Anne Bradstreet - The Four Ages of Man

Anne Bradstreet was the first woman to be recognized as an accomplished New World Poet. Her volume of poetry The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America ... received considerable favorable attention when it was first published in London in 1650. Eight years after it appeared it was listed by William London in his Catalogue of the Most Vendible Books in England, and George III is reported to have had the volume in his library. Bradstreet's work has endured, and she is still considered to be one of the most important early American poets.

 

The first section of The Tenth Muse ... includes four long poems, known as the quaternions:

"The Four Elements,"

"The Four Humors of Man,"

"The Four Ages of Man,"

"The Four Seasons"

Each poem consists of a series of orations; the first by earth, air, fire, and water; the second by choler, blood, melancholy, and flegme; the third by childhood, youth, middle age, and old age; the fourth by spring, summer, fall, and winter. In these quaternions Bradstreet demonstrates a mastery of physiology, anatomy, astronomy, Greek metaphysics, and the concepts of medieval and Renaissance cosmology. Although she draws heavily on Sylvester's translation of du Bartas and Helkiah Crooke's anatomical treatise Microcosmographia (1615), Bradstreet's interpretation of their images is often strikingly dramatic. Sometimes she uses material from her own life in these historical and philosophical discourses.

- The Poetry Foundation

The Tenth Muse Lately Sprung Up in America,
printed at London, 1650

The Four Ages of Man

by Anne Bradstreet, c.1612-1672

[Introduction]

 

Lo now! four other acts upon the stage,

Childhood, and Youth, the Manly, and Old-age.

The first: son unto Phlegm, grand-child to water,

Unstable, supple, moist, and cold’s his Nature.

The second: frolic claims his pedigree;

From blood and air, for hot and moist is he.

The third of fire and choler is compos’d,

Vindicative, and quarrelsome dispos’d.

The last, of earth and heavy melancholy,

Solid, hating all lightness, and all folly.

Childhood was cloth’d in white, and given to show,

His spring was intermixed with some snow.

Upon his head a Garland Nature set:

Of Daisy, Primrose, and the Violet.

Such cold mean flowers (as these) blossom betime,

Before the Sun hath throughly warm’d the clime.

His hobby striding, did not ride, but run,

And in his hand an hour-glass new begun,

In dangers every moment of a fall,

And when ‘tis broke, then ends his life and all.

But if he held till it have run its last,

Then may he live till threescore years or past.

Next, youth came up in gorgeous attire

(As that fond age, doth most of all desire),

His Suit of Crimson, and his Scarf of Green.

In’s countenance, his pride quickly was seen.

Garland of Roses, Pinks, and Gillyflowers

Seemed to grow on’s head (bedew’d with showers).

His face as fresh, as is Aurora fair,

When blushing first, she ‘gins to red the Air.

No wooden horse, but one of metal try’d:

He seems to fly, or swim, and not to ride.

Then prancing on the Stage, about he wheels;

But as he went, death waited at his heels.

The next came up, in a more graver sort,

As one that cared for a good report.

His Sword by’s side, and choler in his eyes,

But neither us’d (as yet) for he was wise,

Of Autumn fruits a basket on his arm,

His golden rod in’s purse, which was his charm.

And last of all, to act upon this Stage,

Leaning upon his staff, comes up old age.

Under his arm a Sheaf of wheat he bore,

A Harvest of the best: what needs he more?

In’s other hand a glass, ev’n almost run,

This writ about: This out, then I am done.

His hoary hairs and grave aspect made way,

And all gave ear to what he had to say.

These being met, each in his equipage

Intend to speak, according to their age,

But wise Old-age did with all gravity

To childish childhood give precedency,

And to the rest, his reason mildly told:

That he was young, before he grew so old.

To do as he, the rest full soon assents,

Their method was that of the Elements,

That each should tell what of himself he knew,

Both good and bad, but yet no more then’s true.

With heed now stood, three ages of frail man,

To hear the child, who crying, thus began.

 

 

Childhood

 

Ah me! conceiv’d in sin, and born in sorrow,

A nothing, here to day, but gone to morrow,

Whose mean beginning, blushing can’t reveal,

But night and darkness must with shame conceal.

My mother’s breeding sickness, I will spare,

Her nine months’ weary burden not declare.

To shew her bearing pangs, I should do wrong,

To tell that pain, which can’t be told by tongue.

With tears into this world I did arrive;

My mother still did waste, as I did thrive,

Who yet with love and all alacity,

Spending was willing to be spent for me.

With wayward cries, I did disturb her rest,

Who sought still to appease me with her breast;

With weary arms, she danc’d, and By, By, sung,

When wretched I (ungrate) had done the wrong.

When Infancy was past, my Childishness

Did act all folly that it could express.

My silliness did only take delight,

In that which riper age did scorn and slight,

In Rattles, Bables, and such toyish stuff.

My then ambitious thoughts were low enough.

My high-born soul so straitly was confin’d

That its own worth it did not know nor mind.

This little house of flesh did spacious count,

Through ignorance, all troubles did surmount,

Yet this advantage had mine ignorance,

Freedom from Envy and from Arrogance.

How to be rich, or great, I did not cark,

A Baron or a Duke ne’r made my mark,

Nor studious was, Kings favours how to buy,

With costly presents, or base flattery;

No office coveted, wherein I might

Make strong my self and turn aside weak right.

No malice bare to this or that great Peer,

Nor unto buzzing whisperers gave ear.

I gave no hand, nor vote, for death, of life.

I’d nought to do, ‘twixt Prince, and peoples’ strife.

No Statist I: nor Marti’list i’ th’ field.

Where e’re I went, mine innocence was shield.

My quarrels, not for Diadems, did rise,

But for an Apple, Plumb, or some such prize.

My strokes did cause no death, nor wounds, nor scars.

My little wrath did cease soon as my wars.

My duel was no challenge, nor did seek.

My foe should weltering, with his bowels reek.

I had no Suits at law, neighbours to vex,

Nor evidence for land did me perplex.

I fear’d no storms, nor all the winds that blows.

I had no ships at Sea, no fraughts to loose.

I fear’d no drought, nor wet; I had no crop,

Nor yet on future things did place my hope.

This was mine innocence, but oh the seeds

Lay raked up of all the cursed weeds,

Which sprouted forth in my insuing age,

As he can tell, that next comes on the stage.

But yet me let me relate, before I go,

The sins and dangers I am subject to:

From birth stained, with Adam’s sinful fact,

From thence I ‘gan to sin, as soon as act;

A perverse will, a love to what’s forbid;

A serpent’s sting in pleasing face lay hid;

A lying tongue as soon as it could speak

And fifth Commandment do daily break;

Oft stubborn, peevish, sullen, pout, and cry;

Then nought can please, and yet I know not why.

As many was my sins, so dangers too,

For sin brings sorrow, sickness, death, and woe,

And though I miss the tossings of the mind,

Yet griefs in my frail flesh I still do find.

What gripes of wind, mine infancy did pain?

What tortures I, in breeding teeth sustain?

What crudities my cold stomach hath bred?

Whence vomits, worms, and flux have issued?

What breaches, knocks, and falls I daily have?

And some perhaps, I carry to my grave.

Sometimes in fire, sometimes in water fall:

Strangely preserv’d, yet mind it not at all.

At home, abroad, my danger’s manifold

That wonder ‘tis, my glass till now doth hold.

I’ve done: unto my elders I give way,

For ‘tis but little that a child can say.

 

 

Youth

 

My goodly clothing and beauteous skin

Declare some greater riches are within,

But what is best I‘ll first present to view,

And then the worst, in a more ugly hue,

For thus to do we on this Stage assemble,

Then let not him, which hath most craft dissemble.

Mine education, and my learning‘s such,

As might my self, and others, profit much:

With nurture trained up in virtue‘s Schools;

Of Science, Arts, and Tongues, I know the rules;

The manners of the Court, I likewise know,

Nor ignorant what they in Country do.

The brave attempts of valiant Knights I prize

That dare climb Battlements, rear‘d to the skies.

The snorting Horse, the Trumpet, Drum I like,

The glist‘ring Sword, and well advanced Pike.

I cannot lie in trench before a Town,

Nor wait til good advice our hopes do crown.

I scorn the heavy Corslet, Musket-proof;

I fly to catch the Bullet that‘s aloof.

Though thus in field, at home, to all most kind,

So affable that I do suit each mind,

I can insinuate into the breast

And by my mirth can raise the heart deprest.

Sweet Music rapteth my harmonious Soul,

And elevates my thoughts above the Pole.

My wit, my bounty, and my courtesy

Makes all to place their future hopes on me.

This is my best, but youth (is known) alas,

To be as wild as is the snuffing Ass,

As vain as froth, as vanity can be,

That who would see vain man may look on me:

My gifts abus‘d, my education lost,

My woful Parents‘ longing hopes all crost;

My wit evaporates in merriment;

My valour in some beastly quarrel‘s spent;

Martial deeds I love not, ‘cause they’re virtuous,

But doing so, might seem magnanimous.

My Lust doth hurry me to all that’s ill,

I know no Law, nor reason, but my will;

Sometimes lay wait to take a wealthy purse

Or stab the man in’s own defence, that’s worse.

Sometimes I cheat (unkind) a female Heir

Of all at once, who not so wise, as fair,

Trusteth my loving looks and glozing tongue

Until her friends, treasure, and honour’s gone.

Sometimes I sit carousing others’ health

Until mine own be gone, my wit, and wealth.

From pipe to pot, from pot to words and blows,

For he that loveth Wine wanteth no woes.

Days, nights, with Ruffins, Roarers, Fiddlers spend,

To all obscenity my ears I bend,

All counsel hate which tends to make me wise,

And dearest friends count for mine enemies.

If any care I take, ‘tis to be fine,

For sure my suit more than my virtues shine.

If any time from company I spare,

‘Tis spent in curling, frisling up my hair,

Some young Adonais I do strive to be.

Sardana Pallas now survives in me.

Cards, Dice, and Oaths, concomitant, I love;

To Masques, to Plays, to Taverns still I move;

And in a word, if what I am you’d hear,

Seek out a British, bruitish Cavalier.

Such wretch, such monster am I; but yet more

I want a heart all this for to deplore.

Thus, thus alas! I have mispent my time,

My youth, my best, my strength, my bud, and prime,

Remembring not the dreadful day of Doom,

Nor yet the heavy reckoning for to come,

Though dangers do attend me every hour

And ghastly death oft threats me with her power:

Sometimes by wounds in idle combats taken,

Sometimes by Agues all my body shaken;

Sometimes by Fevers, all my moisture drinking,

My heart lies frying, and my eyes are sinking.

Sometimes the Cough, Stitch, painful Pleurisy,

With sad affrights of death, do menace me.

Sometimes the loathsome Pox my face be-mars

With ugly marks of his eternal scars.

Sometimes the Frenzy strangely mads my Brain

That oft for it in Bedlam I remain.

Too many’s my Diseases to recite,

That wonder ‘tis I yet behold the light,

That yet my bed in darkness is not made,

And I in black oblivion’s den long laid.

Of Marrow full my bones, of Milk my breasts,

Ceas’d by the gripes of Serjeant Death's Arrests:

Thus I have said, and what I’ve said you see,

Childhood and youth is vain, yea vanity.

 

 

Middle Age

 

Childhood and youth forgot, sometimes I’ve seen,

And now am grown more staid that have been green,

What they have done, the same was done by me:

As was their praise, or shame, so mine must be.

Now age is more, more good ye do expect;

But more my age, the more is my defect.

But what’s of worth, your eyes shall first behold,

And then a world of dross among my gold.

When my Wild Oats were sown, and ripe, and mown,

I then receiv’d a harvest of mine own.

My reason, then bad judge, how little hope

Such empty seed should yield a better crop.

I then with both hands graspt the world together,

Thus out of one extreme into another,

But yet laid hold on virtue seemingly:

Who climbs without hold, climbs dangerously.

Be my condition mean, I then take pains

My family to keep, but not for gains.

If rich, I’m urged then to gather more

To bear me out i’ th’ world and feed the poor;

If a father, then for children must provide,

But if none, then for kindred near ally’d;

If Noble, then mine honour to maintain;

If not, yet wealth, Nobility can gain.

For time, for place, likewise for each relation,

I wanted not my ready allegation.

Yet all my powers for self-ends are not spent,

For hundreds bless me for my bounty sent,

Whose loins I’ve cloth’d, and bellies I have fed,

With mine own fleece, and with my household bread.

Yea, justice I have done, was I in place,

To cheer the good and wicked to deface.

The proud I crush’d, th’oppressed I set free,

The liars curb’d but nourisht verity.

Was I a pastor, I my flock did feed

And gently lead the lambs, as they had need.

A Captain I, with skill I train’d my band

And shew’d them how in face of foes to stand.

If a Soldier, with speed I did obey

As readily as could my Leader say.

Was I a laborer, I wrought all day

As cheerfully as ere I took my pay.

Thus hath mine age (in all) sometimes done well;

Sometimes mine age (in all) been worse than hell.

In meanness, greatness, riches, poverty

Did toil, did broil; oppress’d, did steal and lie.

Was I as poor as poverty could be,

Then baseness was companion unto me.

Such scum as Hedges and High-ways do yield,

As neither sow, nor reap, nor plant, nor build.

If to Agriculture I was ordain’d,

Great labours, sorrows, crosses I sustain’d.

The early Cock did summon, but in vain,

My wakeful thoughts up to my painful gain.

For restless day and night, I’m robb’d of sleep

By cankered care, who sentinel doth keep.

My weary breast rest from his toil can find,

But if I rest, the more distrest my mind.

If happiness my sordidness hath found,

‘Twas in the crop of my manured ground:

My fatted Ox, and my exuberous Cow,

My fleeced Ewe, and ever farrowing Sow.

To greater things I never did aspire,

My dunghill thoughts or hopes could reach no higher.

If to be rich, or great, it was my fate.

How was I broil’d with envy, and with hate?

Greater than was the great’st was my desire,

And greater still, did set my heart on fire.

If honour was the point to which I steer’d,

To run my hull upon disgrace I fear’d,

But by ambitious sails I was so carried

That over flats, and sands, and rocks I hurried,

Opprest, and sunk, and sack’d, all in my way

That did oppose me to my longed bay.

My thirst was higher than Nobility

And oft long’d sore to taste on Royalty,

Whence poison, Pistols, and dread instruments

Have been curst furtherers of mine intents.

Nor Brothers, Nephews, Sons, nor Sires I’ve spar’d.

When to a Monarchy my way they barr'’d,

There set, I rid my self straight out of hand

Of such as might my son, or his withstand,

Then heapt up gold and riches as the clay,

Which others scatter like the dew in May.

Sometimes vain-glory is the only bait

Whereby my empty school is lur’d and caught.

Be I of worth, of learning, or of parts,

I judge I should have room in all men’s hearts;

And envy gnaws if any do surmount.

I hate for to be had in small account.

If Bias like, I’m stript unto my skin;

I glory in my wealth I have within.

Thus good, and bad, and what I am, you see,

Now in a word, what my diseases be:

The vexing Stone, in bladder and in reins,

Torments me with intolerable pains;

The windy cholic oft my bowels rend,

To break the darksome prison, where it’s penn’d;

The knotty Gout doth sadly torture me,

And the restraining lame Sciatica;

The Quinsy and the Fevers often distaste me,

And the Consumption to the bones doth waste me,

Subject to all Diseases, that’s the truth,

Though some more incident to age, or youth;

And to conclude, I may not tedious be,

Man at his best estate is vanity.

 

 

Old Age

 

What you have been, ev’n such have I before,

And all you say, say I, and something more.

Babe's innocence, Youth’s wildness I have seen,

And in perplexed Middle-age have been,

Sickness, dangers, and anxieties have past,

And on this Stage am come to act my last.

I have been young, and strong, and wise as you

But now, Bis pueri senes is too true.

In every Age I’ve found much vanity.

An end of all perfection now I see.

It’s not my valour, honour, nor my gold,

My ruin’d house, now falling can uphold;

It’s not my Learning, Rhetoric, wit so large,

Now hath the power, Death’s Warfare, to discharge.

It’s not my goodly house, nor bed of down,

That can refresh, or ease, if Conscience frown;

Nor from alliance now can I have hope,

But what I have done well, that is my prop.

He that in youth is godly, wise, and sage

Provides a staff for to support his age.

Great mutations, some joyful, and some sad,

In this short Pilgrimage I oft have had.

Sometimes the Heavens with plenty smil’d on me,

Sometimes, again, rain’d all adversity;

Sometimes in honour, sometimes in disgrace,

Sometime an abject, then again in place:

Such private changes oft mine eyes have seen.

In various times of state I’ve also been.

I’ve seen a Kingdom flourish like a tree

When it was rul’d by that Celestial she,

And like a Cedar others so surmount

That but for shrubs they did themselves account.

Then saw I France, and Holland sav’d, Calais won,

And Philip and Albertus half undone.

I saw all peace at home, terror to foes,

But ah, I saw at last those eyes to close,

And then, me thought, the world at noon grew dark

When it had lost that radiant Sun-like spark.

In midst of griefs, I saw some hopes revive

(For ‘twas our hopes then kept our hearts alive);

I saw hopes dash’t, our forwardness was shent,

And silenc’d we, by Act of Parliament.

I’ve seen from Rome, an execrable thing,

A plot to blow up Nobles and their King.

I’ve seen designs at Ree and Cades cross’t,

And poor Palatinate for every lost.

I’ve seen a Prince to live on others’ lands,

A Royal one, by alms from Subjects’ hands.

I’ve seen base men, advanc’d to great degree,

And worthy ones, put to extremity,

But not their Prince’s love, nor state so high,

Could once reverse, their shameful destiny.

I’ve seen one stabb’d, another lose his head,

And others fly their Country through their dread.

I’ve seen, and so have ye, for ‘tis but late,

The desolation of a goodly State.

Plotted and acted so that none can tell

Who gave the counsell, but the Prince of hell.

I’ve seen a land unmoulded with great pain,

But yet may live to see’t made up again.

I’ve seen it shaken, rent, and soak’d in blood,

But out of troubles ye may see much good.

These are no old wives’ tales, but this is truth.

We old men love to tell, what’s done in youth.

But I return from whence I stept awry;

My memory is short and brain is dry.

My Almond-tree (gray hairs) doth flourish now,

And back, once straight, begins apace to bow.

My grinders now are few, my sight doth fail,

My skin is wrinkled, and my cheeks are pale.

No more rejoice, at music’s pleasant noise,

But do awake at the cock’s clanging voice.

I cannot scent savours of pleasant meat,

Nor sapors find in what I drink or eat.

My hands and arms, once strong, have lost their might.

I cannot labour, nor I cannot fight:

My comely legs, as nimble as the Roe,

Now stiff and numb, can hardly creep or go.

My heart sometimes as fierce, as Lion bold,

Now trembling, and fearful, sad, and cold.

My golden Bowl and silver Cord, e’re long,

Shall both be broke, by wracking death so strong.

I then shall go whence I shall come no more.

Sons, Nephews, leave, my death for to deplore.

In pleasures, and in labours, I have found

That earth can give no consolation sound

To great, to rich, to poor, to young, or old,

To mean, to noble, fearful, or to bold.

From King to beggar, all degrees shall find

But vanity, vexation of the mind.

Yea, knowing much, the pleasant’st life of all

Hath yet amongst that sweet, some bitter gall.

Though reading others’ Works doth much refresh,

Yet studying much brings weariness to th’ flesh.

My studies, labours, readings all are done,

And my last period can e’en elmost run.

Corruption, my Father, I do call,

Mother, and sisters both; the worms that crawl

In my dark house, such kindred I have store.

There I shall rest till heavens shall be no more;

And when this flesh shall rot and be consum’d,

This body, by this soul, shall be assum’d;

And I shall see with these same very eyes

My strong Redeemer coming in the skies.

Triumph I shall, o’re Sin, o’re Death, o’re Hell,

And in that hope, I bid you all farewell.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poems by Anne Bradstreet

 

To My Dear and Loving Husband

If ever two were one, then surely we.

If ever man were loved by wife, then thee.

If ever wife was happy in a man,

Compare with me, ye women, if you can.

I prizeprize Value thy love more than whole mines of gold,

Or all the riches that the Eastthe East East Indies, southeast Asia, including India; the English East India Company began in 1600. doth hold.

My love is such that rivers cannot quench,My ... rivers cannot quench Compare the Song of Solomon: “Muche water can not quenche love, nether can the floods drowne it." (Geneva Bible) Also, quench could mean to satisfy.

Nor oughtought Anything but love from thee give recompenserecompense Return payment; reward.

Thy love is such I can no way repay;

The heavens reward thee manifoldmanifold In abundance, I pray.

Then while we live, in love let’s so perseverpersever Both to continue steadfastly, and in the Theological sense to remain in a state of grace. An earlier spelling of the word “persevere.”,

That when we live no more, we may live ever.

- Anne Bradstreet, c. 1612-1672






Title page, second (posthumous) edition
of Bradstreet's poems, 1678

A Letter to Her Husband

My head, my heart, mine eyes, my life, nay more,
My joy, my magazine, of earthly store,
If two be one, as surely thou and I,
How stayest thou there, whilst I at Ipswich lie?
So many steps, head from the heart to sever,
If but a neck, soon should we be together.
I, like the Earth this season, mourn in black,
My Sun is gone so far in's zodiac,
Whom whilst I 'joyed, nor storms, nor frost I felt,
His warmth such fridged colds did cause to melt.
My chilled limbs now numbed lie forlorn;
Return; return, sweet Sol, from Capricorn;
In this dead time, alas, what can I more
Than view those fruits which through thy heart I bore?
Which sweet contentment yield me for a space,
True living pictures of their father's face.
O strange effect! now thou art southward gone,
I weary grow the tedious day so long;
But when thou northward to me shalt return,
I wish my Sun may never set, but burn
Within the Cancer of my glowing breast,
The welcome house of him my dearest guest.
Where ever, ever stay, and go not thence,
Till nature's sad decree shall call thee hence;
Flesh of thy flesh, bone of thy bone,
I here, thou there, yet both but one.

- Anne Bradstreet, c. 1612-1672

 

 

 

 

By Night when Others Soundly Slept

By night when others soundly slept
And hath at once both ease and Rest,
My waking eyes were open kept
And so to lie I found it best.

I sought him whom my Soul did Love,
With tears I sought him earnestly.
He bow'd his ear down from Above.
In vain I did not seek or cry.

My hungry Soul he fill'd with Good;
He in his Bottle put my tears,
My smarting wounds washt in his blood,
And banisht thence my Doubts and fears.

What to my Saviour shall I give
Who freely hath done this for me?
I'll serve him here whilst I shall live
And Loue him to Eternity.

- Anne Bradstreet, c. 1612-1672




Biography - http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/anne-bradstreet

Wikipedia - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_Bradstreet





 

Review: "An Exaltation of Larks," by James Lipton

1993 Edition

50 Collective Nouns to Bolster Your Vocabulary

http://mentalfloss.com/article/33580/50-collective-nouns-bolster-your-vocabulary

 

Lucas Reilly

January 18, 2013

Collective nouns may seem like quirky ways to describe groups, but 500 years ago, they were your ticket to the in-crowd. Most collective nouns, or “terms of venery,” were coined during the 15th century. Many were codified in books of courtesy, like the 1486 classic Book of St. Albans. St. Albans was a handbook for medieval gentlemen, and it contained essays on hawking, hunting, and heraldry. Appended to the hunting chapter sits a list of 164 collective nouns, titled “The Compaynys of Beestys and Fowlys.” (Contrary to the title, many terms actually describe people—a biting example of ye olde satire.)

 

As silly as some sound today, the phrases were formal and proper descriptions. St. Albans was, after all, a vocabulary-booster, a primer designed to help gentlemen-in-training avoid the embarrassment of “some blunder at the table.” Over the next century, the book’s popularity bloomed. Similar courtesy handbooks caught on, and by the end of the 16th century, a slew of collective nouns had entered the lexicon.

 

Some have achieved widespread currency and acceptance, like a “flight of stairs,” “a board of trustees,” and a “school of fish.” Others, like a “murder of crows,” barely cling on. However, a handful of obscure phrases have made a comeback, thanks to James Lipton’s wonderful compendium of collective nouns, An Exaltation of Larks. Here are a few from Lipton’s book that you should add to your repertoire.

 

1. Business of Ferrets

2. Labor of Moles

3. Mustering of Storks

4. Shrewdness of Apes

5. Gam of Whales

6. Smack of Jellyfish

7. Host of Angels

8. Fusillade of Bullets

9. Baptism of Fire

10. Quiver of Arrows

11. Tissue of lies

12. Murder of Crows

13. Unkindness of Ravens

14. Dule of Doves

15. Clowder, Cluster, or Clutter of Cats

16. Kindle of Kittens

17. Mute of Hounds

18. Pass of Asses

19. Ostentation of Peacocks

20. Team of Ducks (when flying)

21. Paddling of Ducks (when on water)

22. Trip of Goats

23. Sloth, or Sleuth, of Bears

24. Charm of Finches

25. Hill of Beans

26. String of Ponies

27. Hand of Bananas

28. College of Cardinals

29. Shock of Corn

30. Band of Men

31. Knot of Toads

32. Wedge of Swans (when flying)

33. Parliament of Owls

34. Superfluity of Nuns

35. Abominable Sight of Monks

36. Untruth of Summoners

37. Doctrine of Doctors

38. Damning of Jurors

39. Sentence of Judges

40. Rascal of Boys

41. Gaggle of Women

42. Gaggle of Gossips

43. Impatience of Wives

44. Tabernacle of Bakers

45. Poverty of Pipers

46. Fighting of Beggars

47. Neverthriving of Jugglers

48. Herd of Harlots

49. Worship of Writers

50. Hastiness of Cooks

 

According to Lipton, the terms above “are authentic and authoritative. They were used, they were correct, and they are useful, correct—and available—today.”

 

 

1991 Edition

Synopses & Reviews

http://www.powells.com/biblio/2-9780140170962-1

Publisher Comments:

An "exaltation of larks"? Yes! And a "leap of leopards," a "parliament of owls," an "ostentation of peacocks," a "smack of jellyfish," and a "murder of crows"! For those who have ever wondered if the familiar "pride of lions" and "gaggle of geese" were only the tip of a linguistic iceberg, James Lipton has provided the definitive answer: here are hundreds of equally pithy, and often poetic, terms unearthed by Mr. Lipton in the Books of Venery that were the constant study of anyone who aspired to the title of gentleman in the fifteenth century. When Mr. Lipton's painstaking research revealed that five hundred years ago the terms of venery had already been turned into the Game of Venery, he embarked on an odyssey that has given us a "slouch of models," a "shrivel of critics," an "unction of undertakers," a "blur of Impressionists," a "score of bachelors," and a "pocket of quarterbacks."

 

This ultimate edition of An Exaltation of Larks is Mr. Lipton's brilliant answer to the assault on language and literacy in the last decades of the twentieth century. In it you will find more than 1,100 resurrected or newly minted contributions to that most endangered of all species, our language, in a setting of 250 witty, beautiful, and remarkably apt engravings.

 

About the Author

 

James Lipton is the creator, executive producer, writer, and host of Inside the Actors Studio, which is seen in eighty-nine million homes in America on the Bravo network, and in 125 countries, and has received fourteen Emmy nominations. He is the author of the novel Mirrors, which he then adapted and produced for the screen, and of the American literary perennial An Exaltation of Larks, and has written the book and lyrics of two Broadway musicals. His television productions include Jimmy Carter’s Inaugural Gala, the first presidential concert ever televised; twelve Bob Hope birthday specials, reaching record-breaking audiences; and The Road to China, the first American entertainment program from the People’s Republic. He is a vice president of the Actors Studio, is the founder and dean emeritus of the Actors Studio Drama School at Pace University, has received three honorary PhDs, is a recipient of France’s Chevalier de l’Ordre des Arts et des Lettres, and has been awarded the Lifetime Achievement Emmy by the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences.

 

 

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Amazon.com - Most Helpful Customer Reviews

 

5.0 out of 5 stars

A Delight of Words

April 4, 2001

By F. Hamilton

Format:Paperback

 

Here's a real gem! AN EXALTATION OF LARKS (Ultimate Edition) is the culmination of more than two decades of Lipton's research of "nouns of multitude," which he prefers to call "terms of venery." (noun archaic usage - the practice or sport of hunting; the chase; more commonly the gratification of (sexual) desire.)

 

Many of these terms are commonplace: plague of locusts, pride of lions, litter of pups. Imagine, though, hearing these expressions for the first time. Lipton invites us to "sharpen our senses by restoring the magic to the mundane."

 

Lipton traced a number of these terms back to the 1400s, specifically to THE BOOK OF ST. ALBANS, printed in 1486. In addition to today's ordinary terms, he discovered some that had a fresh sound, precisely because they had not made the 500-year journey to our modern era.

 

Lipton identifies six sources of inspiration for the terms. He lists these "Families" with the following examples:

 

1. Onomatopoeia ("a formation of a word by imitation"): a murmuration of starlings, a gaggle of geese.

 

2. Characteristic (by far the largest Family): a leap of leopards, a skulk of foxes.

 

3. Appearance: a knot of toads, a parliament of owls.

 

4. Habitat: a shoal of bass, a nest of rabbits.

 

5. Comment (pro or con depending on viewpoint): a richness of martens, a cowardice of curs.

 

6. Error (in transcription or printing; sometimes preserved for centuries): "school" of fish was originally intended to be "shoal."

 

Lipton enthusiastically joined the "game" of coining terms, which had been in progress for more than 500 years. In 1968 he published his first EXALTATION OF LARKS, which contained 175 terms -- some from Middle English, some original. Neither the hardbound nor the paperback edition went out of print before the Ultimate Edition (with more than 1,000 terms) was published in 1991. As Lipton puts it, textbooks and various media "used the book like sourdough to leaven new batches of terms."

 

Lipton believes that a pun or a play on words detracts from the vigor of a term. Alliteration, likewise, is unnecessary. Rather the success of the term hinges on identifying the "quintessential part" of the group of people or things and allowing it to represent the whole: a blur of impressionists, a brood of hens, a quiver of arrows. (Lipton's research on this last item revealed that as early as 1300 a poetic soul rejected the available words "case" and "scabbard" and turned "quiver" into a noun.)

 

AN EXALTATION OF LARKS includes a few pages detailing Lipton's lexical odysseys and triumphs. Most of the book comprises the lists themselves. The origin of some of the terms is explained, and more than 250 of the terms are illustrated with witty engravings by Grandville, a 19th Century French lithographer. More than half the book lists terms in 25 categories, such as professions (an aroma of bakers), daily life (a belch of smokestacks), and academe (a discord of experts).

 

Lipton includes several versions of games in which players coin new terms. His index lists his 1,000+ terms with a blank replacing the first item, which is the source of a term's poetry. The reader is thus encouraged to discern the essence of the thing collected. The page number facilitates the comparison of newly coined terms with existing ones.

 

AN EXALTATION OF LARKS is indeed "a word lover's garden of delights."

 

 

 

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Images of Engravings by Grandville

Go here for many more images

 

~ click any image below to enlarge ~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Repost: Should You be a Writer or an Editor?

Should you be a writer or an editor?

Part I: The writers.

http://www.theopennotebook.com/2013/01/15/should-you-be-a-writer-or-an-editor-part-i-the-writers/

 

Posted by Christie Aschwanden on January 15th, 2013

 

Are you an editor or a writer? How do you know? What are the crucial differences between the two specializations? The question arose when Slate science editor Laura Helmuth was visiting a class that Ann Finkbeiner teaches at the graduate program in science writing at Johns Hopkins University. Ann, hoping to help her students figure out whether they were natively editors or natively writers, asked Laura about the difference between writers and editors.

 

Laura punted.

 

Ann didn’t know, either.

 

After the class was over, Ann and Laura gave the question some more thought and then enlisted other writers and editors to help them answer it. We’ll run their answers in two separate posts today and tomorrow. Today, the writers.

 

Freelance writer Ann Finkbeiner:

 

I’m almost purely a writer. When I first started writing, my superb editors—people like Warren Kornberg and Tim Appenzeller—astounded me because they could say things like, “take the last sentence of every paragraph and make it the first sentence,” or because they could see the structure of a story that in my head was just a bunch of buzzing flies. “Wow,” I thought, “such seriously smart people.”

 

I still think they’re seriously smart, but I also think that’s what editors do: They stand back and analyze. I was busy trying to understand the science in the first place, then get it right, then write it so that readers could see how beautiful it was, then rewrite it 6,000 times for clarity, accuracy, concision, and elegance. An editor looks at the thing as a whole, analyzes its structure, and moves the boxes and connectors around until the story is logical, seemly, and stable.

 

So then what do writers do? They walk around with their recorders permanently set to “on,” listening for scientists using words oddly, for scientists saying they’ve just heard the strangest things, for scientists talking excitedly to other scientists about something the writer has never heard of and doesn’t understand anyway. They ask around and search the Internet to see whether this odd, strange, exciting thing might be a story, whether it makes that “click” that stories make. They go through the odds-against struggle of convincing an editor to feel the same click. If they don’t succeed, they try another editor. If they do succeed, they begin the joyous process of talking to scientists and understanding 100 times more about this story than they need to know. And then they try to structure it and almost can; and then they start to write it and they absolutely cannot, but they do it anyway.

 

My best example of the difference between writers and editors is when a writer-friend and I were having identical problems with our editors. We just had some neato little anecdotes (skinny physicist crawls around on Mexican border at midnight) and neato sentences (“Rumor had it she was a whore from Pahrump”) and neato people with neato quotes (“Pardon the expression, but I point the fucking telescope at the sky and see what’s out there”). And the editors were insisting on meaningful context (why were they trying to ban atmospheric tests?) and big thoughts and implications (does the nation need science advisors?) and beginnings, middles, and ends.

 

We all won, of course. Without the Mexican border and whore from Pahrump, the story has no flavor or color or sound, and the reader no point of personal contact. Without the context, implications, and structure, no one would even know it was a story.

 

Independent writer and editor Deborah Franklin:

 

Probably everyone skews at least a little bit more one direction than the other. I consider myself a writer who also edits.

 

A Writer:

 

* Paints with words. Walks through life making connections between disparate things, noticing splashes of color, snatches of conversation. Remembers what was said and what people look like. Has a vision. Sees a blank page as fun, as permission, as a place to let go and just try things. Is willing to imagine. Not afraid of working alone, struggling alone with a problem for long stretches at a time. In fact, enjoys it.

 

* Loves language and writes things that people love to read.

 

* Would rather watch a movie than act in one. At a party, would rather sit on the stairs and watch and listen to people than be the one in the middle of the room holding forth.

 

* Is curious. Asks good questions. Is not afraid to ask obvious or embarrassing questions. Is a good listener, and a quick study who thinks well on his/her feet. Has enough spidey-sense to recognize a good quote or idea or scene and knows to record them in some way. Is a voracious reader.

 

* Has internalized the ethics of journalism: Accuracy, fairness, no plagiarism. When it’s you and the source in an interview, you’re on your own; if you haven’t internalized those rules you will someday fail in a big way.

 

* Doesn’t mind long, unpredictable work hours. Knows how to make deadlines and will stick with a task until it’s done, until the story has a beginning and a middle and an end. When you’re an editor, you can stop and walk away when the time runs out. When you’re a writer, the task’s not over until you have a complete story on the page. Must be able to live with, and maybe even thrive under pressure and insecurity.

 

* Can live on a shoestring, at least at first, and/or periodically throughout your career. These days, staff writing/reporting jobs are few and far between. Freelance writers who make a substantial income have an excellent combination of talent, luck, experience, flexibility, and the ability to identify side jobs to make it work. It’s very hard these days to raise a family on one writer’s income.

 

Slate columnist and former science editor Daniel Engber:

 

I don’t think this is a binary variable, that you’re either a writer or an editor. It’s a spectrum, perhaps like being gay or straight, and (for those who care to do so) there’s room to maneuver in between the ironclad identities. I would probably call myself a writer who edits, or a writer who can edit, or a writer who has edited. Likewise, there are lots of amazing editors who write, or editors who can write, or editors who have written. And there are lots of jobs that are well-suited to intermediate types, or types who scoot around the spectrum from one year to the next. (Slate happens to be an excellent place for people who hover near the middle.)

 

So how do you know which activity you prefer? You have to try out both and see how they each inspire and annoy you. If you need a hint, there are some broad personality traits that might align with your placement on the spectrum. Editing jobs are both collaborative and hierarchical, and so invite a certain adherence to a higher goal and respect for external authority. Writing jobs tend to be more conducive to an individualistic mindset, and one that bristles at group directives.

 

New Scientist correspondent Bob Holmes:

 

Like many people who’ve been around for a while, I’ve spent time at both ends of the editorial hatchet. In the end, though, I’m a writer at heart. When I analyze why, I come up with three main reasons:

 

1) I prefer depth over breadth. (If I really meant that, of course, I’d still be doing science instead of writing about it. But given that all journalists are dilettantes, I prefer deeper rather than broader dilettantism.) I’m always impressed by how much editors know about so many different subjects, because they range widely over the stories written by many different writers. When I was a features editor for New Scientist a decade ago, I liked that sense of seeing the whole landscape. But the downside is that when you do this you rarely get to explore the finer topography of any particular topic.

 

Now that I’m a writer again, I particularly enjoy the feeling of knowing that I’ve spoken with every important source on a story and have all the information I need to understand the subject. (I don’t get to that point with every story, of course, but it happens often enough to keep me going.) That’s a satisfaction that editors rarely get—instead, they generally have to trust their writers on the legwork.

 

2) I prefer doing over helping. Editing has its own highs, such as the joy of sitting down in the morning with 4,000 words of meandering, flabby prose and getting up at the end of the day with a tight 2,400-word story without having cut anything of substance. But even then, the writer gets credit for scoring the goal; the editor only gets an assist.

 

I’d rather be the main mover on fewer stories each year instead of a helper on many. Looking back over the years, my most memorable stories are all ones that I’ve written, not ones I edited.

 

3) I prefer a freelance lifestyle over a steady job. Of course, writers can have steady jobs too, and editors can freelance. But for the most part, editing work seems more constant, more institutional. Every week has its quota of words to be tuned up and stories to be commissioned. Usually, editors work in an office, with colleagues, schedules, regular paychecks, and a clear career ladder to climb. That has many advantages, and for many people it’s exactly what they want.

 

But I’m happier with the greater flexibility of a writer’s life. When a deadline is looming, I work harder and longer than I ever did as an editor. On the other hand, I can also walk my dog in the middle of the day or knock off early to go skiing. I can make bread or start a pot of soup during breaks between interviews. And I’m here when my son gets home from school. All this unpredictability would no doubt drive some people nuts—but for me, it’s one of the big attractions of the job.

 

*Image by Shutterstock.

 

 

Are you an editor or a writer?

Part II: The editors.

http://www.theopennotebook.com/2013/01/16/are-you-an-editor-or-a-writer-part-ii-the-editors/

 

Posted by Christie Aschwanden on January 16th, 2013

 

 

Writers and editors work together all the time, but the two clans are somewhat mysterious to one another. Mutually suspicious, even. How do you know which career path you should specialize in? And how do editors become editors, anyway? Ann Finkbeiner and Laura Helmuth asked several journalists to describe the differences between writers and editors. In an earlier post, writers explained what it is they do. Today, the editors weigh in.

Scientific American online news editor Robin Lloyd:

I didn’t choose editing over writing so much as it chose me (same goes for journalism and science writing). As a reporter, a few of my superiors mentioned over the years that they saw me on an editing track, so I just kept saying “yes” when I got offers to do fill-in editing. Then I got an offer to be a writer/editor, and I said yes. Then I got an offer to be an editor, and I said yes. And so on. Over time, I have gained confidence in my ability as a short-form editor, though I still have much to learn, especially with long-form editing. I have an ear for prose that “sounds right.” I find that not everyone has that. One of my editors once told me I have good syntax. So I looked up “syntax” and thought, “Yeah, I do have good syntax.” I also did well in grammar class in 10th grade.

More seriously, my motivation as an editor is clear, compelling communication for the reader. Delivering that is my first job. Readers are looking at every word for an excuse to bail out—to stop reading a story. My job is to prevent that and to keep them reading this story by focusing on clarity, pacing, logic, arc, and sparkling prose (rewards). Also, I enjoy teaching and helping people.

I like reporting and writing on deadline, and I did it quite a bit for more than a decade, but I find editing on deadline a bit more relaxing and rewarding. It’s about the right size for my ego and skill set for now. Based on my experience, of course, I think that one becomes a better editor after a good chunk of foundational years as a writer.

I’ve seen many edits by many people who are paid as editors. A handful of them are great editors. I quietly learn from them.

Independent writer and editor Deborah Franklin:

Not every writer can edit, nor every editor write, but it sure does improve both sets of skills if you find yourself fortunate enough to spend at least a little time wearing each hat. I started out as a writer (for magazines and newspapers) and never sought to be an editor (for magazines and radio)—in fact fought it for many years—but the time I’ve spent editing has definitely improved my writing and my life!

An editor:

* Is good at puzzles, at seeing the flecks of green in several scattered puzzle pieces and understanding that they fit together to form the green hillside at the top of the story/painting, not the puddle of green algae at the bottom. Is thoughtful and analytical; good at spotting holes in arguments and seeing through well-written hand-waving. A voracious reader.

* Is more of a team player than a loner. Sociable. Likes dealing with different types of people (e.g. the infographics expert and the physics writer and the psych reporter).

* Is verbally articulate on the phone as well as in person. Can write a good, conversational email that makes the writer feel understood, appreciated, liked, and motivated to make the story better.

* Is part therapist; knows how to talk friends (or writers) through tough spots, and doesn’t hold their insecurity against them.

* Has good parenting skills. Knows to first point out some specific things you like about the writing and the story before being negative about things that don’t work. Not a pushover; knows the value of discipline, and knows how to deploy it.

* Knows that only one part of the job is working with the writer. Doesn’t mind being interrupted; is organized, can multi-task gracefully, and is able to quickly switch gears during a tough day.

* Finds meetings tolerable, maybe even fun.

* Can manage up as well as down in an organization. Understands how to represent the reader in fiercely defending the story, whether to the writer, the top-editor, the fact-checker, the copy-editor, the art director, the photographer, the illustrator, the social media czar, the publisher, or the advertising director. Is honest and kind and empathetic. Not a stick-your-finger-in-the-air-to-see-which-way-the-wind’s blowing kind of manager who just tells people what they want to hear. Rather, a calmly firm and compassionate listener/leader who has a strong enough ego to make and defend a good argument, but not an ego so big that it sucks all the air out of the room.

* Prefers/needs to work hours that are more easily contained. Editors often work long hours, too, but it is easier to walk away from the job at the end of the day as an editor than as a writer.

* Does not mind that the writer often gets the credit for a collaborative effort. Is able to take a parent’s pride in a successful, beautiful, groundbreaking piece.

Slate science editor Laura Helmuth:

My editing muse is Charlie Watts, the drummer for the Rolling Stones. For 50 years, he’s been the least famous or recognizable member of the band. In videos, you glimpse him only briefly as the camera pans across the stage to focus on Mick Jagger as he struts or Keith Richards as he snarls. Charlie sits behind his drums with a slight smile, nodding his head as he watches the real rock stars entertain the crowd. Charlie doesn’t wear spandex or eyeliner or weave beads into his hair, which is gray. He never had a drug problem or stole his bandmates’ girlfriends. He is easily the most boring musician of his generation—steady, calm, and resolutely not in the spotlight.

Editing requires most of the same skills writing does, but it also demands, if you’re going to be a good editor, a huge dose of humility. You will never and should never get the credit for a great story. Editors who seek recognition for their work are mostly bad editors—the Phil Collinses of the editing world, people who may be fine as solo artists but should really never work collaboratively. Other editors think they can write better than anyone else—and maybe they can, but then why are they working as editors? Those are the Keith Moons of the editing world. They will drown out their writers’ words and then vomit all over the stage.

An editor’s job is to make writers sound better, sound more like themselves. You cannot be proud and be an effective editor. The best writers don’t need much from you, and the worst ones may not appreciate how much you’ve helped them. If you edit well, your work will be invisible to a reader and as unnoticeable as possible to the writer. If you suggest a metaphor or joke or perfect transition that your writer uses, you should be satisfied even though no one will ever know it was yours (even writers forget where things came from, as they should, those clever magpies).

You cannot be jealous. If you are sitting in an office all day and you send someone to India to write a story about tigers and he emails one morning to say that he finally saw a tiger, an email full of exclamation points, you must be genuinely and purely delighted for him, to the point that you have a stupid smile on your face for the rest of the day. Imagine this: You have a great idea for a story and suggest it to a writer who then writes a terrific story, better than what you could have written. If you can imagine this being the most satisfying part of your job, you should be an editor.

Editing is like match-making. Perhaps the most important part of your job is knowing your audience. What writers would your readers fall in love with? Which stories should they sit next to at a dinner party? What fields of science would surprise and amuse them? You have to think about what your readers know they want and satisfy those desires, but you also have to keep introducing them to unexpected treats. And you’re constantly trying to attract new readers.

You have to think long-term. Every story you edit should be a pleasure to read, but the mix of stories you publish in a given day or month or year should build its own form of pleasure. You have to follow a lot of fields at a shallow level and know when they’re ripe for coverage, which may be years from now. You have to say no to a pitch in a way that makes writers want to keep pitching you when they find that perfect story in the future. You speak to journalism classes in the hope that one of the students will come to you someday with a scoop.

Editing isn’t as creative as writing, and it lacks the thrill of pursuit of reporting; it’s more business than art sometimes. You have to think about budgets and how your publication is funded and who the competition is (and how to smash them). You have to be conversant in marketing-ese and sit in on a lot of meetings. You’re basically a project manager, working with the art department, copy desk, publication staff, and technical development department on individual stories and long-term strategies.

There are actually a lot of good reasons not to be an editor, now that I think about it. But the best thing about being an editor is getting to work with writers. When they’re performing, you have the best seat in the house.

*Image by Shutterstock.