tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11202148628360322982024-03-19T08:40:48.884-07:00Reed Roamsbreedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-21507650902819583202023-04-19T07:03:00.000-07:002023-04-19T07:03:12.511-07:00Oscar Wilde - Man of Fashion and Letters<p> <span> </span><span> <br /><br /><br /> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">While we are not reading Oscar Wilde in this travelling class, my lord
we should be.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">If only time
permitted.</span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 14pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">There are some sites in Dublin
associated with Wilde, and so he is doubly worth thinking about.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVpvaC7inKLBqai0DBVhb-2v971DAeiYWjfgdvFRjtHSARiZL5HgDfK7u9co-K4WkOsi52YSm_WksyDujX9yP9pn6xi_LH0KX5-FryunanOdfV8IjOGd9fhpYj8a9upTwI-LYirjaCnRxcRPPw1ixwZ2ZKGuVIccKNCX2APO0B0lASKUb2eAZ9dOR/s639/OW1.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="449" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdVpvaC7inKLBqai0DBVhb-2v971DAeiYWjfgdvFRjtHSARiZL5HgDfK7u9co-K4WkOsi52YSm_WksyDujX9yP9pn6xi_LH0KX5-FryunanOdfV8IjOGd9fhpYj8a9upTwI-LYirjaCnRxcRPPw1ixwZ2ZKGuVIccKNCX2APO0B0lASKUb2eAZ9dOR/s320/OW1.PNG" width="225" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">We remember Wilde as a critic, a poet, an essayist, a dramatist, a
letter writer, and a novelist who lived his life <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i> way, as an eccentric genius, full of enthusiasm, decadence and
flair, which ultimately ended too soon, and indeed most tragically.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">If we begin at the beginning, it is easy to see that Oscar Wilde came
by his eccentric genius honestly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Wilde’s mother, whose name was Jane Frances, demanded that everyone
refer to her as Francesca Speranza. She felt her poetry (she was a poet) was so
infectious that if the public was exposed to it, they would catch her poetic
fever, and it would spread through the country like a contagion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She repeated this so regularly that she
became known as Francesca Speranza Influenza Wilde. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The reputation of Wilde’s father, a famous eye and ear doctor in
Dublin, in the Merrion Square neighborhood of Dublin (where there is a lovely
statue of Oscar Wilde reclining on a rock) was even more widespread that his
son. His fame, involving chlorophorm, an ex-lover, and a lengthy trial is too
complex to get into here. It does serve to show that the Wilde men do not fare
well with litigious lovers. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Take warning, Dear Oscar.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">We know very little about Oscar as a child, other than from his mother.
She, who seems to be attached to impressive names, dubbed her second son, Oscar
Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A flair
for extravagance is rooted early in Oscar as well. An early piece of his
writing comes to us as a letter to his mother while at summer camp, age
13.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX4tefiEcyN7EYRnHquug-pE7-Gsd326rYcd_-jJBAQ1BInzdOdCkweUCdaPmmqlT6G_0mUyHHqAQc11_c1kDubcNEFwLlfebGtmHZttboFP0d3Eq3qeVu_yCw-zhyKm7kALyiE9a3LKCml9sCalNBPcs6IBSzJEN1Od2CGXwRdDvpDtI5zfwojjtJ/s446/OW%20Merrion.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="446" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX4tefiEcyN7EYRnHquug-pE7-Gsd326rYcd_-jJBAQ1BInzdOdCkweUCdaPmmqlT6G_0mUyHHqAQc11_c1kDubcNEFwLlfebGtmHZttboFP0d3Eq3qeVu_yCw-zhyKm7kALyiE9a3LKCml9sCalNBPcs6IBSzJEN1Od2CGXwRdDvpDtI5zfwojjtJ/s320/OW%20Merrion.PNG" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oscar Wilde Statue - Merrion Square Dublin</td></tr></tbody></table></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">It starts thus:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“Darling Mama,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">The [clothes] hamper came today and I never got such a jolly
surprise.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was more than kind of you
to send it, though the flannel shirts you sent are . . . not mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mine, as you may remember, are the one quite
scarlet and the other that divine lilac shade . . .”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Not the typical note one might get from a young lad at summer camp,
but Oscar Wilde, my friends, was in no way typical. He was certainly a man of <b>fashion</b>.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">At Trinity College in Dublin, Wilde became attracted to the
Aestheticism movement, and thus he decided to always surround himself with
beautiful things, and here is when he decided to make his symbol the lily.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When asked why he chose the lily, he respond
by saying “Because it is the most beautiful, and useless thing in the world.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">When Wilde finished his time at Trinity, he also, in essence, finished
his time in Ireland, moving to Oxford England to escape the confining and
claustrophobic atmosphere of Dublin. James Joyce, his fellow Irishman, who we
will hear about in our next reading, would heartily agree with these
sentiments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In Oxford, Wilde did well in
his classes, but they did not take up too much of his time, as he spent much of
his time furnishing and refurnishing his rooms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Again, surrounding himself with beauty as well as variety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After one of his great refurbishings (and
there were many), he noted “I find it harder and harder every day to live up to
my blue china.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMDO8yeNinW0zv3riEsMKfAtjMMRwEf28MgmMrbSLWXg7KmVCODFvx7icrOPK3lbAt81ggcZv-0GoeqdzQBu-CvE3TNktLPaUkDMCqxiVUmxL-H2E2UrtKWD0Gjkzp_q7q3VtpfBlcy4zYiuGeqkXEl6zRIn1PW9am2trsOMrEKsrOYgsSyCvGWS7/s764/OW2.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="473" data-original-width="764" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQMDO8yeNinW0zv3riEsMKfAtjMMRwEf28MgmMrbSLWXg7KmVCODFvx7icrOPK3lbAt81ggcZv-0GoeqdzQBu-CvE3TNktLPaUkDMCqxiVUmxL-H2E2UrtKWD0Gjkzp_q7q3VtpfBlcy4zYiuGeqkXEl6zRIn1PW9am2trsOMrEKsrOYgsSyCvGWS7/s320/OW2.PNG" width="320" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">In his 20s Wilde was known mostly for his entertaining wit at parties,
his extravagance in dress, and his connection to the aesthetic movement. He had
a successful speaking tour in America, where he notoriously presented a lecture
to miners (in a mine mind you) in Leadville Colorado, where he spoke about the
beauty of ornate silver.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He followed his
presentation by drinking whiskey with the men.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He was a huge success. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Even so, he
returned to England as a 28-year-old man who was still unsure of what he would
do for a career.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">In part because of his well-documented travels in America, Wilde was a
favorite topic in the newspapers, and as such, gossip and rumors began to
spread about him, particularly that he was spending too much time with young
men, and not enough time with young women.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>In the Victorian age to be a homosexual, and a public figure even more
so, was not tolerated by the ass…… by the puritanical moralists.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Family members and friends encouraged Oscar
to find a wife.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Particularly a wealthy
one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was </i>successful, . . . <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>successfully
marrying the wealthy Constance Lloyd, successfully designing her gown for the
wedding, and successfully giving her two sons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The marriage, though, was not ultimately successful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Oscar preferred the company of young,
intelligent, beautiful men, who shared an interest in the arts. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was living a double life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">And so in 1890 Wilde published <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Picture of Dorian Gray.<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Like much that was produced by Wilde, it created a sensation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On one level, It is about a dashing young man
and his pursuit of sensual pleasures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dorian
Gray continues to look young and beautiful throughout the novel, even though
his actions become more and more unacceptable to society and to himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
might be an ingenious commentary on the problem of seeing oneself in art. Indeed,
a portrait that Gray keeps hidden in a remote upper room, takes on the physical
costs of his actions and becomes hideous to look at.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while the opening preface suggests that
art and morality should remain separate, that art is for art’s sake, there
seems to a theme in this novel about the problem of living the double life, or
a warning about selfish hedonism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the
end, mm Gray can no longer bear to look at the rotten image of his inner self
that the portrait represents, and so in an eerie and delightful gothic moment,
in his attempt to slash the picture, he instead just slashes himself.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Lord Alfred Douglas, a young beautiful man who also was the youngest
son of the Marquis of Queensbury, impressed Wilde by saying he had memorized large
passages from the work. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lord </i>Alfred Douglas was charming, and
reckless, and he loved vexing his father, the Marquis of Queensbury.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wilde and Lord Douglass became inseparable. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Now the Marquis of Queensbury, is a towering figure in the sport of
Boxing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you know anything about
boxing…..well you have me there….but I do know this…. there is something called
the Queensbury rules.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are named for
him.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Not surprisingly Queensbury wanted his son to graduate from Oxford
with a fine reputation, and thus he began tyrannizing his son.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The son <u>used</u> his relationship with
Wilde to pester and enrage his father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
indeed, it was clear to many that Lord Alfred Douglas was doing just that: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Using </i>Oscar Wilde.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In a way, we could say that:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lord Douglas was good looking on the outside,
but rotten inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">During this time Wilde pumped out may of his greatest works :<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lady Windermere’s Fan</i> (1892) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">A Woman of no Importance </i>(1893) and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Importance of Being Earnest</i> a story that
is in part about living the double life in (1895).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dorian
Gray</i>, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Importance of Being Earnest</i>
was a sensation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Indeed, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Importance of Being
Earnest</i> is one of the funniest, wittiest, pun-filled (I did say Pun
–filled) play you will ever see.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
questions whether marriage is a plague, or just a dull responsibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It skewers Victorian prudery and pretensions,
and it presents a life of triviality, decadence, and the double-life as a life
of liberty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both central male characters
in the play have secret identities and activities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Jack is Jack in the country and Earnest in
the City.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Algenon is Algey in the City
and Earnest in the country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Neither is exactly
Earnest.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">In an attempt to cut Wilde down as he came to the height of his fame, Queensbury
heightened his attacks on Wilde by leaving a calling card addressed to “Oscar
Wilde, posing as a Sodomite” at his club for all the members to see. At least
that is what is what was recorded as evidence by the judge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The national Archives shows the original copy
saying<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- (either because Queensbury was
in a rage, or in a rush, or just … ignorant) “Oscar Wilde Posing Somdomite – or
Oscar Wilde posing a Somdomite”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>- I’m
not sure what either of those means….but it sounds compelling.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway… Even though it created some
embarrassment, we are told Wilde would have never done anything about it, but Lord
Douglass egged him on demanding that Wilde take out a slander suit on his
father, which Wilde finally agreed to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The trial did not last long and a second trial did not end in Wilde’s
favor, Victorian England and all that rot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">Ultimately, for his “Gross Indecency” The Judge sentenced Wilde to
“Two years Hard Labor.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This tragic
sentence was a disaster for Wilde.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His
name was removed from the playbills and he was pressed to sell most all of his
beautiful furniture and possessions, including his blue china, to pay lawyer’s
fees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worst of all, his time in prison weakened
his heath immensely. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While he did not
die there, he did not live long after his release.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">In a squalid Paris Hotel, Wilde died in poverty, without his beloved
beautiful surroundings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of the last
witticisms Wilde gives us is from this deathbed:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">“My Wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One or the other of us has to go!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;">But that isn’t the witticism I wish to leave you with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, let us turn back to the trial,
whereas the Marquis of Queensbury leapt up and accused Wilde stating “You are
in the gutter and you are dragging my son there too” – Wilde, in his erudite
elegance retorted “We are all of us in the gutter, sir, but some of us are
looking at the stars.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p></p>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-24285038589574859752023-04-04T09:18:00.004-07:002023-04-04T09:18:58.340-07:00Dog and Bear: Who Wins? (Who Cares?)<p> <br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDo8WPWau8I55zh_gXDQBqDMDBSWSTivgKWVYqbsCHvWGSTijl69IzqCMg4mCsE0dkTMq31z3UOygjTykL3j7iaQCOPk_zHq30CBHWAui-L8Y-8_GEKvy7EuoNj0h79z8Q5eKHSdWY4NsCm6Vtg_gmj8YUscwKRO5vR3LBrrWa9K0TdzTsX8Yt21li/s560/English%20Bulldog.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="560" data-original-width="373" height="282" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDo8WPWau8I55zh_gXDQBqDMDBSWSTivgKWVYqbsCHvWGSTijl69IzqCMg4mCsE0dkTMq31z3UOygjTykL3j7iaQCOPk_zHq30CBHWAui-L8Y-8_GEKvy7EuoNj0h79z8Q5eKHSdWY4NsCm6Vtg_gmj8YUscwKRO5vR3LBrrWa9K0TdzTsX8Yt21li/w188-h282/English%20Bulldog.PNG" width="188" /></a></div>Near the end of <i>Waverly</i>, after Edward and Rose are
married, they agree to “spend a few days at an estate which Colonel Talbot had
been tempted to purchase in Scotland as a very great bargain” (367). It seems
after the old Scottish estates were ransacked by the English, they could acquire
them at a great discount.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Clever
Brits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It reminds me of the white flight
– slum lord – urban decay - gentrification schemes we have seen (and are
seeing) in the States. Anyway, after Colonel Talbot partially restores Tully-Veolan,
and the Baron of Bradwardine is being shown his former ancestral home, there is
an interesting exchange between Colonel Talbot and the Baron of Bradwardine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the Baron surveys the grounds, and sees the
two great bears that previously adorned the gates returned to their rightful
place, he exclaims, “While I acknowledge my obligation to you for the
restoration of these images of bears as being the ancient badge of our family,
I cannot but marvel that you have no where established your own crest, Colone
Talbot, whilk is, I believe, a mastiff, anciently called a talbot” (369). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a bit of poetry, Talbot assents that his
crest would include a dog, and follows with “if crests were to dispute precedence,
I should be apt to let them, as the proverb says, ‘fight dog, fight bear’”(369).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found that a bit odd, or hard to make sense
of, and even stranger that our editors didn’t include a footnote to help
explain. While bears are not found in Scotland (at least not in modern times)
there are some family crests that include the rampart bear or the bear’s
head. The dog image for Talbot makes me
think of an English bulldog. The bear
could be symbolic for Scotland in a similar manner, but it isn’t as obvious to
me. That leaves us with the quote” fight
dog, fight bear.” It seems there is an old Scottish proverb “Fight dog, fight
bear; wha wins, deil care.” I think that
means who cares which wins. Deil, I’m
guessing, means the devil. The devil may
care, or nobody cares. In a few pages we
find out that Talbot has been restoring the estate for Waverly, who has purchased
it to restore to the Baron, and who [Waverly] will inherit it as he has married
the Baron’s daughter, Rose. Who
cares? It’s all good. No harm done. All the loose ends are tied up,
and the Baron even has his old drinking vessel in the shape of a bear restored
to him. A toast is made to “The
prosperity of the united houses of Waverly-Honour and Bradwardine” (374), and
likewise the jacobite lays downs with the English. The fight is over, and it seems who won doesn’t
matter. The Devil may care.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-87298890816095501472023-03-19T11:23:00.007-07:002023-03-20T03:33:59.701-07:00The Bonnie Prince of Waverly<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5icFcIifsyG1sXhLAhR6A1WZazv2sFuHfUC5InzxxnN0_uLNVCzfPw5yRH0mmcBx3ZpoXGKuJDIWWi0v362GjXbWSPTkERiDmZ_e7PYkC3tpQeEvmnohHIqOnRT6Fs3AnI31uDHnvbmVYI8655JSchtxYZ-URpyFlBxem3f8AgMPBUfKPPMyRYPy/s544/BP1.png" style="clear: right; display: block; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding: 1em 0px; text-align: center;"><img alt="" border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="425" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgF5icFcIifsyG1sXhLAhR6A1WZazv2sFuHfUC5InzxxnN0_uLNVCzfPw5yRH0mmcBx3ZpoXGKuJDIWWi0v362GjXbWSPTkERiDmZ_e7PYkC3tpQeEvmnohHIqOnRT6Fs3AnI31uDHnvbmVYI8655JSchtxYZ-URpyFlBxem3f8AgMPBUfKPPMyRYPy/s320/BP1.png" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Charles Edward Stuart<br />(Bonnie Prince Charlie)<br />Painted by Allan Ramsay</td></tr></tbody></table>In <i>Waverly</i>, our hero Edward is taken captive by English forces. His family name, family history, association with known Jacobites, some papers he has on his person, and his outraged demeanor all work against him. He is put on trial for treason and is hustled away towards Stirling Castle. This is where things get interesting. Edward will need to pick sides between the English loyalists and the Jacobites. His newly found Scottish friends, like Mac Ivor and even Donald Bean Lean are certainly behind the ambush of the English troops that secures Edward’s freedom. They bring Edward to <a href="https://palaceofholyroodhouse.co.uk/">Holyrood </a>in Edinburgh (where we will be) which was acting as the center of Jacobite military and political power and the court (illegitimate court the English would say) of Charles Edward Stuart (Bonnie Prince Charlie). Bonnie Prince Charlie has recently joined the cause, coming from France undercover to help lead the forces to restore the Stuart royal line. When Mc Ivor, who meets Edward at Holyrood, introduces Edward to the “bonnie” prince, Edward is taken with him.<br /> Bonnie Prince Charlie, born in Rome, and educated in French courts, is a model of aristocratic manners and refinement. Scott describes him in Waverly as “A young man, wearing his own fair hair, distinguished by the dignity of his mien and noble expression of his well-formed and regular features” (213). The prince is likewise taken with Edward, noting that there would be “no master of ceremonies necessary to present a Waverly to a Stuart” (213). It seems the prince is familiar with Waverly’s family history, and so when the prince asks Edward to join the Jacobite cause, he quickly agrees.
In his “Review Essay: Sir Walter Scott,” (Romanticism 16.1, 2010 page 94-99) Christopher MacLachlan states:
“Scott’s story, of how the sensitive but naive young Englishman Edward Waverley finds himself caught up in the Jacobite Rebellion of 1745 and carried by a mixture of personal affections and political manipulation to Edinburgh, a meeting with Bonnie Prince Charlie, and participation in Jacobite victory at the battle of Prestonpans, . . . is told with a sureness and vitality that lifted the novel as a form to a new height. . . . . His perception that history can be told through characters and personal relationships transformed the idea of the past and opened it up to Romantic understanding. Edward Waverley himself is like a time-traveller, a proto-Wordsworthian avid for nature and the sublime, mediating between the reader and the period of the novel at the same time as he assures us that a new sensibility will triumph over the divisiveness of the past” (99).
Like Waverly, we are seduced by Bonnie Prince Charlie, but Scott may also be telling the reader that his aristocratic ideas, like the divine right of kings, are archaic. Scott suggests it is time to look at these old divisions between the Stuart and Hanover line with reason, after all (as we are continually reminded) it has been “sixty years since.” <div><br /></div><div> Scott, Sir Walter. <i>Waverly; Or, ‘Tis Sixty Years Since.</i> Oxford: Oxford U.P., 2015.
</div>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-42213471444674918072023-03-17T14:46:00.007-07:002023-03-20T03:34:54.483-07:00Remembering the Olde Cheese<p> <br /><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWgQMpstrcmE4j12rO-PUOyBJOv-7lZWy23gd1uEky442W2M916MhcQFcnvzKEDNbKXYgMEDavtmnZVg24hZARmFR6CXddiIJLNrRm84MoLKBNXvevuVxgFHZ3HWytWR3oQ1BjWASkWhEzUy5BlefN91RVIVc1YmO6Vrqz0sUZAeuI8UX8-nAT3_X/s585/The%20Cheese%202.PNG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="585" data-original-width="354" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxWgQMpstrcmE4j12rO-PUOyBJOv-7lZWy23gd1uEky442W2M916MhcQFcnvzKEDNbKXYgMEDavtmnZVg24hZARmFR6CXddiIJLNrRm84MoLKBNXvevuVxgFHZ3HWytWR3oQ1BjWASkWhEzUy5BlefN91RVIVc1YmO6Vrqz0sUZAeuI8UX8-nAT3_X/s320/The%20Cheese%202.PNG" width="194" /></a></div>I’m thinking back on the last time I travelled with students
in London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were in Ye Olde Cheshire
Cheese, an old pub (a bit touristy, but an old pub) with an interesting
literary history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dickens supposedly
wrote there, and the story goes that Oliver Goldsmith and James Boswell
frequented the place. (But then, what place didn’t they frequent, one wonders.)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anyway, in the pub was a group of seven or eight
male orderlies from the nearby hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They were talking a break after work. Big, burly, middle-aged men in
their scrubs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They could tell we were
Americans, of course, and so they struck up a conversation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they found out we were studying
literature they began to question us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What
are you reading?” and more to the point “what do you know?” What they wanted to
know, really, was what could we recite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One of them stood up with his pint in hand and began reciting Coleridge’s
“Kubla Khan.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The students were
stunned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another man began on Milton’s “Lycidas”
and another did some Wordsworth, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then they turned to us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“What
have you got.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was able to recite some
T. S. Eliot, but it was rough going. These working-class men knew their poetry,
and we did not.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an interesting
lesson and part of the reason for travel. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my African-American Literature class this
term we are reading James Baldwin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
his introduction to<i> Nobody Knows My Name, <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXcR7ZDrsrxJBT_idEryVHZiUuUyaE4wxoXnd7q6fAnfkF0CmQ7CMAo7mkjS23nBAxFZTfWN3c3eArsNU68zO72ycckLIcgsRQRbx09cm5ZKfhVLWe7vXrjazh_TX8tcIlXp0VHmBTh_Ccblnd8SEYKzvJER5vrp7f-W9OZGZltNG--drLlMrXCGX/s588/The%20Cheese.PNG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="588" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgXcR7ZDrsrxJBT_idEryVHZiUuUyaE4wxoXnd7q6fAnfkF0CmQ7CMAo7mkjS23nBAxFZTfWN3c3eArsNU68zO72ycckLIcgsRQRbx09cm5ZKfhVLWe7vXrjazh_TX8tcIlXp0VHmBTh_Ccblnd8SEYKzvJER5vrp7f-W9OZGZltNG--drLlMrXCGX/s320/The%20Cheese.PNG" width="320" /></a></div></i>he writes: “A European writer
considers himself to be part of an old and honorable tradition – of intellectual
activity, of letters – and his choice of a vocation does not cause him any
uneasy wonder as to whether or not it will cost him all his friends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But this tradition does not exist in America”
(6-7). <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Baldwin suggests that we feel
differently about writers and writing in America.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We think differently about the arts and about
vocations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He leaves the U.S.A. for
Paris at one point in his career to learn about himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He learns as much about his own country as he does about himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He says “The writer is
meeting in Europe people who are not American, whose sense of reality is
entirely different from his own. They may love or hate or admire or fear or
envy this country [the U.S.A.] – they see it, in any case, from another point
of view, and this forces the writer to reconsider many things he had always
taken for granted. This reassessment, which can be very painful, is also very
valuable” (9). I think that is one of the great values of study abroad.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We can learn much about other cultures, but
we can learn just as much about our own culture, and indeed, about ourselves. I
can’t wait to learn more about myself this time across the pond. Studying
abroad is a transformational and enlightening experience. <o:p></o:p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMYaHTPNi0pJhxlPp67StVdXSk1m6I4zKdWI-wfgwJqDMG0IndpjQN6Uyzpyk0jHof5kVYqA4d213KqpKRKhfCDXFCDzksExEdpfPxgHCMC1PkEMb16H_8QJHMoptV09K8PrHcc4JMRyjILnD11lkVnFQ6W-gKxRLwACohiCKzVraOOAQF1K8_JIB/s447/Kubla%20Khan.PNG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="447" data-original-width="381" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNMYaHTPNi0pJhxlPp67StVdXSk1m6I4zKdWI-wfgwJqDMG0IndpjQN6Uyzpyk0jHof5kVYqA4d213KqpKRKhfCDXFCDzksExEdpfPxgHCMC1PkEMb16H_8QJHMoptV09K8PrHcc4JMRyjILnD11lkVnFQ6W-gKxRLwACohiCKzVraOOAQF1K8_JIB/s320/Kubla%20Khan.PNG" width="273" /></a></div><p></p>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-19675094163034075252023-03-15T09:16:00.000-07:002023-03-15T09:16:05.653-07:00Old Blog - New Name - (A Resurrection of Sorts)<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoN9GSEX65fhyS9g98enZThclqkDrmVzThjpMvOgKg0rdQKYfUhQeHF-l62ntLS-NqxAyirAPkRoZF-ncR5mQPe1lximIZPXQvku61Dk_VCvbigr_CEs2fBfdLbz9cIaRhgol7uMY12JMoCaFmww4gZinjvQ3Jl0v8rTN1XDXbqXSoc82BZFacviN5/s1028/Capital%20Fictions.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="248" data-original-width="1028" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoN9GSEX65fhyS9g98enZThclqkDrmVzThjpMvOgKg0rdQKYfUhQeHF-l62ntLS-NqxAyirAPkRoZF-ncR5mQPe1lximIZPXQvku61Dk_VCvbigr_CEs2fBfdLbz9cIaRhgol7uMY12JMoCaFmww4gZinjvQ3Jl0v8rTN1XDXbqXSoc82BZFacviN5/w471-h113/Capital%20Fictions.PNG" width="471" /></a><br /></div>Ah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here it is. Wakey
wakey old blog. I’m going to resurrect you.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Rise up and come forth old friend - it has been a few years. Sorry dear
reader, but this old fellow traveler (a blog once called <i>Irish Hurst</i>), that at one point seemed vibrant and significant, was buried and hidden away. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Indeed, I thought it was lost forever.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yet here it is. What once was lost is now found. And by golly, I am here as well. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Now, is it possible that we can be made ready</span> to continue our
travels together? Well, as you, dear reader, can see on your screen, the evidence is unrefutably clear. It...is...alive! Amazing....... And, as this blog is reborn, I will christen it anew with a new name: <i>Reed
Roams</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And now that the blog is named and set, and now that I've got this silly intro done, let
me re-introduce myself:<o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZGCJk083WqN92g2GvhV6wX_40Jbp_auv8k6swkCBHOpxizqV2aAh0nzene7fjM71YCPHSHY9SbU_wBq7fpQJTZTDEOTThUW_9cGzcrw4q6krTlveC4xuaYV3KNr-yxhYBwKnqx4raFPiDVygP_E6Y4zFTdqmaZPp-WStR-k6esP-6OJIqzy6zy6m/s396/english%20abroad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="330" data-original-width="396" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZGCJk083WqN92g2GvhV6wX_40Jbp_auv8k6swkCBHOpxizqV2aAh0nzene7fjM71YCPHSHY9SbU_wBq7fpQJTZTDEOTThUW_9cGzcrw4q6krTlveC4xuaYV3KNr-yxhYBwKnqx4raFPiDVygP_E6Y4zFTdqmaZPp-WStR-k6esP-6OJIqzy6zy6m/w232-h193/english%20abroad.jpg" width="232" /></a></div>I’m Dr. Brian Reed. I’m the chair of the Department of
English at Mercyhurst University in Erie, Pennsylvania. I’ve been at Mercyhurst
for 22 years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m currently teaching a
class on African-American literature, a section of British Classics, a film
class called Literary Hitchcock, and this class called Fiction of Capital
Cities: Edinburgh, London, and Dublin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> It is this class that has inspired me to blog again. </span>I do wish we had just called this class Capital Fictions because I think there is
some wordplay in that title, as in “by golly, these novels are capital!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I hope this blog is "capital."</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This blog will reflect on a study abroad experience with
students to the capital cities of Dublin, Edinburgh, and London.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m delighted to be going on this trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is much to look forward to. Here, I'll reflect on some of the reading we are doing for class and ponder what we might experience across the pond. <br /> <o:p></o:p></p>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-10419672678431657392013-03-27T01:52:00.000-07:002013-03-27T02:15:39.464-07:00The Pot-Luck of the Irish<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8p4Xm7HTg2y4BfoZEhoXS3rrktVJIbhJt5QciJiAem_Ldnsw8alyPTbLbC_w2XtzyLZeevcKSqYeu7vEcawWKBKN6F70MvCGceq7QK88tRR7E5lNkpUt5GTeFWnK3p-m9Fu51cGKgqM/s1600/Dungarvan+final+010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju8p4Xm7HTg2y4BfoZEhoXS3rrktVJIbhJt5QciJiAem_Ldnsw8alyPTbLbC_w2XtzyLZeevcKSqYeu7vEcawWKBKN6F70MvCGceq7QK88tRR7E5lNkpUt5GTeFWnK3p-m9Fu51cGKgqM/s400/Dungarvan+final+010.JPG" usa="true" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Front Entrance to Mercyhurst Dungarvan</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
I’m in my last days in Dungarvan for this spring, as I’m only here for the first part of the trip. As the students go to Dublin to head out for Berlin, I’ll be going to Dublin to head home to Erie. They will be pleased to be done with my class; it has made for long days for many of them. Indeed, many of them are in class from 8:30 to 4:00 on Monday , Wednesday, and Friday. On Tuesday nights, they are not done until after 8:00 in the evening. My class is being taught in just 5 weeks, so the contact hours are high. A good number of students are taking 4 classes in Ireland, so they have been working diligently to keep up. With all that being said, come this afternoon (when they take the final for my class) they will get some relief. I’m sure they will be pleased about that. I do think we have all enjoyed the class though, regardless of the struggle to stay on task on the longer days. Of course I think that even when things got a bit silly, there was good learning happening. In fact, many have said they loved the class, maybe because how comfortable we all seem to be together. Though maybe it’s because reading Irish Literature in Ireland is easy to love. This is a culture that has always celebrated the story, and I think the class was able to get a sense of that in the short time we had.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
One of the real benefits of these study abroad trips is the time outside of class that we, as teachers, spend with students. Travelling the country, going to sporting events, having meals together, or meeting for coffee all makes the experience worth it for everyone. The “contact hours” go way beyond the traditional classroom setting. At a churchyard cemetery with headstones and trees covered in moss, students talked about how they could understand why Yeats believed in fairies. Watching schoolboys with their hurlies, they connected to the unnamed narrators in Joyce’s <em>Dubliners</em>. Scaffolding in Youghal made them reflect on Heaney’s poem “Scaffolding,” and of course, the bog bodies in Dublin helped immensely with our reading of the later Heaney poetry. The students could find connections to the readings everywhere. Tom Keith recited lines from “The Stolen Child” by Yeats, and their Irish Culture teacher from WIT, Seamus, recited Heaney’s “Mid-term Break” from memory. A student who was touring the west with her parents understood a reference to “The Fiddler of Dooney” at Bunratty Castle. It’s nice to see the connections made.</div>
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
This is a talented group of students, and so they easily apply what they learn in the classroom to the outside world. In fact, they are applying what they learn in one class to other classes. That’s what it’s all about my friends. It makes what I do easy and rewarding. Last night, as a way to prepare for the final, and to finish up the memorization exercise I had them do, we all gathered together for a pot-luck supper and recitation. As a way of expanding the Irish theme, I made “Bubble and Squeak” (cabbage, onions, potato, meat, and butter) and “Mushy Peas.” Students brought salad, homemade pizza, grilled cheese, dip, chicken nuggets, cookies, breads, and cake. It was quite a feast. The last few students who needed to recite their poems did so in front of the group. We heard “Scaffolding,” “Dream,” “No Man’s Land,” “Mother of the Groom,” and “Limbo” from Heaney, and “Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven,” “To an Isle in the Water,” and “The Young Man’s Song” from Yeats. Every student in the class of 17 recited a poem, in front of others, and did so professionally. There was a recitation on a bus, in a pub, in the classroom, in small groups, and of course, during the pot-luck gathering. It couldn’t have gone better. While there were a lot of nerves and reservations about doing this assignment, they all finished without fail. I am proud of them.<br /> Well, I wasn’t sure what I was going to write this morning, but it seems I had no problem writing it. I haven’t even finished my brown bread and coffee (boy, I’m gonna miss the Irish bread). So as I finish up this post as well as my breakfast, I look forward to seeing and reading how well the students synthesize the course materials on the final exam. Their work so far makes me confident that they will do quite well. This class has been a pleasure to teach, and all the students on this trip have been a pleasure to get to know better. They represent Mercyhurst well. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpBL72XCFiWHpX_59KOhPXkCcdJ7mBwpxbsoL42fJMDtHAuy5Z60e9bBYM5rB8QCgXOdxDt2JBZ1zEVev3iPvmKF3i6h6bT9joeinYKUDpQ5S9OhbQqOck6HWJBdRce0CEtPceyY3uPU/s1600/Dungarvan+final+023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUpBL72XCFiWHpX_59KOhPXkCcdJ7mBwpxbsoL42fJMDtHAuy5Z60e9bBYM5rB8QCgXOdxDt2JBZ1zEVev3iPvmKF3i6h6bT9joeinYKUDpQ5S9OhbQqOck6HWJBdRce0CEtPceyY3uPU/s320/Dungarvan+final+023.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eat First and Recite Later</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgesahWazDiEIOc2lBzZ9GQnpZWD5WJSBPkEISQmYgIZRIkCGEnUPNuFWgASQr1zlByiI0Z_Ie-E4ehvXlNMcNYwkSZ-QdF2ZE1B5qNCwJGs9AZigf92MdYILXkSWB1AnMFdJqzP-BxZA0/s1600/Dungarvan+final+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgesahWazDiEIOc2lBzZ9GQnpZWD5WJSBPkEISQmYgIZRIkCGEnUPNuFWgASQr1zlByiI0Z_Ie-E4ehvXlNMcNYwkSZ-QdF2ZE1B5qNCwJGs9AZigf92MdYILXkSWB1AnMFdJqzP-BxZA0/s320/Dungarvan+final+024.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Aftermath</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqAzNp_IrMLoYmWdCsGkBavYJDdTa5-a5AwtnvixAJUWRqsrBPU5i_CGe057tChQPG2nNhiWd2E_YpL7VjbkZd-xBdaSlVaG0csyCVQaL_V1HEes5He4Ck0ilfN0bKSsZExX9apecSCM/s1600/Dungarvan+final+025.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIqAzNp_IrMLoYmWdCsGkBavYJDdTa5-a5AwtnvixAJUWRqsrBPU5i_CGe057tChQPG2nNhiWd2E_YpL7VjbkZd-xBdaSlVaG0csyCVQaL_V1HEes5He4Ck0ilfN0bKSsZExX9apecSCM/s320/Dungarvan+final+025.JPG" usa="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Getting Ready to Recite</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Lzk_NaViFgITGJwIt0EMJOLoZEJ1iaKgSWVWpbVXfRPHkmFTrmp6niOGJegiFjGHOUaKy4CpKg4grDKqfNkiNgUKiAt0k5w7FyxyehiOWyaOulIB2FaUXri0cDg-xM1HyEzsQgH8Xyo/s1600/Dungarvan+final+012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0Lzk_NaViFgITGJwIt0EMJOLoZEJ1iaKgSWVWpbVXfRPHkmFTrmp6niOGJegiFjGHOUaKy4CpKg4grDKqfNkiNgUKiAt0k5w7FyxyehiOWyaOulIB2FaUXri0cDg-xM1HyEzsQgH8Xyo/s320/Dungarvan+final+012.JPG" usa="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the Mercyhurst Dungarvan Classrooms</td></tr>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-84889926991864553242013-03-24T04:23:00.000-07:002013-03-24T23:57:44.502-07:00Lismore, Ardmore, and more.... <br />
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Seamus Heaney’s “In Gallarus Oratory” is one of my favorite poems in the collection we are reading. The last stanza is a follows:</div>
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Founded there like heroes in a barrow <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gallarus Oratory on Dingle </td></tr>
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They sought themselves in the eye of their King<br />
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Under the black weight of their own breathing.<br />
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And how he smiled on them as out they came,<br />
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The sea a censer, and the grass a flame.<br />
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Gallarus Oratory is magical place really. It’s the kind of place that Dr. Owoc would call “thin.” Or maybe I should say, it is built on a “thin” place. It is a high place, surrounded by rock, sea, and open sky; the kind of place that welcomes transcendent thoughts. The Oratory is made of heavy, thick stone, and it only has one thin, small window, and a short passage for a door. Inside is a dark place of seclusion. In one of his writings from <em>Preoccupations</em>, Heaney remarks “[inside] I felt the weight of Christianity in all its revoking aspects, its calls to self-denial and self-abnegation, its humbling of the proud flesh and indolent spirit. But coming out . . . into the sunlight . . . I felt my heart surge toward happiness. “ I think that is represented well in the passage from the poem above. It makes me think about the relationship between the two experiences that Heaney has. I also wonder if we need the darkness to feel the light, if we need seclusion to feel connected, or in another sense, if we need the inside to appreciate the outside, the unconscious and the conscious, the “deep heart’s core” and the “seat of reason.” <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhP77_4yuLwaWEl0FeoJ24Y9zrP5qHiiYprHnH5Mb0wPq7qactnRL0RtLd6ZljNbxLTa16pWDGJGdxRdp6mjCuqWq2_C8s4yJecIo9wwTap4u_U3zfHy0G2wFFto-ud0GQaiqd4T6NLkk/s1600/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhP77_4yuLwaWEl0FeoJ24Y9zrP5qHiiYprHnH5Mb0wPq7qactnRL0RtLd6ZljNbxLTa16pWDGJGdxRdp6mjCuqWq2_C8s4yJecIo9wwTap4u_U3zfHy0G2wFFto-ud0GQaiqd4T6NLkk/s200/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+055.JPG" ssa="true" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Mary's Collegiate Church Youghal</td></tr>
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This past weekend we were able to visit a number of other religious sites as well as another “thin” place. Each place was unique and inspiring. We saw the Collegiate Church of Saint Mary where Sir Walter Raleigh regularly attended in Youghal, which also was the church where Cromwell spoke, and where Jonathan Swift was baptized. The original baptismal fount, as well as the box Cromwell stood on, and the place where Raleigh hung his sword remain intact. There also are Viking burial tombs inside the church and the whole place is surrounded by the old town walls that were built to keep the Norman invaders at bay. The church incorporates an old tower that must have been part of the defense system; it looked to me like a Norman tower. The history alone makes the place quite moving, but what really made this place a special visit was the musical rehearsal that was occurring inside the church as we visited. Traditional Irish music, tin whistle, guitar, and voice accompanied us as we looked at the windows and monuments inside the church. With Tom Keith telling us about the amazing history of Cromwell’s march to Dungarvan, the Butler family, and the battles of Youghal, it is hard to imagine a more rich historical and cultural experience.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6o8cAGdoxfhuDY8WOoFnyzc_K11irrzLpQWatNRVUNdwcXTXbrtYFoA0pK3ucEiQyxwLLnxhdf6vZ17rCDkhmqfDYtA3Gl3A2L5AG-6F8SQRd02NsGYCHUk1qGVEzssqBjwsETiKlhg/s1600/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+082.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; cssfloat: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO6o8cAGdoxfhuDY8WOoFnyzc_K11irrzLpQWatNRVUNdwcXTXbrtYFoA0pK3ucEiQyxwLLnxhdf6vZ17rCDkhmqfDYtA3Gl3A2L5AG-6F8SQRd02NsGYCHUk1qGVEzssqBjwsETiKlhg/s320/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+082.JPG" ssa="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">St. Declan's Retreat and Ardmore Bay</td></tr>
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We had earlier seen Mount Melleray monastery, Lismore castle, and another old church (Anglican) that I will need to find the name of. It was a beautiful early church with an impressive old cemetery loaded with Irish saints. The ancient trees and headstones drew my attention most of the time here. Finally, at the end of the trip we made it to Ardmore, a coastal town with a wide beach and high surf that is a popular tourist destination for Europeans from the continent in the summer. I’ve been here before on two occasions, once with Tom Keith to look at St. Declan’s retreat, and once with Joe O’Flaherty, Gertie, Jim Breckenridge, Bob Hiebel, Damien Geoghegan, and Jim Snyder for an amazing dinner at the Cliffs Hotel overlooking Ardmore Bay. This was the first time, though, that I was able to get close to Ardmore’s famous round tower. At 1,000 years old, it is an exceptionally impressive architectural achievement. It is in remarkable shape and is the only tower with rings that I am aware of. The highlight for many was the final place we visited in Ardmore, and our last stop before returning to the Park Hotel. It certainly is the most meaningful place for Tom Keith, and it can’t be questioned that the setting is remarkable in itself. This place that I’m referring to is St. Declan’s Retreat, and it is situated up a steep hill (exciting for all of us including our talented bus driver). From as far as the bus can make it, there is journey down a short path. The retreat includes a ruined church, the remains of an altar, and a holy well. It is surrounded by crashing sea and rocky cliffs. It’s another “thin” space for sure, and yet it is quite different than Gallarus Oratory. In its ruined state, the church is open, allowing into view the sky, grass, and sea. It is a place that Heaney’s King would surely smile down upon. <br />
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Today we are all getting ready to head for a Hurling match in Waterford. From the sacred to the profane, some might say. It is something that the Irish have no problem blending together. I’m sure many a prayer will be said over the course of play. And the right team may win, God willing.<br />
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<tr><td style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh089JmBtk7oUOnTpvFWPnfhJGRmJ7dbGi81EIfnhWrYXV6heFSkEx5NaQWnCJX4kgmb2a9Xdz7tO4UHxIdwoyu-pqW86lV0pJLOkOAnW9E5W78AHQDOdhf25gtolg9Sch6ZvJKTwg9sfY/s1600/Dingle+coast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh089JmBtk7oUOnTpvFWPnfhJGRmJ7dbGi81EIfnhWrYXV6heFSkEx5NaQWnCJX4kgmb2a9Xdz7tO4UHxIdwoyu-pqW86lV0pJLOkOAnW9E5W78AHQDOdhf25gtolg9Sch6ZvJKTwg9sfY/s320/Dingle+coast.jpg" ssa="true" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
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Dingle Coastline near Gallarus Oratory</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lismore Castle</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSYTLxKHynwKyUzDrCNN_f8SNCKRNt08mxje7yEyy5mnfTG6ABTW2LwV2CwjbuCb3M5F6tgx_wz_tixaqXt26IjmMnhCcuk6LDKyOKnQjKeLHypGa4JJbYrk9Ed_l4mymtzFSpANO3N8/s1600/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCSYTLxKHynwKyUzDrCNN_f8SNCKRNt08mxje7yEyy5mnfTG6ABTW2LwV2CwjbuCb3M5F6tgx_wz_tixaqXt26IjmMnhCcuk6LDKyOKnQjKeLHypGa4JJbYrk9Ed_l4mymtzFSpANO3N8/s320/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+024.JPG" ssa="true" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ancient Trees and Burial Grounds of Irish Saints</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVa-fJLM7fiyEa0uInw8a-FH9bFQELaq_CeQK7HZVbKInEyMu6GsRR0c5Ae_ZxbWxmkBUZBzO11uXkq_YAN_s1TKSwvxSNf6-xxCyf54QP8ANEqWrPV8LpyEW178Nb4NGl32TQCYYfLM/s1600/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdVa-fJLM7fiyEa0uInw8a-FH9bFQELaq_CeQK7HZVbKInEyMu6GsRR0c5Ae_ZxbWxmkBUZBzO11uXkq_YAN_s1TKSwvxSNf6-xxCyf54QP8ANEqWrPV8LpyEW178Nb4NGl32TQCYYfLM/s320/Dungarvan+ardmore+etc+051.JPG" ssa="true" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looks Norman to me</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In Ardmore with Tom Keith</td></tr>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-66785217081014882482013-03-22T11:00:00.001-07:002013-03-22T11:00:22.201-07:00Rainy Days and Fridays<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yesterday it rained like crazy. My walk back from class to the townhouses was quite an experience. I stopped by the market on the way home, buying fishcakes, peas, pasta, and brown bread, and was looking forward to a nice warm meal in, on a cold and rainy night out. Unfortunately, about a block after I left the market, the sky really opened up and the winds came whipping through town, scattering plastic buckets, rakes, and shovels from outside Tom Curran’s Hardware, and ripping umbrellas out of shopper’s hands. The wind and rain didn’t really let up for hours. For a while I inched along, ducking under awnings, or in shops, but ultimately I just decided to go for it. I was wet already, and the dinner in my bag was calling to be cooked. I pressed on. In hindsight, that may have been the wrong decision though; I soon regretted it. The wind nearly knocked me off my feet, my hood kept getting whipped off my head, and my shoes were drenched. It was madness. When I finally returned to the warmth and security of the townhouse, I kicked off my wet shoes, hung up my drenched coat, and unpacked my bags from the market. A warm cup of tea and some whirred pea and minty soup I had left over were the first order of business. And the microwave was the fastest means to that end. Toasted brown bread and butter rounded things out nicely. The fishcakes and peas would keep till tomorrow. I just wanted something warm at this point, and soup, tea, and toast satisfied.</div>
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The rain didn’t let up all night, and by noon today it was getting insulting. A day trip to some nearby ruins and a castle had to be postponed until tomorrow. But wait. Maybe it’s not all bad. Suddenly today was open. Reading, grading, and creating the final exam for my class needed done. Answering a few emails was also on the docket. And fishcakes and peas for lunch. Oh yes. Perfect. Who ever said rainy days get you down? </div>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-20411359441251172022013-03-21T02:50:00.002-07:002013-03-21T02:57:41.097-07:00Snow Was General All Over Ireland (well...not really)The final scene in Joyce’s <em>Dubliners </em>is the famous final scene in “The Dead.” After reading stories about the lack of fulfillment, paralysis, entrapment, decay, nostalgia, and angst, we come to a story called “The Dead.” Not a very hopeful sounding title, I’d say. Even so, the students, maybe because of their expectation for happy endings, wanted to see the ending of this collection as hopeful. It is a bleak landscape description of the snow falling all over Ireland, covering the living and the dead, the past and the present, equally. It has a leveling effect. Gabriel, the central character, has spent most of the story thinking about himself, having problems communicating his thoughts, and misreading his wife’s feelings. He is self-absorbed, ineffective, and unreflective. The dinner party he attended, thrown by his aging Aunts, is the same every year. The entertainments are mundane. Like the story of Johnny the horse that Gabriel tells as the party draws to a conclusion, his life seems to be going around in circles like a horse walking round and round to drive a mill. Nothing is progressive. Life seems meaningless. And yet the snow falling at the end of the story is written in beautiful prose, that some may even call poetic. The language itself seems uplifting. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dinner scene from Joyce's "The Dead" in John Huston's film</td></tr>
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Of course, Gabriel has had a Joycian epiphany right before the scene that ends the story, and like the unnamed character in “Araby,” he realizes the world doesn’t revolve around him. His wife has had a meaningful life before he came along, and he can’t understand her deep passions now. He realizes, tragically, that he has never loved anyone else deeply. Gabriel looks outside his window, from his tomb-like existence in the hotel room, and acknowledges the snow falling outside. The whole scene pulls back. Possibly we are in Gabriel’s head as we hear “the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead” (152). Maybe he is coming to grips with his own mortality, or desperately looking for the meaning of life. Maybe on some level he feels spiritually connected with all the living and the dead, a transcendent and hopeful image for sure. He may also be acknowledging that his life in Dublin is like a living death. Maybe Joyce wanted to allow the reader to find different possibilities in the ending. I have no doubt that he did. But the students in my class, who are young and full of passion, had little problem choosing the more hopeful reading of the text. And I agree, at the very least, there is an acceptance of things for what they are in Gabriel’s mind, I believe. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Early March snow in Dungarvan</td></tr>
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So why all this talk about snow and death? We did have snow in Ireland soon after our arrival. Not much snow really. Compared to what we are currently getting in Erie, Pennsylvania, not even worth mentioning. This morning there are a few flakes in the air as well. It’s been much colder than it should be. Cold may be general, all over Ireland, but the warmer days are coming. And the few flakes in the air or on the ground all melt before 10:00. Now rain…..there’s another matter. What does it all mean? Well I guess it is how you look at it.</div>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-58961456624082674192013-03-19T04:53:00.001-07:002013-03-19T04:53:55.831-07:00Reading Dubliners in Ireland<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Grattan Bridge, Ormond Quay, Temple Bar, O’Neil’s, Grafton Street, Davey Byrne’s, O’Connell Street, Trinity College, Merrian Square, the Gresham Hotel, O’Connell Street Bridge, Georgian Townhouses, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Brown Thomas’s, O’Connell’s statue, the Pigeon House, and the Liffey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After our trip to Dublin it is easy to visualize many of the settings in Joyce’s stories from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dubliners</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The characters and the phrases they use in the stories benefit from our experiences in Dublin and Dungarvan as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Little Chandler asks Gallaher if he has been to Paris, he answers smugly “I should think I have! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve knocked about there a little” (48).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Gabriel is self-effacing about his speaking skills in “The Dead” he says: “It has fallen to my lot this evening, as in years past, to perform a very pleasing task but a task for which I am afraid my poor powers as a speaker are all too inadequate” (137), and I can hear the lilt of the voice as well as see the tilting of the head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joyce captures the Irish language, syntax, and mannerisms well, but I believe that it is only after visiting Ireland that the stories really come alive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Some of the students that have read Joyce before have said as much in the classroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Being in Ireland helps us understand Irish culture, politics, sensibilities, and religious customs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, reading Joyce for a second time doesn’t hurt the understanding either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-54922389965392658012013-03-16T10:29:00.005-07:002013-03-22T02:16:14.763-07:00Clomea is Worth Seeing (and worth going to see).<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Birds in the bog along the bike path</td></tr>
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This morning has been the best weather we have had so far. It must be 65 degrees at least. Or maybe 50. Whatever, it is a lovely day, “ finally, thanks be to God” (as the locals say). The sun is bright and the sky is blue. So this morning, under the circumstances, I decided to go for a stroll along the bike path that begins in Abbeyside. I had walked out a good way three years ago, but never made it out to Clomea Beach, which is the end of the bike path on that leg. It was a bit brisk as I started out, but the sun continued to warm me, and the other walkers and bikers drew me forward. Needless to say, my stroll turned into a more substantial hike. The walk is really quite lovely. In places it is tree-lined, and in other places it weaves its way through a bog. It has a few bridges and an underpass, winds through farmer’s fields, and past cows and rows of vegetables. In the background to the north are the Comeragh Mountains and to the south, Helvick Head peaks through the scrub brush from time to time. It is easily enough to sustain me on such a pleasant day.</div>
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Part of the walk I spent reflecting on things at home, and the people I care about there. Some of the walk I remember the fun “craic” we had watching the Cheltenham horse races yesterday, and thinking about the plans for St. Patrick’s Day in Dungarvan tomorrow. The time went quickly, and soon (just over an hour) I made it to the end of the trail and a most beautiful beach. It was well worth the trip.</div>
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During last class, after discussing Yeats’s “September 1913” and “Adam’s Curse,” the students pondered if things in life are more meaningful when they are harder to get. Maybe Yeats is saying that beauty only comes with hard work. With great effort comes great things. Samuel Johnson, on the other hand, once said about Giant’s Causeway, "Worth seeing, yes; but not worth going to see." Johnson really didn’t care much for travels in Ireland, and I wouldn’t let his words keep anyone from seeing Giant’s Causeway. And anyway, this morning, I felt that the trip there was half the fun. </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Clomea Beach, looking east</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Helvick Head, to the west</td></tr>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-29027783273059284782013-03-15T04:03:00.004-07:002013-03-22T02:18:15.039-07:00Bad Poetry about Bad Art<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are four copies of this oversized print in my townhouse. Two are in the same room.</td></tr>
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That Red Branch King upon my wall</div>
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Knows not of Danaan rhymes at all;<br />
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A flameless sword unless he act,<br />
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That blood-dimmed tide of constancy,</div>
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My stone in kitchen, bed, and hall,<br />
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A repetitious, fearful frame,</div>
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The Ketchup King without a name.</div>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-32995226845229908572013-03-12T05:37:00.000-07:002013-03-12T05:37:10.041-07:00You Been Schooled<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In Yeats’ “Among School Children” he begins the poem with the line “I walk through the long schoolroom questioning.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a great opening line, and while this poem isn’t one that we are reading this term in Ireland, it is certainly one of the many Yeats poems that I wish we had time to read.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is interesting on a number of levels.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeats wrote it about a visit that he made to a school that was run by the Sisters of Mercy, an order that after our trip to Dublin, our students are even more familiar with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeats, I imagine, feels that his life project is like walking through a long educational corridor where he, as a wise and inquisitive man, questions what he encounters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Certainly it seems that all young children, school children, come to school with questions aplenty, as well as the desire to ask questions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My hope is that the educational system doesn’t take that questioning out of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Students should challenge their teachers just as teachers should challenge their students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nothing would be a greater tragedy than to have the end product of education be passive students who fit easily into the grid, like cogs in a wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the poem, I think Yeats has concerns about the school children he is observing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is an old man at the time he writes the poem, but he is not satisfied.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And thankfully, the children seem to at least “wonder” about him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of this takes place in just the first stanza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yet as this is one of Yeats’ longer poems, it takes on many topics as it moves forward including the meaning of life, morality, beauty, death, and coming to terms with things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think it is a very personal and reflective poem for Yeats, where he is taking stock of his life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The poem moves well past the image of the children in school, and yet, that is the image I’m left with when I read it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><o:p></o:p></div>
breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-69806805304668345032013-03-11T11:02:00.001-07:002013-03-11T12:27:54.316-07:00Highlights from "Dear Dirty Dublin"<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oscar Wilde Having a Relax</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Students at the Mercy <br />
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So I’ve been to Dublin now seven times. That is an amazing thing. Five of those times have been with students. Yet even though I’ve been there a good number of times, most every time I go, I do similar things. Groups of students want to see the same things it seems: Temple Bar, Trinity College, Dublin Castle, the General Post Office, Christchurch, <a href="http://www.stpatrickscathedral.ie/index.aspx">St. Patrick’s</a>, and the <a href="http://www.tourist-information-dublin.co.uk/kilmainham-jail.htm">Kilmainham Gaol</a>. This time, though, I took a slightly different path, and it was well worth it. I made it to Merrion Square to see the famous Oscar Wilde statue, that I have never seen before (mostly because I usually wander St. Stephen’s Green looking for it). I guess as hard as one might try, one can’t really find things where they are not. But, by looking on a map, for once, I found it without trouble. I also came upon Sweny’s Chemist shop made famous in <em>Ulysses</em>:“He waited by the counter, inhaling the keen reek of drugs, the dusty dry smell of sponges and loofahs. ” </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Reed Getting in Touch with his Inner Joyce</td></tr>
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I bought no lemon soap, but I promised myself that if I ever return to Dublin, for an eighth time God willing, I will stop here again to hear the nightly readings from Joyce’s work. This time around I also made it the Chester Beatty Library, where there are ancient texts on papyrus dating from 150 A.D., and I also made it to O’Neil’s for fish and chips (maybe just as amazing as the papyrus). While it was wet and cold the whole time we were there, these bright spots were worth the struggles with the weather. Finally, as always, I was delighted to be able to show the students the International Mercy Center on Baggot Street. For some, it was very meaningful. On Sundays they do a mass in Irish, and it was wonderful to listen to the people after mass talking in Irish. They were pleased to see our students, and as we left the sun peaked through the clouds for about 3 full minutes. </div>
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Now we are back in Dungarvan. Many of us are very happy to be home (in our home away from home) away from the noise and bustle of city life. Dublin has much to offer, but like any big city, it can be exhausting. Yet, as always, it was worth it.</div>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-52378381778460977372013-03-06T00:43:00.001-08:002013-03-06T00:43:36.196-08:00WIT is It (Oh My, What a WIT) <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mercyhurst Students in the WIT Irish Language Class</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good lads studying in the WIT Library</td></tr>
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We had our first look at <a href="http://www.wit.ie/">WIT (Waterford Institute of Technology</a>) yesterday. All the students got WIT cards and now have library privileges, access to the health center, student center, and the run of the campus. WIT is a very new, clean, and safe place. This is yet another outcome of the Celtic Tiger. The buildings are beautiful, state-of-the-art structures. I think we will feel quite comfortable there.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Seamus showing the students around WIT capmus</td></tr>
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The students also were able to meet a student government representative, get introduced to<a href="http://www.gaa.ie/"> GAA (Gaelic Athletic Association)</a> sports, and meet their teacher for the Irish Language course. Last night my class watched <em>Waking Ned Devine</em>. I thought asking us to do much reading after the long days they had been putting in might have been a bit much. The film was the way to go. This morning we will be looking at the first text, <em>Castle Rackrent</em> by Maria Edgeworth. Yes. I think now things may settle down a bit.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ok lads.....shouldn't you be in the library?</td></tr>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-74960115107889645512013-03-04T22:14:00.004-08:002013-03-04T22:14:56.998-08:00Happy Birthday DadIt is early morning in Dungarvan, 6:00 am, and I am having toast and coffee. Both bread and beverage are wonderful in Ireland. The brown bread, flat bread, rolls, and scones are all fresh, rich, and hearty. The juice and milk seem richer as well. The coffee is strong. <br />
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This morning I will be travelling with students to Waterford for them to begin their class on Irish Culture and to get to know Waterford Institute of Technology. WIT has allowed us the use of their campus, health center, library, and student center. My hope is that our students will be able to mix with the local students here.<br />
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What I am really thinking about this morning, though, is my father. He is turning 85 today. One of the regrets of being on this trip is that I cannot be with him on his 85th birthday. He is a great man, a truly excellent father, and an honest, brave, and kind man. When we look to the Irish mythical heroes, like Fergus or Cuchulainn, they attempt to convey a sense of model masculinity. In their didactic form, stories hope to show what it means to be a successful and productive man. Usually what we find in these tales is that models of masculinity have multiple characteristics. They are brave, passionate, strong, and cunning. But this isn’t all they are. They are also hospitable, honest, thoughtful, and kind. In the 18th century we felt that models of masculinity should be “men of parts.” They should have many strengths, including the ability to be sympathetic and charitable. My father has all of these traits. He is a truly great man, and that’s no blarney.<br />
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-64377506404454126182013-03-03T14:35:00.003-08:002013-03-04T22:16:15.501-08:00The Good are Always the MerryThe final stanzas of “The Fiddler of Dooney” by Yeats are as follows:<br />
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When we come at the end of time,<br />
To Peter sitting in state,<br />
He will smile on the three old spirits,<br />
But call me first through the gate; <br />
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For the good are always the merry,<br />
Save by an evil chance,<br />
And the merry love the fiddle<br />
And the merry love to dance: <br />
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And when the folk there spy me,<br />
They will all come up to me,<br />
With ‘Here is the fiddler of Dooney!’<br />
And dance like a wave of the sea.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAfK1WDvKF29SL_l1eec1dB78UbmR5JaBnAUzv-PD4-nRQ3pJRykRp4EWzoXRKxMfVa2ra3APrz-46WRMp95dRc4wQfYtKDrv_XXpSCo7s85aETZjapPD1liOcDhySSDzrfr4Be8jrJ8/s1600/Dungarvan+2013+024.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; cssfloat: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gsa="true" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpAfK1WDvKF29SL_l1eec1dB78UbmR5JaBnAUzv-PD4-nRQ3pJRykRp4EWzoXRKxMfVa2ra3APrz-46WRMp95dRc4wQfYtKDrv_XXpSCo7s85aETZjapPD1liOcDhySSDzrfr4Be8jrJ8/s200/Dungarvan+2013+024.JPG" width="200" /></a>During the welcoming ceremony on Saturday we had another lovely reception which was followed by some terrific traditional Irish music and dance and traditional Irish fare. All 3 were enjoyed greatly by all. One of our own students got into the spirit and danced, in her UGG boots of all things. (Her mother had told me at the airport that we should ask her to show her dancing skills.) She did not disappoint.</div>
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I’ve always wondered about the lines “the good are always the merry.” It certainly isn’t a puritanical sensibility. Or at least it doesn’t seem that way. I do tend to agree with it, or believe it must be true, and natural, and good to be merry. And like that dancers, it allows us to mimic the natural in nature in the very least. Dancing like the waves of the sea….</div>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-86830097216629548332013-03-02T00:23:00.001-08:002013-03-04T22:17:30.692-08:00Good Morning Dungarvan<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">
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What a fine, first day in Ireland. We were greeted by Tom Keith, Joe O’Flaherty, Damien Geoghegan, Dr. Hosey, and Dr. McGurk at the airport, treated to a fine Irish breakfast at Bewley’s (including white and black pudding and rashers), toured Kilkenney Castle, introduced to the Park Hotel in Dungarvan by Pierce Flynn, and were tucked away in our ample lodgings for a much deserved rest. This morning we will tour Dungarvan, be officially welcomed by the town, and later have a welcome reception at Merry’s Pub downtown. What could be a better first impression of Ireland for our 32 students? I can think of none. This morning I awoke early, (5:00) and took my morning constitutional into town. I got some Euro at the ATM in Grattan Square, took a few early morning pictures, and walked along the quay. On my return to the Park, I was offered a morning coffee in the lobby and was asked to join a woman from Abbeyside who had surely spent the whole night awake. She was remembering her recently deceased brother. I had my coffee black while she finished her brandy. As you might guess, she was an absolute delight to talk to. Her memories of her family that had passed and her reflections on Irish politics, Dungarvan, and the economy were both insightful and refreshing. She had much to say about American politics as well, remembering Bill Clinton as “a handsome man and a gentleman,” and speaking at length about the improvements in perceptions of America under Barak Obama. She also knew immediately why I was in Dungarvan. She had much praise for Mercyhurst, John Deasey, and the students who we have brought in the past. I told her that this year’s group would not disappoint. When I finished my coffee, she wished me a good morning, and I wished her a good night. We both had a good laugh at that. And now let us see what the day will bring. </div>
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breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-47078875303900013412013-02-28T02:37:00.003-08:002013-02-28T02:37:42.355-08:00Here We Grow AgainIt’s 5:25 in Erie Pennsylvania on the morning of February 28th 2013. It’s a brisk 30 degrees, but I have warm coffee to get me started. I have heard from a number of students on this side of the pond via email and cellphone. I have been hearing from the other side of the pond as well. Everyone appears to be ready for our departure and our arrival.
This spring we will have 32 students and 3 professors in Dungarvan, Ireland at a place now called Mercyhurst University Dungarvan. There have been a number of changes since last I was there (3 years ago). One thing, I imagine, will not have changed even a trifle bit. That is the warm hospitality and the genuine companionship that we receive from the people of Dungarvan. These 32 students, and 3 professors, are in for a transformational experience.
breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-69642810778650429952010-05-19T07:44:00.000-07:002010-05-19T07:56:55.568-07:00Reflections on Mercyhurst in Ireland<div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 134px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472992695264374498" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ9Usyb0knbO5jfXkHPgvLkeOgckK2HMLu34qocBrIM9-qfZnV6fTEuqynrGYovu2N4wVY_IySS-JMxPgQ-8NW31mRHEhhRAgrYpmwviJWiWnbgxqnpkyORT5pRvOo3hej7icvXqyN74Y/s200/IMG_9741.JPG" />So I’m sitting here in Erie, in my office at Mercyhurst College, and I’m reflecting on my time in Dungarvan. I spent close to 5 weeks with a group of incredibly curious and dedicated students, amazing colleagues, and a wealth of new friends in Ireland. As I sit here now, I am asking myself what could have been better, or what might have made the experience richer. It may sound hard to believe, but I’m hard pressed to think of any ways to improve on the experience we had. Things can always be tweaked, and I’m sure things will change as this program continues to move forward, but this first year, I think, couldn’t have been better. All the people <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJhXlapLRjJlpX6wGIpBKkYeHHsGC7vmfVEP4fyFaNfKt1w1-KC7bRHP6jkL7XAFZD1WAFJuQzjLRuoHaHrXbjF1upFvQ_bVZ5WDtX85IQGFreIwYAuim6NM6eY5nadI1EuYoOoP8plk/s1600/DSC_1941.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 133px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472993960137347250" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZJhXlapLRjJlpX6wGIpBKkYeHHsGC7vmfVEP4fyFaNfKt1w1-KC7bRHP6jkL7XAFZD1WAFJuQzjLRuoHaHrXbjF1upFvQ_bVZ5WDtX85IQGFreIwYAuim6NM6eY5nadI1EuYoOoP8plk/s200/DSC_1941.JPG" /></a>involved on both sides of the pond were amazing. Students and faculty came away from Dungarvan changed. We grew, matured, and learned. Before we departed Dungarvan we hosted a final reception to offer our thanks to the people of Dungarvan. We presented plaques and certificates, sang songs, and gave speeches. It could in no way fully express our gratitude or compensate for the memories we will take with us. Mercyhusrt in Ireland. It’s a transformational experience.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Lg6V_jH63EB8a3Ahzp7iUmYsCp_OaxViEd_nSkEHx3YMzjx16Sh8LOHQEb5xWnmKb7oRL-JuDKekSV6bHdar_zqg3kvJHOZrDTe55pK9_Ca5FaT4lpBpEU28vuY68pA4XbAQo_cUAJg/s1600/img+091.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 3px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 4px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5472993052371745330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Lg6V_jH63EB8a3Ahzp7iUmYsCp_OaxViEd_nSkEHx3YMzjx16Sh8LOHQEb5xWnmKb7oRL-JuDKekSV6bHdar_zqg3kvJHOZrDTe55pK9_Ca5FaT4lpBpEU28vuY68pA4XbAQo_cUAJg/s200/img+091.jpg" /></a></div>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-91045785905838901612010-05-05T08:45:00.000-07:002010-05-05T09:20:36.960-07:00Bouncy Castles and High Kings<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0ici8z8yovGPifCVp64rToqZMzk8zITbbBS4EJeDY_LsasmBxv80Bscr-Dxcbbiqc5Q7nMMNnmFudZUkGqrhIO8AP1o5ZM1T7p50vleMGnL7ZB4X_X3CBoEnzNC2u9Wd3mGjA424nhs/s1600/010.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEim0ici8z8yovGPifCVp64rToqZMzk8zITbbBS4EJeDY_LsasmBxv80Bscr-Dxcbbiqc5Q7nMMNnmFudZUkGqrhIO8AP1o5ZM1T7p50vleMGnL7ZB4X_X3CBoEnzNC2u9Wd3mGjA424nhs/s200/010.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467817038674932610" border="0"></a><br />It must be in our bones, or maybe our “deep heart’s core” to steal a line from Yeats. Mercyhurst students reach out to the community wherever they are. Really, it seems to be a part of who they are. They serve, even without being asked to do so. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj344srx7PzLYH0tEbnlD-MezKud6PI4wFb7ESOi3N9QvaFu2cF6uLjkx-VrJ-AyAif1k-lJRZG2cfASWy7PDkzGviSLl5TVHqaHDLRSPnHqF3D3Lrsf6Tr7GF68-Jib8r-rKe9SdM3BD8/s1600/008.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj344srx7PzLYH0tEbnlD-MezKud6PI4wFb7ESOi3N9QvaFu2cF6uLjkx-VrJ-AyAif1k-lJRZG2cfASWy7PDkzGviSLl5TVHqaHDLRSPnHqF3D3Lrsf6Tr7GF68-Jib8r-rKe9SdM3BD8/s200/008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467816820291309954" border="0"></a><br /> Since arriving in Dungarvan students have visited a local nursing home, cleaned up a graveyard (with Keiko Miller), visited the local Sisters of Mercy, helped staff events at the Waterford Festival of Food, and they recently worked parking cars for a community concert starring The High Kings while simultaneously keeping the town’s little ones in order on “Bouncy Castles.” They volunteer for service and feel good about doing it. I couldn’t be more delighted. They are representing us well. <iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwCT2Qk7BXlbvmuW89PRXkmH1VUpjTos9jPVo2JqNibTNUD3_8d6Fkk1Mjj_RXdTBNr2FrblQrP61KUT2hqJw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-3679504037785386592010-05-03T09:42:00.000-07:002010-05-07T04:11:04.810-07:00St. Augustine's & Good Council<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj1gQnkQlzB-YwGcjrFeQmO_P0WGibStoVSQVrigvZYp-iLYL_UT0fWB5iUrSPurhu36e1JZAWnuDSE6EHLE2XPLm7Cb4BE2L4xrlFZjCWptJqCBH4K_lDEaGQiJOyUtpMYS5dLgcIKs/s1600/waterford+trip+002.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIj1gQnkQlzB-YwGcjrFeQmO_P0WGibStoVSQVrigvZYp-iLYL_UT0fWB5iUrSPurhu36e1JZAWnuDSE6EHLE2XPLm7Cb4BE2L4xrlFZjCWptJqCBH4K_lDEaGQiJOyUtpMYS5dLgcIKs/s200/waterford+trip+002.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467086469123403330" /></a><br />We recently were treated to tours of St. Augustine’s College and Good Council College in Dungarvan and New Ross respectively. These are two schools that have been sending students to Mercyhurst over the years, and they are proud of their relationship with us and of the accomplishments of their students who graduated from Mercyhurst. It was a day of good feeling and more Irish Hospitality. After a grand “Full Irish” breakfast at St. Augustine’s we toured the school, took some photographs and met some of the staff. Then we were off to Good Council in New Ross, where we ate a great lunch of fresh salmon or beef with potatoes, vegetables, soup, brown bread, and some outrageous desserts. Here we also met 2 impressive young lads who have applied to Mercyhurst and who are hopefully <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4czuozdOOUwGKcWpxHw4ZBbI0zLi7ago_clk0vDazr0khSlURaC4kQXDpRL1vD1Ye0tmG1UstIBHVjd0J6X18i1EGqJv-0shUSavl6r-2nVq7HOGD4o3oqpFrBraRIKpQh1VXWNPUsk/s1600/waterford+trip+047.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD4czuozdOOUwGKcWpxHw4ZBbI0zLi7ago_clk0vDazr0khSlURaC4kQXDpRL1vD1Ye0tmG1UstIBHVjd0J6X18i1EGqJv-0shUSavl6r-2nVq7HOGD4o3oqpFrBraRIKpQh1VXWNPUsk/s200/waterford+trip+047.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5467086733383603106" /></a> awaiting their acceptance. (Our students remembered their own time awaiting to hear from their college of choice.) Past Mercyhurst alums from Good Council were on hand as well as the staff. It was a great chance for us all to connect.breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-79310473623765613532010-04-27T07:38:00.000-07:002010-05-07T04:10:28.400-07:00Ireland's Sublime West<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwVLxPJoBsZmDCZbyOwQI8rU5vYHnfjp1KAOpT-XKLGcPrywTGKNq85KE85EAA8Uj-2szMANdtoP6stpSw6v5s7qYrz-K6anJCEDldBGPrbIGEGq-iBzOCNePy_IoV0u9W28yai1sDKcE/s1600/Aran+and+Burren+354.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwVLxPJoBsZmDCZbyOwQI8rU5vYHnfjp1KAOpT-XKLGcPrywTGKNq85KE85EAA8Uj-2szMANdtoP6stpSw6v5s7qYrz-K6anJCEDldBGPrbIGEGq-iBzOCNePy_IoV0u9W28yai1sDKcE/s200/Aran+and+Burren+354.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464827897506863506" /></a><br />Joseph Addison, Eighteenth - Century essayist, friend of Jonathan Swift, and co-founder of <em>The Spectator </em>with Richard Steele, travelled a good deal before he settled down in London. Indeed, he took a very grand tour of Europe (as was befitting young gentlemen of good breeding before they did any settling of any kind). <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczoJypoUz7UGo3IuUsn-2LG81KgUqKyiQ41AS-Ea7mHNhJKPVw0WZ9kqrzboqb8qUZit7qpXaAVMjMQUaXWUjlS8NkNym5t333TQFMpcsHW5fmWQBp6UxDO4hfsMKA0EfjleSe_cqzt4/s1600/burren+and+aran+204.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczoJypoUz7UGo3IuUsn-2LG81KgUqKyiQ41AS-Ea7mHNhJKPVw0WZ9kqrzboqb8qUZit7qpXaAVMjMQUaXWUjlS8NkNym5t333TQFMpcsHW5fmWQBp6UxDO4hfsMKA0EfjleSe_cqzt4/s200/burren+and+aran+204.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464918878723247298" /></a><br /><br /><br />In 1699 he writes that "The Alps fill the mind with an agreeable kind of horror" (<em>Remarks on Several Parts of Italy etc</em>). We find this idea later in the Romantic Sublime of Philosophers and the great Romantic poets, but when one can quote a rational Eighteenth-Century literary figure, I maintain it is best to do so. Anyway, we had a sublime weekend just recently as we all peered over the cliffs at <a href="http://www.nd.edu/~ikuijt/Ireland/Sites/acastela/site/index.html">Dun Aengus </a>on Inis Mor, the <a href="http://www.cliffsofmoher.ie/">Cliffs of Moher </a>in County Clare, and the cliffs along the Atlantic Coast of <a href="http://www.theburrencentre.ie/">the Burren</a>. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuZGkqNQ9cOzEe0lQbXRRBVMCXCkgxrLLmrCYnJ-t122-ItLcUOn7i0bNzL7FlRofRcclAh5g-sJKunU74fro7iQfAMKkzSB8knLI_wxPeKqnoaWYry6bND2h64ZPX7bBUdvszn27DZo/s1600/Aran+and+Burren+281.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFuZGkqNQ9cOzEe0lQbXRRBVMCXCkgxrLLmrCYnJ-t122-ItLcUOn7i0bNzL7FlRofRcclAh5g-sJKunU74fro7iQfAMKkzSB8knLI_wxPeKqnoaWYry6bND2h64ZPX7bBUdvszn27DZo/s200/Aran+and+Burren+281.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5464827490097370194" /></a> Some of us were better at peering than others. It was a magical weekend, with good music, fantastic scenery, awesome ruins, and prehistoric sites. This was the last group trip of the study abroad experience in Dungarvan. While students continue to make their own plans for travel to London, Scotland, Croatia, Dublin, and Galway over the next few weekends, we, like Mr. Addison in his later years, are beginning to settle somewhat. There’s finals coming up and papers to do and all the things that keep us grounded to deal with. And yet, there is still much time to explore.breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-68529645906204396082010-04-21T08:20:00.000-07:002010-04-21T08:59:17.303-07:00Mercyhurst Students and Faculty Dance with the Locals<OBJECT id=BLOG_video-12054d9d38a5362e class=BLOG_video_class width=320 height=266 contentId="12054d9d38a5362e"></OBJECT><br /><br />3 local Sisters of Mercy, a room full of Irish dance enthusiasts, and some good-natured Mercyhurst students and professors makes for a very good evening. Mix this with generous supplies of tea and pastry, and you have the recipe for a pretty terrific night. This past Tuesday evening was just such a treat for all concerned as will be attested to by the videos.<br /><OBJECT id=BLOG_video-fe49f3d31b7645ef class=BLOG_video_class width=320 height=266 contentId="fe49f3d31b7645ef"></OBJECT><br />Turn those ladies gents! Step lively ladies!<br /><br /><OBJECT id=BLOG_video-e82a1f257cf87878 class=BLOG_video_class width=320 height=266 contentId="e82a1f257cf87878"></OBJECT>breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1120214862836032298.post-28026972738448993692010-04-18T01:53:00.001-07:002010-05-19T08:00:28.604-07:00Irish HospitalityIn James Stephens’ <em>The Crock of Gold</em>, a character known as the <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5nlcQgjyWzmYzjuWK7IIR0VNFH98KZasa0aDCS-ye2gkBH4sA_Vf5oSm1wfAb_epj7xwvyKpdfh31sDRc_vtgMneUtnx5r_sdtmtfZVhZNSE5ygaEdES6wNSfDpoy2H0E5OymO-LoZw/s1600/races+%26+festival+of+food+054.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 202px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 267px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461854727261302274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA5nlcQgjyWzmYzjuWK7IIR0VNFH98KZasa0aDCS-ye2gkBH4sA_Vf5oSm1wfAb_epj7xwvyKpdfh31sDRc_vtgMneUtnx5r_sdtmtfZVhZNSE5ygaEdES6wNSfDpoy2H0E5OymO-LoZw/s200/races+%26+festival+of+food+054.jpg" /></a>Philosopher meets a family of seven on the road. As luck would have it, the Philosopher is about to sit down to eat. He has travelled a long way, is extremely hungry, and only has a meagre piece of cake. Even so, the Philosopher approaches the family and asks if they will join him. The man who heads the family replies “Why not . . . for the person who would refuse a kind invitation is a dog.” So, even though he has little, the Philosopher commences to divide his small morsel into eight pieces, apologizing about its size. The man, most courteously, eats his piece in 3 small bites instead of gulping it down in one go. He then confesses he has a problem, which is this: after he has eaten of the Philosopher’s offering, he doesn’t know what to do with his own lunch. He says to the Philosopher that he is afraid his lunch will be ruined if not eaten, and suggests it might “not be wasted if you were kind enough to help me eat it.” The man’s parcel of food is large, and so in the end all have a generous and filling meal. After eating, of course, they share stories. This, to me, is Irish hospitality.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnXGrxL4CzsNMDI3EgBKG5wvOr44ILFDTnvnySqlGiuMOQo49iHU_0iTi1AF87zwH2jc5NP_HZiNv287qKTycVD9KPf_nNSLShWBBy5WBDCfBGBnzBPuhyQ6RqDMLnAzPH901u7oO-WQ/s1600/races+%26+festival+of+food+032.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461854919034531234" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLnXGrxL4CzsNMDI3EgBKG5wvOr44ILFDTnvnySqlGiuMOQo49iHU_0iTi1AF87zwH2jc5NP_HZiNv287qKTycVD9KPf_nNSLShWBBy5WBDCfBGBnzBPuhyQ6RqDMLnAzPH901u7oO-WQ/s200/races+%26+festival+of+food+032.jpg" /></a><br /><br />We have all heard the Irish saying cead mile failte or 100,000 welcomes. I insist that this is no empty cliché. Like the story above, the warm hospitality of the Irish is extended whether they have little or much. But most interesting to me is how the receiver of the generosity is made to feel important, or as if they are worthy of the gifts given. The Philosopher is made to feel he is doing the man a favour by eating his meal. There is no self serving charity at work on the part of the man or any chance to pity the Philosopher in his need. The motivation for these acts of kindness stems only from a love and respect of humanity and feeling of mutual good will. It is the most generous gift one could receive.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRWOBt_VFVB2Lssn9prqu8OwD-AbuHiwY0UXue-vcIFvdGp5dYxtlv5xEW6dWJ0TWLETFVeZQn7gAZnbvKabcBqhwsx9SZjls-CElCJma3f0yF-jjN7vQFSy_zQi1DggKknByK9vqJ4w/s1600/races+%26+festival+of+food+030.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461854216437843666" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRWOBt_VFVB2Lssn9prqu8OwD-AbuHiwY0UXue-vcIFvdGp5dYxtlv5xEW6dWJ0TWLETFVeZQn7gAZnbvKabcBqhwsx9SZjls-CElCJma3f0yF-jjN7vQFSy_zQi1DggKknByK9vqJ4w/s200/races+%26+festival+of+food+030.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><br />At the Tramore horse races on Saturday, we were given the opportunity to be a part of Irish life that few tourists get to experience. We were included in a circle of Irish race enthusiasts, we were given the chance to meet some legends of Irish horseracing, we were conveyed tips on particular horses, and we were even brought into the winner’s circle to present the awards. I feel we have done very little to deserve this kind of treatment, but our hosts made it seem like the most natural of proceedings.<br /><br />Last Friday, Jim Snyder and I were given the privilege to attend a weekly meeting between members of the Dungarvan Council and our Mercyhurst students. These weekly meetings are held so that students can tell the council what they need and how they are “getting on” in Dungarvan. The men that attended this meeting gave of their time and energy to make sure the students are having a good experience. While Jim and I have only been here for a week , we have seen so many actions ourselves and heard so many stories from students that attest to how <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MilGhv6c5g80AT5TX7QntUNydktQAKtKmJVDM88o1hHXkuEdEjkdfgVOsD184FYqYBiCbbbFXwrMftCNbcAeNmu8fXrm3ai6lrqjbv7QCVxZuTI2BgM4O2VNpt6dSoSFo3QqK-an3Zg/s1600/races+%26+festival+of+food+047.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461854491054408994" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8MilGhv6c5g80AT5TX7QntUNydktQAKtKmJVDM88o1hHXkuEdEjkdfgVOsD184FYqYBiCbbbFXwrMftCNbcAeNmu8fXrm3ai6lrqjbv7QCVxZuTI2BgM4O2VNpt6dSoSFo3QqK-an3Zg/s200/races+%26+festival+of+food+047.jpg" /></a>welcomed we have been made to feel. When students asked where they could rent bikes, they were given 4 new bikes to use, free of charge. When they wondered if they could rent a guitar, two guitars were provided to them. They have been taken out for meals, for golf outings, to local schools, and given complimentary tickets to plays, concerts, horse races, and other events. These people of Dungarvan that we have met are truly altruistic. They give help without thinking of any benefit but to the person being helped. They are providing me and those of us visiting their fair city with a lesson on being human and humane. The people of Dungarvan have given us more than we could have ever expected.breedhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18024298129926081116noreply@blogger.com0