to wage for all the rest
draws sword and argues with its fatal prose
but falls to death as our man thrusts his own
up to the hilt inside that noble breast
and from the wound the filth of Eglon flows
a blood-price for the honor of Cambronne


(Note: The french in the eighth line translates: "we dare")

A quarrel with an aristocrat

France, in many ways, is very different from The U.S. For example, to establish myself and gain respect in French society I have to vehemently defend my honor. This means, of course, engaging myself in duels whenever I have been offended in order to acquire satisfaction. Here in Nantes especially, things are settled at the point of a sword, so I must needs brush up on my fencing. I am joking of course; I would never need to brush up on my fencing. But that does remind me of an incident that took place not too long after my arrival.

Two weeks ago, while sitting in a café, I was approached by several agreeable Frenchman who were looking for nothing more than hearty conversation. This I welcomed eagerly as a means to gain some information about the city. We talked on all manner of subjects until, while expounding on notable sites to visit in Nantes, one of them made a comment about Le Cours Cambronne (The Square Cambronne). He spoke of it with utter contempt, which piqued my curiosity. When I asked why he held this square in such low esteem, he replied that it was an extremely high end square and, consequently, also one of the most stubbornly aristocratic. It was not advisable, he said, to enter into that square if I did not come from a firmly established and respected family. This news did nothing more than stir up the rebellion in me and I gave a hearty "pffffff" in response. Having thusly fired off a definitive riposte, I turned and headed in the direction of the square Cambronne, leaving the Frenchmen calling after me and shaking their heads.

When I arrived at the gate I paused for a moment to gather myself, then strolled in, head held high, upper lip curled in disdain. As I made my way to the center of the square and the statue of the general Cambronne, I yelled out in a strong voice: "vive Napolean!" This had the desired effect, even a bit more so than I had hoped. In a few seconds I found myself surrounded by a group of angry French aristocrats (French aristocrats are all pretty angry these days seeing that the Restoration didn't pan out). I knew I had to tread carefully, choose my moment, then act swiftly. I became flush with anticipation, my hand at the ready on my saber. I looked around me trying to pick out their leader. Ah! the dandy looking fellow with the uneven peruke! That was he. I pointed at him, singling him out from the rest, and drew my sword in one fluid motion. Bound by centuries of honor, he was constrained to accept my challenge. He advanced and made ready.

With the rest of them watching we fell into furious combat. He was strong and skilled, but could not match my endurance. Eventually he began to tire, and I seized a moment when his guard was open, piercing him through the breast. He cried out once, eyes wide with surprise, then fell to his knees. The others moved in immediately to see to him. For my part, I calmly cleaned and sheathed my blade, then walked back the way I had come. I knew I would have no further problems in the square Cambronne.

Some of you out there might be wondering how a square in Nantes dedicated to a hero of the Empire would end up a haven for what's left of the French aristocracy. This is a good question. I can only surmise that their taking possession of the square was a passive aggressive attempt to denigrate Napolean and his legacy. Notwithstanding, the statue has suffered no ill treatment and the square is always pristine with never any sign of vandalism. Rather, from what I have observed, aristocrats show their disdain in seemly fashion by showering the general Cambronne with subtlety ironic praise to any tourists who will listen.

Le Cours Cambronne

Hello everybody! Here I am again in France, so I figure it is time for another blog entry.
I found an apartment not far from my school, which is really nice. But, what has impressed me the most about the location is its proximity to a beautiful square called Le Cours Cambronne. It's only about a minute's walk from my place. Here is a picture I took from one of the entrances.



It's name after the general Pierre Cambronne, a well known French general who commanded part of the Old Guard at Waterloo. When the British commander Coleville demanded that he surrender, he was reported to have famously declared, "la garde meurt et ne se rend pas" (The guard dies and does not surrender). This is written on the base of the statue of Cambronne in the center of the square.


And here's the statue itself.



Here's a closer look at the statue. Take a look at those sideburns! Wow, those are hefty.


You know, the term 'sideburns' actually has a long and rich history dating back to the mid 19th century. A certain General Ambrose Burnside, who wore them in the civil war, is almost wholly credited with their coming into fashion in the Americas, first catching on among his men, and later in society at large. Wanting to pay hommage to their innovator, Burnside's men decided to name them after him. But, knowing Burnside to be a modest man, it seems his men clumsily tried to disguise the term's namesake by merely inverting 'burn' and 'side'. Thus we have the word: sideburn. (It so happened that the diguised word did not for an instant fool Burnside, who blushed furiously upon first hearing it pronounced and, in order to cover his embarrassment, immediately led a foolhardy charge into enemy lines during which a full third of his men were killed or wounded.)[1]

Interestingly, sideburns might have also had a practical use in battle. In a frontal charge, the volume of hair on either side of the head greatly increased its area as percieved by the enemy. Reasearchers theorize that this caused the defending line to be somewhat lax when aiming for the head, thereby saving the charging sideburn wearer from excessive head wounds.[2]

Sideburns are not to be confused with friendly mutton chops: mutton chops amicably connected with a mustache. Toward the end of the civil war, there was a captain who started wearing friendly mutton chops in an attempt to upstage General Burnside, but he was almost uniformly looked down upon and his friendly mutton chops widely considered to be gaudy and ostentatious. [3]

[1] Original research by Dr. G. Aric, professor of causistry and hindsight ethics at Lambert University.
[2] Head Wounds: How Many Is Too Many? Dr. Angus Moosington M.D.
[3] From Sideburns to Friendly Mutton Chops: An Illustrated Guide to Identification. Bruno van Cattus.

Elegy for a Beard

As I'm sure most of you now know, Craig's beard is no longer with us. Despite my vehement apologia, it fell under the razor several months ago. I have only just recovered enough from my sorrow to post a tribute. And post it I must...lest we forget.

Elegy for a Beard

The pride of man in nature's state allowed
To coronate his chin in kingly wear
As Sampson's strength, so terrible and proud,
Was cut from him and lost as locks of hair.

I looked upon him when, being at their height,
lush curls extolled his wild and noble state.
They seemed to me a crown, divine and right,
foretelling all the glory of his fate.

But let us not bemoan with maudlin cries
the outward sign of what resides in him.
Do not believe Delilah and her lies.
One tames a lion only at its whim.

Incident of the French Camp

While sifting through poems to find one I wanted to teach, I came across a poem by Robert Browning: Incident of the French Camp. My dad used to read this poem to my brother and me when we were young. When I read it now, I still hear it the way he intepreted it.

You know, we French storm'd Ratisbon:
A mile or so away
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;
With neck out-thrust, you fancy how,
Legs wide, arms lock'd behind,
As if to balance the prone brow
Oppressive with its mind.

Just as perhaps he mus'd "My plans
That soar, to earth may fall,
Let once my army leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,"--
Out 'twixt the battery smokes there flew
A rider, bound on bound
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew
Until he reach'd the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect
By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect--
(So tight he kept his lips compress'd,
Scarce any blood came through)
You look'd twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon!
The Marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,
Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes
A film the mother-eagle's eye
When her bruised eaglet breathes;
"You're wounded!" "Nay," the soldier's pride
Touched to the quick, he said:
"I'm killed, Sire!" And his chief beside,
Smiling the boy fell dead.

Monsieur Moustaches

Unfortunately, I am sick again. I seem to have a frog in my throat, (or a cat in my throat, as the French say.) Be it cat or frog, my sickness has left me with time to update my blog. I thought this might be a good opportunity to post some pictures of Monsieur Moustaches. For those who don't remember, Monsieur Moustaches is the rabbit, a.k.a "lawn mower," in the backyard.

In this picture you can see his cage. We move it around the lawn so he can mow different areas.


Moustaches, tending to his mowing duties.


Moustaches chewing hopelessly at the bars of his eternal prison. Awwwww! He's so cute!

London

I just got back from a trip where I, along with three professors, accompanied 49 high school juniors to London. We left on Tuesday and got back around noon on Sunday. We had the opportunity to visit a lot of interesting sites and museums including the British Museum, the National Gallery, the Tate British, the Globe Theater, Big Ben, and the Sherlock Holmes Museum.

In what turned out to be one of the highlights for me, we got to see a real mummy in the British Museum. It was a lot smaller than I had expected, but thoroughly fascinating nonetheless---so fascinating in fact that, after observing it through the glass for some time, I was taken by a lively desire to carry out some experiments with a voltaic pile. As you are all probably well aware, there have lately been theories going around on the resuscitation of human organisms that have been put into a state of suspended animation by various means---including some forms of ancient Egyptian embalming---through the strategic application of electricity. I communicated these ideas to the curator in hopes of attaining the permission to proceed with my designs. I even cited several precedents of electrically stimulated revivification, most notably recorded in Some Words with a Mummy, by Edgar Allan Poe. Alas! my supplications were to no avail. The curator, whose curatorial competence I am now forced to question, responded only with a fit of indignant sputtering followed by a stream of slanderous profanity. The whole thing would have degraded to fisticuffs right there in the museum if several French students with me at the time hadn't held me back. Needless to say, I was sorely disappointed, especially after having taken the pains to transport a voltaic pile all the way to London.

Birthday Cookies

Bonjour à tous! As many of you know it was my birthday about a month ago. Well, I received a special birthday box from my family which included the cookies you see below---yes, those are snickerdoodles cooked in the shape of letters that spell out "Happy Birthday Brian." My mom must have spent a lot of time making these cookies, so I wanted to take some pictures before devouring them. Apparently though, I was not the only one who was eager to do some devouring. My mom later informed me that while the cookies were sitting on the dining room table waiting to be sent, our small, evil, scourge of a cat, Moose, did some nibbling. Consequently there were some pieces missing when I opened the box. Fortunately for the photos, there is some redundancy in the letters that spell "Happy Birthday Brian."

Carte de Séjour

I finally have my carte de séjour! A carte de séjour is a kind of residency card that allows me to stay in France and make an honest living without resorting to underhanded means of supporting myself, such as transporting contraband, or promoting Céline Dion concerts. Unfortunately the photo on my carte de séjour is awful. You see, in France, you are not allowed to show your teeth in photos used for official documents. I took this to mean I couldn't smile; this isn't true at all. I've since learned that it is quite possible to smile without showing your teeth, or at least to have an agreable expression. Suffice it to say that the expression I have in the photo is anything but agreable. With my current carte de séjour photo, I think my presence in France is actually less legitimate. I may well have to turn to a life of crime to match my newly minted identification. Sorry mom.

(Please note that I have chosen not to include a picture of my I.D. for reasons of security, and not because of any embarrassement it might cause me.)

Adonis I am not

Yesterday, before going to bed, my stomach started aching pretty badly. I tried to think of what I might have eaten to upset it, but couldn't come up with anything. Then I remembered that two days ago, on a whim, I had done thirty push-ups in the living-room of a friend, leaving me with an incredibly sore chest. Could it be that my abdominal muscles had, as well, united against me in painful protest? Could it be that during my weeks of sloth and lethargy they had grown accustom to their state of repose? In a word: that is absolutely the case. Due to my lack of daily exercise my abs had become sore to the point of painful cramping, which I was able to alleviate only by sleeping on my stomach. I am so ashamed.

Flu and Bronchitis or From Scylla into Charybdis

I just recently recovered from the flu. It was a tenacious flu that didn't want to relinquish its grasp. And when it finally did give in, it left me with a nasty bronchitis. When I eventually went to the doctor, he told me, "vous avez une bronchite qui s'est bien prise," which, loosely translated, means: "your an idiot, and you should have come in to see me days ago." But, three packages of amoxicillin later, I'm back on my feet and back at school with nothing but a lingering cough (which I use shamelessly to garner sympathy).

Christmas in France

Christmas in France was great! I left for Rennes with Maëlle and her family on Christmas Eve. When we got to her Aunt's house, everybody said hello and talked for a bit, and then we sat down to the réveillon de Noël. This is a traditional family meal eaten on Christmas Eve that lasts for five or six hours. The meal started at nine o'clock in the evening and finished at three in the morning. We ate course after course after course which included foie gras, stuffed clams, pigeon, white wine, red wine, champagne, and eau-de-vie. (Keep in mind this was over six hours, just in case some of you had visions of me dancing deliriously on tabletops.) Finally we all went to bed around three thirty in the morning. The next day we got up in time for another long meal on Christmas Day (this one was only five hours though). Later that evening we drove back to Maëlle's house in Nantes and exhanged gifts. Everybody was really tired Christmas night, but it was all worth it. Here are some pictures:


Christmas hat picture!


Stuffed clams. They were really good!





Maëlle took this picture so my mom would have proof that I am eating my vegetables.


This is a shirt that Maëlle gave me for Christmas. It is a cross between a dress shirt and a polo.

I hope you all had a good Christmas. Happy New Year!