Melodrama, anyone?

Ever wonder what people did for entertainment before there was television? Before there was radio? Before there were movies? Well, in the late Victorian era, they sat around weeping into their hankies reading stuff you would not believe, like the following unforgettable saga of Bessie and her Basil.


CURFEW MUST NOT RING TONIGHT
by Rose Hartwick Thorpe (1850-1939)

Slowly England’s sun was setting o’er the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,--
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,--
“I’ve a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;” and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!”

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
“At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Out she swung,-- far out. The city seemed a speck of light below,--
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell.
Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart’s wild throbbing: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”

It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O’er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still hagggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
“Go! your lover lives,” said Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, “Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night.”

(From Ringing ballads, including Curfew must not ring tonight, Rose Hartwick Thorpe, 1887)


I see the young Susan Lucci as Bessie, the young Brad Pitt as Basil, Winston Churchill as the sexton, and Margaret Thatcher as Cromwell.

Two! Two! Two awards in one!

I’m probably one of the few people old enough to remember a commercial for some kind of product that was supposed to do away with bad breath and taste like candy at the same time. I forget the name of the actual product, but the commercial went, “It’s two, two, two mints in one” and then one person would say, “It’s a breath mint!” and another person would say, “No, it’s a candy mint!” and, wouldn't you just know it (shades of Madison Avenue), it turned out to be both! A candy mint AND a breath mint! Two! Two! Two mints in one!

That old commercial came to mind this week when I received not one but two blog awards from Jeannelle in Iowa, author of a blog called
Midlife by Farmlight.

It’s the only blog I know of with a post that begins, “I was scraping cow manure in the barn a few minutes ago and...” or a post with minute-by-minute photographs -- detailed photographs -- of the birth of a calf, a post about how to tell the difference between male and female rows of corn, a post explaining what “rogue” corn is, a post about the author’s summer fling -- I believe she called it a “tryst” -- with a John Deere riding lawn mower, or where you can see pictures of stained glass windows from a Lutheran church built in the 1870’s while receiving an ongoing education in the Latin names of wildflowers of the midwestern prairie. Midlife by Farmlight is one of my favorite blogs, and I’m honored to have received these awards from Jeannelle.

The first one is the Brillante [sic] Weblog award and looks like this:



The second one is the Thinking Blogger award and looks like this:




I have nothing prepared [dropping sheets of paper], but I want to thank my agent, my hair stylist, my chauffeur, all you wonderful people sitting out there in the dark -- oh, wait, that last part was Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard, which was named the Best Picture of 1950 by the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences. One story of why the Academy Award is called an Oscar is that Bette Davis said the rear view reminded her of her ex-husband Oscar and the name stuck (this story is not the officially authorized version). When Sally Field received her Oscar for Best Actress for her role in Norma Rae she exclaimed, “You like me! You really like me!” I know how she felt. For those of you have been asleep for the past 80 years, here’s what Oscar looks like:



Not to be outdone, the Television Academy of Arts and Sciences promptly came up with its own flashy award. Here’s an Emmy® statuette like the one Susan Lucci of All My Children fame finally won after nineteen years of trying:

So there are Tonys, Grammys, People’s Choice Awards, Golden Globes, CMA (Country Music Association) Awards, more awards than you can shake a stick at. But I no longer care about any of those. Who needs an Oscar? Who needs an Emmy? I have received Two! Two! Two blog awards in one!

If ever a week were brillig, if ever there were a time when slithy toves ought to gyre and gimble in the wabe, if ever the borogroves had a right to be mimsy, if ever the mome raths could outgrabe with impunity, this is that week and time.

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! I'm chortling in my joy!

My deepest apologies to Lewis Carroll.

I must think for a little while before naming the next recipients. I’ll try to be brillante.