Paul Richardson wrote:
>
> Hi Gang
>
> Hey Bill (D) - It was 'lil ole me' - not John M - that mentioned the French
> inclination to adjust the rules occasionally - they've been doing it ever
> since Agincourt where we gave them that famous archery lesson in 1415.
As immortalized in Shakespeare's "Henry V," of course. However, Andrew
Mace in particular should make a point of never seeing that play, as I'm
sure he'd break down in tears at Montjoy's line, uttered just before the
battle (which my favorite Shakespeare Web site says is act IV, scene 3):
"Thou never shalt hear Herald any more."
> There are also many words derived from our bowmen - not the least being one
> used by every FOT member I suspect. The word 'spanner' derives from a
> winding devise or tool used to span or draw a cross bow string.
Really! Never knew that one. Thanks!
> The main reason why our bowmen were so good is that in the middle ages it
> was a strict law of the realm that the youth of the day received
> instruction and practiced bowmanship for a minimum of one day in every
> week.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's "The White Company" takes place about 60 years
before Agincourt. I read it in adolescence and went out immediately to
buy a bow. Spent the whole afternoon shooting arrows into a sheet of
plywood, and the rest of the week with my right arm in a sling with
tendonitis.
According to Sir Arthur, part of a bowman's training beginning at age 7
was to stand from sunup till noon with the left arm held out straight
from the shoulder, holding the longbow in the left hand. I tried that,
too, but after about seven minutes decided that one crippled arm at a
time was quite enough.
On the other hand... There isn't much that makes less sense to me than
ancestral hatred based on national origin. In my case, I'm sure it's
because my European ancestors came from England, Scotland, Ireland, and
Germany. That means my left foot would spend half its time trying to
car-bomb my right arm, while my hips petitioned my rib cage for
"lebensraum" (while secretly planning to invade my spleen). Then the
rib cage would respond by getting off a plane, waving a piece of paper
and blathering about "peace in our time," all while my right shin was
trying to kick the "rest of you bloody Sassenach gits" out and vote for
home rule. Meanwhile, the last three fingers on my left hand would
complain about how the rest of the body stole the country from them and
forced them to walk the Trail of Tears.
I'd be a mess if I paid any attention to all that, so I find it easier
just to get on with my life. Gives me much more time to enjoy driving
my little open cars, *wherever* they're from.
--Scott Fisher
|