The Flight into Egypt.

 Today is the Feast of the Holy Innocents, and it seems fitting to share this haunting old irish carol, An Teicheadh Go hEigipt (The Flight into Egypt) sung by Nóirín Ní Riain & the Monks of Glenstal Abbey. The translation is included in the description-- and yes, it inaccurately depicts the angel speaking to Mary, rather than St. Joseph, but the tune, and the imagery are very beautiful:

...Our Hearts, Illumined By Invisible Fire...

Today is the feast of Candlemas, the beautiful feast that finishes the Christmas season. It ends as it begins, with the beautiful homage of the Light. In traditional Catholic liturgy, beeswax candles are bless on this day, and distributed, lighted, to the congregation. It is a simple ceremony, but the prayers that at said to bless the candles are very beautiful: 

V. The Lord be with you.

R. And With your spirit.

1st Prayer: O holy Lord Father almighty, eternal God, who didst create all things out of nothing, and by Thy command didst cause this liquid to come by the labor of bees to the perfection of wax; and on this day didst fulfill the petition of the just man Simeon, we humbly beseech Thee, that by the invocation of Thy most holy name, and by the intercession of blessed Mary ever virgin, whose festival is this day devoutly celebrated, and by the prayers of all Thy saints, Thou wouldst vouchsafed to bless + and sanctify + these candles for the use of men, and the health of bodies and souls whether upon the earth, or on the waters; and wouldst hear from Thy holy heaven, and from the seat of Thy majesty, the voices of this Thy people, who desire to bear them with honor in their hands, and to praise Thee with hymnals, whom Thou has redeemed with the precious blood of Thy Son; who lives and reigns with Thee in the unity of the Holy Ghost, God, world without end.

R. Amen.

2nd Prayer: O almighty and everlasting God, who didst this day present Thy only-begotten Son to be received in the arms of holy Simeon in Thy holy temple; we humbly implore Thy clemency, that Thou wouldst vouchsafe to bless +, sanctify +, and kindle with the light of heavenly benediction these candles, which we Thy servants receiving desire to carry lighted to magnify Thy name; that by offering them to Thee, the Lord our God, being worthily inflamed with the holy fire of Thy most sweet charity, we may deserve to be presented in the holy temple of Thy glory. Though the same our Lord...

R. Amen.

3rd Prayer: O Lord Jesus Christ, the true light, who enlightenest every man coming into this world, pour forth Thy blessing + upon these candles, and sanctify + them with the light of Thy grace; and mercifully grant, that as these lights enkindled with visible fire dispel the darkness of night, so our hearts illumined by invisible fire, that is, the brightness of the Holy Spirit, may be free from the blindness of every sin; that the eye of our minds being purified, we may be able to discern what is pleasing to Thee and conducive to our salvation; so that after the perilous darkness of this life we may deserve to arrive at never-failing light. Through Thee, Christ Jesus, Saviour of the world, who in perfect Trinity livest and reignest God, world without end.

R. Amen.

4th Prayer: O almighty, everlasting God, who didst command the purest oil to be prepared by Thy servant Moses to keep lamps continually before Thee; graciously pour forth the grace of Thy blessing + upon these candles; they may so afford external light, that by Thy gift the light of Thy Spirit may not fail interiorly in our minds. Through our Lord Jesus Christ...in the unity of the same Holy Spirit....

R. Amen.

5th Prayer: O Lord Jesus Christ, who appearing this day among men in the substance of our flesh, and wast presented by Thy parents in the temple; whom the venerable and aged Simeon, enlightened by the light of Thy Spirit, recognized, received, and blessed: mercifully grant, that enlightened and taught by the grace of the same Holy Spirit, we may truly acknowledge Thee, and faithfully love Thee; who with God the Father in the unity of the same Holy Spirit livest and reignest God, world without end.

R. Amen.

There is a procession with those lighted candles, and in theory, they are supposed to be held, lighted, throughout the entire Mass. I have had the privilege of attending Candlemas only once in my life, when I was 15, and attending a little school away from home. I loved the candlelight so very much, and I remember that it pierced me with the sharp, sweet joy of Christmas, even though it had been a month since I had been home, and celebrating. I wanted to keep my candle going all the way through Mass, but the smoke from all those hundreds of little lights set off the fire alarm, and we all had to blow them out. I was unbelievably annoyed at that fire alarm, and (not for the last time in my life) I thought a trifle bitterly how very unromantic modernity is. Who cares if flaming candles are unsafe? The glory of them is more than worth the risk.

I am posting the following video of the blessing of the candles, so that you can read the prayers along with the chant they go to. (And for any of the Tolkienists who may be reading this-- yes, this is the Birmingham Oratory which the young Tolkien attended. No I did not chose this video for that reason. It was the first video to come up, and if it happens to have a Tolkien connection to it, well so much the sweeter.)

And, I am also going to recommend that you go to this website for a full description of the blessing and procession of the candles; that you go to this website for a bit of information on the feast day itself, and the customs that go with it; and that you take the time to listen to this very short, and beautiful sermon for this feast day.

God Bless You and Send You a Happy New Year

While it is true that today is the beginning of a new year, and that I welcomed in 2020 with the customary Pipes At Midnight (in this case, playing a long medley all in one go: Canzone de Zampognari (twice through), Adeste Fideles (also twice through), Scotland the Brave, The Minstrel Boy, and Auld Lang Syne (twice through seemed a good thing for the traditional New Year's tune, so twice through it was.) followed by a long toast in which I faced the Crucifix and saluted Our Lord, drawing on Jacobite traditions and Tolkien, and mentioning Friendship, Truth, Beauty, and All Good Things, before downing a lovely whisky in a quiet house, lit only by the Christmas tree and various candles..... you are not going to get a post that reflects that New Year tradition, nor even a wassail song. (Look at me getting halfway through the Long Christmas without a wassail yet!). Instead you are getting an odd little carol which seems fitting to the other commemoration of this Holy Day of Obligation, the Circumcision of Our Lord. 

I know that it can seem strange to non-Catholics to celebrate such a feast day, but we do it for two reason. The first is that it marks the first occasion in which Our Lord shed blood for us. So great is the Majesty of God, that this small suffering would have been more than enough to save the world from sin. This should be a comfort for those of us who sometimes think that we have committed a sin too great for God to forgive-- or that we are just plain too sinful (without being particularly ostentatious in our wickedness) for His forgiveness. God is so great that a single drop of His blood is more than enough to wipe out the sins of the entire world, from its Fall to its End: how then, can any or our own personal sins, become so great that He cannot forgive them? Granted, His Love could not be satisfied by a small suffering, but insisted in pouring Itself out until It was utterly spent and there was nothing else to give, but that is because His is Love, and True Love, in God as in Man, is foolish in Its need to show Itself to the Beloved. The bare fact of the matter is that our Redemption was accomplished by the mere fact of God becoming Man entirely, and this first of His sufferings for us, had in it all that was necessary for our salvation. This is, indeed, a thing well worth celebrating! 

The second reason is that it was on this day that Our Lord was officially given His name: Jesus, that is to say, Saviour. In taking the name, on this day, which the Angel had given Him at the time of His conception, He was announcing the purpose for which He had come into the world. He was, in a very real way, taking up His mission, and all the pain and suffering that went with it, by the taking of His name-- again, a thing well worth celebrating!

So, the carol you are getting today, seems appropriate to this feast day in which the shadow of the Cross first peaks into the Nativity narrative. It is a variation on the Corpus Christi Carol, which I have posted here a couple times before. This version, however, is specifically meant for Christmas-- and, indeed, there are actually two lyrical version of this as a Christmas carol. The version I have chosen to give you strikes me as the more Christmassy of the two, though this particular arrangement of this particular version is lighter and more delicate than almost every other version I have found of it. (The music that goes with this particular variant tends to be rather dark, and while I like it very much indeed, it seems weirdly aggressive for my purposes.) 

Feast of the Holy Innocents

Its an Irish carol that you are getting for today's feast day-- a carol I had never heard of before, and I would be surprised if you had heard if it either: The Angel Said to Joseph Mild is part of a collection of old Irish carols in English, from which we get the well known Wexford Carol (also known as the Enniscorthy Carol). I am very familiar with that carol-- indeed, it is one of my favourite's-- and I was very passingly aware that it was from a larger body of of obscure songs. I was under the impression that the rest of them were more or less lost, and that the Wexford Carol was a relic.

I came across a song or two from an album called The Wexford Carols (note the plural) by Caitriona O'Leary last year, but didn't think too much of it-- I am not particularly fond of the trap set drums being used in these recordings, as I find them anachronistic and intrusive, so while I liked the tunes and the songs themselves well enough, it didn't occur to me to look any farther into them.... However, when I went looking for a carol that was not the Coventry Carol to post for today, The Angel Said to Joseph Mild popped up-- clearly an old song, as nothing within the last hundred years or so would ever use this sort of word order or the phrase "Joseph Mild". This time I was definitely intrigued and when looking for more information on the Wexford Carols collection. Apparently, this album was the product of a good deal of research, recovery and reconstruction of that nearly lost collection if Irish carols. The fact that Caitriona O'Leary was able to resurrect these tunes delights me to no end, as does the fact that they are recorded and out on the wide world now, for people to hear... but I still adhere to my opinion about the drums-- anachronistic and intrusive. And the songs would benefit from a bit more of a sèan nos style of singing, and minimal accompaniment. Still, The Angel Said to Joseph Mild is a fine song for all of that, and one that deserves to have an audience, and therefore, I present it here:

O Sapientia

Today, December 17th, marks the beginning of the Great O Antiphons. I have written about these days before Christmas elsewhere on this blog, and shall not repeat myself here. Instead, I am intending to do something slightly different this time around: I am going to make little drawings of them, but the wording on them will be in both Latin, and in Old, or Middle English as well. There was a long tradition of English poetry based off these Antiphons, that I find very beautiful, and also, rather homely-- in the British sense. Also, rather than posting a Gregorian Chant of each antiphon, I will be highlighting the Estonian composer Arvo Pärt's compositions. 

Today's Antiphon runs thusly: O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodidisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem, fortiter suaviter disponensque omnia: veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae. In Modern English it translates: O Wisdom, who came from the mouth of the Most High, reaching from end to end and ordering all things mightily and sweetly: come, and teach us the way of prudence. For some inexplicable reason, the Middle English source I discovered today (On the incomparable Clerk of Oxford blog) translates "viam prudentiae" as "way of flight). And while I am quite aware that Latin 'p' becomes 'f' in English, and that 'l' and 'r' can be somewhat interchangeable (think of how we pronounce "colonel") I can see no way that prudentiae could every become flight. Nor has an admittedly cursory etymological dig about ze internets turned up anything that might even slightly shed light upon this oddity. Still, I liked the imagery-- the flight of God's Wisdom teaching us to fly as He does-- and so, Wisdom, in my doodle, is an odd, winged thing. 

As I have mentioned recently, I am exceedingly delighted by the effect of drawing in white on a black background. I love how that interplay gives off such a delightful impression of light-- moonlight, starlight, snowlight, the gemlight of pearl and crystal. It isn't a particularly warm combination-- you will notice all the examples I give are of quite cold, clear lights. And yet, that is part of the charm of it: stars are brightest in the cold, clear air of winter, and are their most beautiful. The pale light that snow gives off has no warmth to it, but by it, the darkest time of the year is brightened, and the heart is cheered by the sight. (Not, of course, that I am suggesting my own doodling carries anything of that with it; but drawing in this reverse fashion gives me the same sort of feeling.) Therefore, this year's Antiphons shall be done up in white on black:

The feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe is one of my favourite lead-up-to-Christmas feasts, for all that it occurs in the middle of Advent, and is therefore a day of fasting and penance. It is a prefect excuse for having some Mexican soul-food, and drinking a little chocolate-- with perhaps a dash of pepper,as the original Mexican drink had pepper in it (it was also serve cold and unsweetened, but lets not get carried away here) and if you add a bit of cinnamon as well, so much the better-- Our Lady's favourite spice being cinnamon... at least, according to a book I read in high school, whose name I have utterly forgotten, but which impressed me deeply with that fact. It also is a very perfect feast day for the time leading up to the Nativity as Our Lady is expecting in that image, a thing which delights me beyond my ability to explain.

Dr. Taylor Marshall has an interesting video explaining the history of Our Lady of Guadalupe. The name predates the apparition (which I knew) and the image that gave us the name goes back to St. Luke (which I did not know).

And here is a rather splendid song in honour of Our Lady of Guadalupe. 

Ps. I do not usually succumb to impulse buying, but I did this evening, when I was really only dashing into the store to get milk. There were bouquets for sale, with a mix of red and white flowers (roses were amongst them) and lovely greenery, and in the center, a little wooden picture of Our Lady herself. So I succumbed:

With apologies for the lousy picture, taken with
my lousy little camera phone, but you get the idea.

Happy Feast Day

Today is the last day of the 12 days of Christmas, and I spent the day with my family, making rather merry. We have a tradition in my family of saving one of our Christmas gifts to be opened on this day, and there are always a couple smaller things given on this Little Christmas. We dine upon gnocchi and ham, as we do upon Christmas day itself, and if every way possible, we treat it very much like a big feast day. It was a beautiful and joyous day with family and friends, made even more festive by a snow fall, and a warm fire. 

This song is actually a bit more fitting for Christmas day itself, but it is very joyful sounding, and once I got The Christmas Traveller out of my head, this is what was going round and round, so you are getting it to finish off the Long Christmas. We are now in the season of Epiphany. My we all, like the Wisemen of the East have the faith and courage to see the Stars God sends to guide us to Himself, and may we have the grace to see Him, however He choses to show Himself to us. 

Here's a Hand, My Trusty Fiere

I know that it is almost cliche to post Auld Lang Syne as the song for New Year's Day, nor is this the first time I have done so, but I came across this so very charming old video of being performed, that delighted me so much that I feel duty-bound to share it. The singer's voice threw me at first-- one does not expect this Scots when one sees the name Paolo Nutini-- but it is perfect for the song, as is the setting, and is the fact that it is old, and the quality is poor. It is not sung to the more common tune we are accustomed to hearing. This is the older, original tune that Rabbie Burns had in mind when he wrote the thing.

And for those of you who find the Scots rather beyond your ken, here is a rather decent explanation of the lyric that not only translates some of the more obscure phrases (right guid-willie waught....huh?) but also gives a bit of background and commentary upon it, which is worth reading.

And since today is also a holy day of obligation-- amongst other feasts, commemorating the Holy Name of Jesus, I am posting this beautiful Gregorian hymn, in honour of His Name. (And there are bells, whats not to love?)

I Got A Kiss o' the King's Hand....

Today is the feast day of Christ the King. It is a fairly new feast within the liturgical calender, having been instituted in 1925, but Jesus Christ has been honoured as King by all Christians since the very earliest days of the Church. It is, I think, a particularly beautiful and appropriate feast for our times, when temporal rulers fall so short of the standard. It is good to remember that we serve a King, Who genuinely loves and cares for His people. Here is an old picture I came up with a few years back to mark the day:

The title of the post comes from an old piobaireachd, A Kiss of the King's Hand. I had originally intended to post something particular to the day, but most of the hymns I came across featured organs and enthusiastic congregational singing. Now, mind you, when you hear the organ live, and you are part of the enthusiastic congregation, that is a grand sound indeed. However, youtube videos of the same tend to lack a certain something, so I am posting the piobaireachd instead.

The story behind the tune, is that a piper in the army or Charles II played for the king, who was so pleased with the music, that he commended the piper, and allowed him to kiss his hand. The piper wrote this tune to commemorate the event. Here are the words that go to it - and this is what always pops into my head each Sunday after Holy Communion:

Thuair mi Pòg s’ Pòg s’ Pòg  ga’n d’thuair mi Pòg o’ Laimh an Righ…  cha’d chur seid a n Croicion Caorach a thuair an turram a thuair mi.

I have had a kiss, a kiss, a kiss, I have had a kiss of the king’s hand:--  No one who blew in a sheep’s skin,  Has received such honour as I have

As a side note: I am not sure how widely spread the belief was, but there was a period, at least, in Scotland, when it was believed that the hands of the King were blessed, since they ruled with authority coming from God. Amongst other things, it was believed that the hands of the King were the hands of a healer. Readers of The Lord of the Rings will appreciate the historical connection.

In Which I Am Bold

Today is the feast day of St. Joan of Arc. I have a special fondness for St. Joan. She was a great influence on me during my teenage years. I liked her. She was the sort of girl with whom one could easily be friends. She was devout, but passionate with it. She loved beautiful things, which gave here just a wee, charming touch of vanity. She was brought up simply, and was well-contented. If she had been left to her own devices, she would have remained in obscurity, a shepherd-girl, who loved her home and her family, and enjoyed her life amongst them. Yet, when God literally spoke to her, through His angels and saints, and revealed what His will was for her, she had the moral courage to walk away from everything she loved, and serve Him as He wanted to be served. She became her country's great hero, an almost legendary figure, but she remained herself to the end - Joan the Maid, who would have gone home to her mother, if she could. I wanted very much to be just like her. Indeed, my goal in life is still very much the same: to be contented in the life God has given me at the moment, but, if at some point, He gives me another way of life in which to serve Him better, to show the same sort of courage as St. Joan and follow Him.

I think I have mentioned before on this blog, that there were Scottish soldiers fighting in the army of Joan of Arc. One of the great number of books I intend to write, but have not gotten around to actually working on yet, is a work of historical fiction, from the viewpoint of one of those Scots, possibly a piper. (Yes, there were pipers too. Once the French had lifted the Siege of Orleans, St. Joan marched into the city, with a company of pipers.) Several years ago, however, I did write a short story as a sort of back-history to the book I intend to write. It takes place sometime after the Scots had suffered a defeat at a Rouvray, in a skirmish known as the Battle of the Herring. And after much debate within myself, and with a certain measure of trepidation, I have decided to post it here:

*********************

Hughie Stewart was drinking, though he no longer knew what, nor did he care, so long as it was strong. He had started with just a little of the rough, red wine common to that area of France, but that was weeks ago and no matter how much of it he took, it had not the strength to keep the faces of his dead comrades from coming to him in his sleep. Whatever it was he had now was a harsh, strong drink that burned his throat and belly. It was vile, and made him long for the pure uisce beatha of his own native Scotland, but it served his purpose. He drank until forgetfulness came, until the world around him blurred and spun, and sleep was deep and black and dreamless.


Occasionally during those weeks, he would come to himself, lying in some forgotten corner of a dirty inn, or in a back street, with a sickness upon him, and a head shattered by drink. Then he would look at himself with a clear, sardonic eye, and see himself plainly - and the sort of man he was rapidly becoming. At such times he would be bitterly ashamed of himself, and resolve to break from this life, but grief was more bitter still. In those moments of clarity, he would see again the faces of his clansmen lying broken by the English assault on the field of Rouvray: his older brother Dauid, who had promised their mother to keep an eye on Hugh; his cousins, Robert and Angus; Roger, his friend from boyhood, who had left a wife; brave John Stewart who had led them… He was but a very young man, and now he was alone in a foreign land, wounded in both body and spirit. He drank alone. There was an intensity in his silence that prevented all but the most gregarious from approaching him.

He could never remember just how the fight started. There were three or four Frenchmen, that much he knew. They had been loud and crowded him too closely. He remembered that they had spoken to him, and he had stirred himself to answer. He was far gone in his drink, and the world was very distant. He heard the laughter at his response, but did not know the cause of it. He only wished for them to go and leave him in peace, but they would not. They sat down beside him, pulling their chairs up close, their faces too near and terrible to his blurred vision. He tried to pull away from them, but one of them had an arm around his shoulder. They were speaking and his muddled mind was trying desperately to make sense of what they were saying. There was something about a maid, something else about a battle and herring, and the Scots, and there was mockery in the tone.

Then he was on his feet and in a rage. He remembered with a painful clarity the sound of his chair falling back with a clap upon the floor. The one who had just spoken was looking at him with a lazy, arrogant smile, and Hugh hit him full in the face with all his strength. The man went down without a sound, and his companions were on Hugh in an instant. Had he been less gone in drink, or had a single man to stand with him, he could have held them off, for he was a fierce and canny fighter. But he was ill and drunk and alone. The wound he had taken at Rouvray was barely healed and the arm he had taken it in sore and slow. The Frenchmen took him out into the street and beat him for their companion; beat him, though he fought to the last, until he was bruised and bloody and fell unconscious in the gutter.

He came to himself some little while later, slowly, and in great pain. His head hurt so that he could scarcely bear to lift it from the ground. His very eyes ached. The wound in his shoulder had reopened and he could not move the arm. He had a hundred aches and bruises. For a time he could do no more than lay still, but gradually the pain receded, and he was able to sit up, though his whole body protested, and his head hung down upon his chest. He felt sick, broken and utterly wretched. He thought of his clansmen on Rouvray, and buried his face in his hands.

When he at last felt well enough to stand, he returned again to the inn, but only long enough to retrieve his gear. The innkeeper was a kindly man, with a son nearly the age of Hugh. He returned the things, shaking his head slightly, and said, “You should not drink so much, mon ami.” Hugh looked down at the sheathed sword in his hand, then at the innkeeper’s worried frown. “I will not do so again,” he vowed, and went out.

Nor did he, but neither did he eat. He wandered to streets blindly, though now it was not the ghosts of Rouvray he fled, but those of himself, and the man he had become those last weeks. Sometimes he came to a church, and at such times he would go in, and kneel in the dark shadows at the very back. He could not pray, his mind and soul were too disquieted for that, but he knelt before the hidden God, and showed Him his sorrow, for a small space of time before that sorrow drove him to wandering again.

*********************

He did not see the line of men on horseback until they were almost upon him. The foremost rider nearly rode him down before he was able to draw his beast up short and halt his men. The man uttered an oath, and a surprisingly high, light voice called, “Baudicourt!” in rebuke. The man recollected himself, and apologized hastily, almost sheepishly. There was a laugh, and the light voice went on, “What is it you have found there, mon capitaine?”

Hugh had leapt backward at the last moment, when the noise of their riding had finally burst upon his ears. He had fallen, weak from hunger, and lay there, spent and aching from head to foot. He stared up at the riders, nearly blinded from the glare of torchlight. There was a stir amongst them and a babble of voices. A figure, somewhat smaller than the others, broke from the line and came riding forward. He saw the red light glancing off armour, the dark shadow of cape billowing in a stir of wind, then a small, pleasant face looked down at him, the eyes bright, though there were shadows beneath them. "En nom Dieu!" the light voice exclaimed.

He stared helplessly back, astonished even through his pain, that it was a young woman who was looking down at him. He remembered, distantly, the night at an inn, when he had hit a Frenchman, and been unable to fight off that man’s friends. They had spoken of something like this, had they not? A maid, he seemed to remember one of them saying, who was coming to raise the siege of Orleans. A maid who was come in answer to a prophecy, who gave prophecy herself, and those prophecies came true. He had not paid attention to those men then. He had been consumed with his own grief, and had begged them to be gone, but they would not. Now it seemed he was looking into the face of their maid as he lay in the street. He felt the blood come to his face, and got to his feet, slowly, like an old, old man, but he was a soldier and of noble blood, so when he stood at last, he looked it.

Baudicourt was frowning at Hugh. He had been inclined at first to dismiss the man in the street as a beggar, or a common drunk, but now he stood straight and tall before him, with an odd dignity that was disconcerting. “Speak sir,” he said, abruptly, but not discourteously, “What is your name?”

“Hugh Stewart, sir, of Scotland.”

Baudicourt’s men began to speak at once, for the valour of the Scottish soldiers was well know, and the defeat of them at Rouvray had been the bitter blow that led to the siege of Orleans. “Écossais, Écossais” they said, and repeated his name, for it was John Stewart who had led the Scots.

“Well then, Hugh Stewart, of Scotland, why do you wander about the street, obstructing my horses?”

Baudicourt still glowered down on him, but it was not to Baudicourt that Hugh made answer. It was to the maid at his side, who smiled sympathy at him.

“I have lost my comrades, and…” he paused, unable to explain to these fighting men, what he had not been able to explain even to himself, “I have lost my way…” he finished softly, looking away from the goodness he saw in the face of the maid. He stared at his feet.

He heard the murmur of voices again, then the maid had urged her horse forward, till she stood directly before Hugh, and he had no choice but to look up at her. She had a good face, though she was not beautiful. There was a great purity and holiness about her, that would have been daunting, but for the frank humour that he had often observed in the faces of fighting men. She was smiling, a sad little smile, and she touched his shoulder lightly.

“It is not so hard to find yourself, mon ami .” she said softly, “The good God is kind to soldiers. How long has it been since you have eaten?”

Hugh shook his head. He could not remember when he had last taken food or drink.

“Well, Hugh Stewart of Scotland,” the bit of laughter that was seldom far from her was back in her voice now, “You cannot find yourself if you become a fantôme!” She produced a coin from the wallet hung from her waist, and gave it to him, despite his protests, “ Monsieur Stewart,” she said very firmly, “You must eat! And then en nom Dieu find a priest, yes? It will do you much good”

Hugh hung his head again. Her goodness had unmanned him, and he could not speak for a moment. “If it please the maid,” he answered at last, “I shall try.”

She shook her dark, cropped head, “Non, non, monsieur, not to please me, but to please the good God.” She smiled at him again, “Do not forget: food first, Hugh Stewart! France has need of good soldiers.”

Then she gave signal to Baudicourt, and the men rode on. Hugh watched them go with out a word, the coin she had given him clutched tightly in his fist. The maid had turned once and waved to him, and he had raised his arm in return. It was the arm that had taken the wound, the one she had touched when she had spoken to him. The pain in it was gone, and the pain in his heart seemed less burdensome. He allowed himself to think of her face once more, and grinned, a slow, unaccustomed grin. If the maid really intended to raise the siege of Orleans, he had no doubt she would. What a doughty companion she must be.

He did not immediately eat as she had suggested. He found a church first and took his customary place at the back. He still could not pray, at least, not as he wished, but he looked long and fervently at the tabernacle where his Lord lay hidden. He did not know how long he knelt there, for he forgot himself during that space of time. Then he came to himself, and looked at the little coin still clenched in his fist.

He took meat at the next inn he came to; meat only, and a bit of bread. Then he took to wandering again, and it was many days before could bear to look for a priest. It requires courage to speak of sins one wants to leave hidden, even into the ear of a good God. But at last the priest came to him, as he knelt in the shadows of a wayside church – an old priest, wise in God. Hugh allowed the priest to lead him out into the sun, and when the old man asked what it was that troubled him, Hugh told him, hesitating a good deal over the story. He wanted to be honest, but was shamed by the telling. The priest listened, saying no word until it was over, and then, there was no rebuke. He simply said, “ah, poor man,” and comforted him as a father. The next day, Hugh returned to him, and was properly shriven. Then he knelt for a long time before the altar, praying not in words, but from his heart, showing the good God the sorrows he still bore, and thankful for the comfort He had been given.

*********************

The army of the Maid of France lay camped before the River Loire, near the besieged town of Orleans. Hugh made his way there, neatly uniformed and girt with his sword. The guards stopped him at the edge of the camp, but he surrendered his sword to them with his name, and asked to see the Maid, or, failing that, Baudicourt. A soldier was sent with the message and returned a short time later with a grin on his face. He spoke to the guards first, before delivering his message.

“She’s arguing battle strategy with le capitaine. By my staff! There is a woman can argue for you! You think, mon ami, that you have won the argument, and then she says, ‘in the name of God, it shall be done this way!” and all at once you see that it must be so.”

The soldier nodded at Hugh, returning the sword to him. “She says she’ll see you, if you be the same Hugh Stewart of Scotland she remembers.” He laughed at the startled expression on Hugh’s face, and led the way across the camp to tent, where the maid sat before a table strewn with maps. Baudicourt was beside her, looking irritated and amused, as he often did in the company of Jehanne of Domremey.

The Maid saw Hugh as he entered. She rose, and a bar of sunlight from the open tent-flap fell upon her white armour, and threw a halo of light about her face. She held her hands out to Hugh, and he went to her and knelt before her, his hands upon the hilt of his sword, his head bowed.

“As it please God, Hugh Stewart of Scotland pledges his sword to the cause of France and the Maid.”

She smiled the frank, boyish smile of hers, and she touched him lightly.

“Then, en nom Dieu, I am glad to have you.”

Easter Week

Oh joy! Oh bliss! Oh happy day! Easter is come! Christ has risen from the dead, and crabbed Lent is gone and past! There is chocolate in my life again, and coffee too, which is cause for great rejoicing. But quite apart from that, I simply love Easter. I feel like this during Easter Time:

 

I also currently have the Easter sequence,  Victimae Paschali Laudes, going round and about my head. This is what it sounds like:

And here is the translation. I cannot say that it is my absolute favourite piece of liturgical music, but it is close. It is, after all, a glorious and magnificent bit of poetry:

  

Forth to the Paschal Victim, Christians, bring

Your sacrifice of praise:

The Lamb redeems the sheep;

And Christ, the sinless One,

Hath to the Father sinners reconciled.

Together death and life

In strange conflict strove.

The Prince of Life, who died,

Now lives and reigns.

What thou sawest, Mary, say,

As thou wentest on the way.

"I saw the tomb wherein the living One had lain,

I saw His glory as He rose again;

Napkin and linen cloths, and angels twain:

Yea, Christ has risen, my hope, and He

Will go before you into Galilee."

We know that Christ has risen from the grave:

Hail, Thou, King of Victory,

Have mercy Lord, and save.

 Amen. Alleluia.

Passiontide

Today is Holy Thursday, also called Maundy Thursday, the first day of the most solemn and sacred time in the Church's year. It was on this day, during the Last Supper that Jesus Christ instituted the Blessed Sacrament. And today His Passion began with the dreadful agony in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Tomorrow is Good Friday, the day of His suffering and died, to free the us poor sinners, and win for us our salvation.

Holy Saturday is the last day of Lent, a day of sorrow for the death of the Hero Christ, and of expectation of His glorious resurrection.

My sisters and I were busy earlier this week, weaving the palms we received on Sunday into various shapes and designs:

ROSES

CROSSES AND A CROWN OF THORNS

I WAS PARTICULARLY PLEASED WITH THE CROWN OF THORNS.

 During Christmas, I checked out a CD of Christmas music, sung by Julie Andrews. It was a lovely album, and rather different from the general run of Christmas CDs. Amongst other things, it had a haunting little song called the Lamb of God Carol. I had never heard it before. Nor can I find much information in it at all. It is, I think, more of a New Year's carol, than a Christmas carol. But the words are particularly suited to Passiontide, so I am posting it here. As a bit of a digression, it was not uncommon for older Christmas carols to make reference to the death of Our Lord - the middle verse of What Child Is This is an example. After all, He came into this world to die for us, so it does make sense. Furthermore, there was time when the new year was celebrated on March 25th, which falls during Lent, so the references to the Passion would have been natural. However, the beginning lines of the Lamb of God carol, definitely fit more into the Christmas tradition, so this song is just a bit of an oddity to me.



And Today Is....

The Feast of the Annunciation:

When the Angel Gabriel announced to Our Lady that she was to be the Mother of God, and when Our Lord was miraculously conceived by the Holy Ghost.

The Annunciations Carol:



The Feast Of St. Dismas

The Good Thief who was crucified beside Our Lord, who defended Him against the taunts of the crowd and his fellow thief, and who was granted the tremendous grace of conversion in that moment.

Comrades of the Cross

I cannot think or reason,

I only know He came

With hands and feet of healing

And wild heart all aflame.

With eyes that dimmed and softened

At all the things He saw,

And in His pillared singing

I read the marches of the Law.

I only know He loves me,

Enfolds and understands -

And, oh His heart that holds me,

And oh, His certain hands -

The Man, the Christ, the Soldier,

Who from His cross of pain,

Cried to the dying comrade:

"Lad, we will meet again!"
          
                 Willard Wattles

Tolkien Reading Day

On March 25, 3019 of the Third Ages, Frodo completed his journey to Mount Doom. The Ring was destroyed, and Sauron was defeated. Tolkienist celebrate this day by reading works by the Professor. Here am I with The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien.

 

J. R. R. Tolkien Reading "Riddles in the Dark" from "The Hobbit":

Happy Day to all of you - and feel free to celebrate like Hobbits with food, and like dwarves with song, and like Elves with poetry by the fire. And if you choose to cook something with cinnamon in it, so much the better, for cinnamon - so I read long ago - was Our Lady's favourite spice. However, even though Bilbo was a burgler, and St. Dismas was a thief, it is best not to be trying your pick-pocketing skills today - tempting as it might be.

Hosanna Filio David!

Today is Palm Sunday, and the beginning of Holy Week. This is my favourite time during the Church's year, because the liturgy for this week is absolutely beautiful. During the Mass today, St. Mark's account of the Passion will be recited. If you are fortunate enough to be able to attend a High Mass (which, alas, we are not), it will be sung - with voices taking the part of Christ, of St. Peter, of Pilate, and of the crowd. It is long, but it is extremely moving. The Mass of Palm Sunday is full of beautiful antiphons, including Hosanna Filio David:

The translation is as follows: Hosanna to the Son of David. Blessed is He that cometh in the name of the Lord. King of Israel! Hosanna to the Son of David. It is, in fact, the words with which the crowd saluted Jesus, as they lay palms before Him as he rode into Jerusalem.


We might have had to make do with minimal singing, but we all received palms to hold during the Last Gospel, and to take home with us afterward. I have a particular fondness for palms. There is something of a heady glory about the imagery of Palm Sunday - Jesus Christ riding upon a donkey, triumphantly, while people hail His as King, and strew His way with palm branches and flowers, singing Hosannas as He passes through their midst. And there is a corresponding glory to all the picture and statutes of early confessors and martyrs who won their own palms by dying for the King of Glory Who had died for them. I brave and inspired when I get my palms.

This year, I am going to do fancy things with my palms. I am going to braid them, and make crosses and crowns of thorns of them. There is a very handy Italian website, featuring tutorials of some of the more common palm weaving patterns. If my efforts turn out well, I just might post pictures of them within the next couple days.

And now... Holy Week!