Today, I thought of a different kind of blog. Essentially, it is to do with being ‘English’, a rather esoteric, elusive and somewhat mysterious concept – something that a local Leylander thinks we may have lost – largely, because of the influx of foreigners into our country, ‘foreigners’ with their seemingly strong cultures.

By comparison, our ‘Englishness’ may seem weak and ‘wishy-washy’ when measured against the strength of the Gujurati, Hindu, Pakistani, cultures; or, for that matter, and nearer home, against the well-established Latin cultures of Italy, Spain or France.  Whether or not we have a ‘wishy-washy’ culture – and I am not at all convinced by the idea – the suggestion put forward by my ‘Leylander’ has made me think. Certainly, we ‘Englanders’ have something important to share with the rest of the world – though it may not be easy to define it – to put our finger on the essence of what that may be. 

Finding myself in a position of having to respond, to an allegation that I find a little unsettling, my first thoughts centre on an exemplary in the person of Cardinal Newman, a shy English gentleman with an acute mind, a heart as ‘big as they come’, undemonstrative in his style, but very much a leading figure, and demonstrative in what he did, when he deliberately chose to enter into full communion with the Catholic Church, on 9 October 1845; yet, in his culture and thought processes, he seemed not to cut himself off, from his Anglican roots.  We parishioners in St. Mary’s, now have a focal point, in Church, putting us constantly in mind of Blessed John Henry Newman, and this is not only because of his recent beatification by Pope Benedict, but also because we are beginning, within the Parish our ‘Newman Fund’. You can read about this by going to www.myleyland.co.uk 

But, to continue, the following sonnet was printed in the Parish Magazine of St. Austin’s Parish – one of our Ampleforth parishes, in Liverpool; to me, it seems to provide a helpful first answer to this question of ‘Englishness’. 

COME KINDLY LIGHT 

Come kindly light, which led John Henry on;

and shine through him to light us on our way.

Revered in death, we trust his night is gone;

disclose that triumph, Lord, for which we pray.

In dreary times as these, when seemingly

no sanctity, no wisdom has prevailed,

a saintly guide who weathered much may be

Love’s answer, to inspire; to inspire the sore assailed.

Now, Lord, we know that he who heavenward towers

extends his power of prayer; so in his name

we pray for cures, for heavenly gifts in showers.

May God permit his vicar to relay

a Father’s joy the angels’ glad acclaim;

news of his gaining everlasting day. 

Peter Ryden wrote these lines to mark the beatification of John Henry Newman, by Pope Benedict XVI, September 2010. His aunt, Isobel Ferguson, is a parishioner of St. Austin’s.  

I also think, that one of the many strands that explains our ‘Englishness’, comes from our language. It is a very hard one – difficult in fact – for foreigners to speak perfectly, because it follows no logic, and even though its rules of grammar are few, the pronunciation can be very difficult to grasp.  I wonder if not many of the absurdities we read in ‘Alice in Wonderland’ come partly from our language, which can be profoundly absurd in its pronunciation – something that leads us to enjoy that rather wonderful  sense of the ridiculous – but something that I have never come across in foreigners?  Moreover, this ‘nonsense’ within the language – and its unique humour – largely escapes those not totally conversant with the Englishman’s ‘funny’ way of expressing himself.  

Over the years, I have come across a few ‘rhymes’ that make fun of the difficulty of our pronunciation, and the one following, also printed in the St. Austin’s Parish Magazine, caused Fr. Theodore and I to burst into paroxysms of laughter. 

THE CRAZIEST LANGUAGE (by John C. Woods) 

We’ll begin with a box and the plural is boxes;

but the plural of ox is oxen not oxes.

Then one fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,

yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice;

yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,

why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?

If I spoke of my foot and showed you my feet,

and I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,

why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called beet?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,

yet hat in the plural would never be hose,

and the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren,

but although we say mother, we never say methren.

Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,

but imagine the feminine, she, shis and shim.

So English I fancy you will all agree

is the craziest language you ever did see. 

This poem was contributed by a St. Austin’s Parishioner, John Grice. He says it was written by a colleague at ICI, an American by the name of John C. Woods. Perhaps, working in ICI, is a good foundation to becoming a ‘bard’, and perhaps’ in the USA’ they feel just as crazy as we do’ about their culture. 

Pondering these questions, I am driven to ask the question as to whether it may be that our ‘English’ contribution to the cultures of the world, comes from this kind of background – a background that allows us to laugh at ourselves, yet be calm and collected in the face of danger and disaster; the ‘Dunkirk Spirit’ is something that comes to mind, something to be compared with the calm of the policemen, in London, after the 7/7 Underground Bombings, or the quiet modesty of Blessed John Henry Newman. 

It would be most interesting to hear what readers of the ‘blog’ think about ‘England’, ‘Englanders’ and our ‘English’ contribution to our world. 

(Unfortunately, in sending out this blog by e-mail, ‘Word Press’ distorts the original formatting of the document.  Readers are, therefore, advised to visit the website www.stmarysblog.co.uk should they wish to read it in its intended format).