Radio Script #1004

Little Talks #1004
March 10, 1974

The occurrence of our 1000th broadcast on February 10 caused digging out of the files the program’s first broadcast on November 14, 1948. That first broadcast contained an item that I had quite forgotten I put on the air at that time. Now, more than 25 years later, let me repeat just what I said about that one item in 1948. Here are the exact words.

“How common, yet how mysterious is the mystery of birth. A future king of England was born today, amid age-old ceremony in Buckingham Palace. What sort of England will he rule? Is the old England dying, the old empire fading away? The little prince in Buckingham Palace, now only a few hours old, may symbolize for Old England what Tennyson wrote at the end of his Idylls of the King. The Round Table of the glorious knights had fallen apart; King Arthur was dead; the sword Excalibur had sunk into the sea. As old Sir Belvidere watched the flaming sword drop beneath the waves, “the sun rose, bringing the New Year.” The poet said not a new day, but a new year. For the little prince, may some day “the sun rise bringing England another new era.”

A quarter of a century has elapsed since that broadcast. England’s Prince Charles, now a young man of 25, was born on the very day this program started, November 14, 1948. And just note what has happened to England in those 25 years.

When Charles was born, the sun never set on the British Empire. For all 24 hours of the day there was some spot under the shining sun, somewhere in the world, that belonged to England. Prince Charles’s grandfather was Emperor of India and of the Dominions beyond the seas. Canada and Australia were already self-governing dominions, but with royally appointed governor generals. The same was true of South Africa and of a few other colonies.

What a difference today! The British flag has been lowered in India, in Jamaica and the Bahamas, in Singapore, and in numerous African colonies. Save for Bermuda, Hong Kong, and a few other island spots, the Empire is gone. Britain has even lost Ireland, and nearly all that remains is the one small island that contains England, Scotland and Wales. In world influence Britain is already reduced to a second class power, going perhaps as once went Ancient Rome. But we must remember, that facing many crises, England has had the commendable habit of somehow muddling through. In prosperity and in adversity, British people do not forget the words that Shakespeare put into the mouth of the King in his play, Richard II.

“This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle,
This earth of majesty, this seat of Wars,
This other Eden, demi-paradise,
This fortress built by nature for herself,
Against injection and the hand of war,
This happy breed of men, this little world,
This precious stone set in the silver sea,
Which serves it in the office of a wall,
Or as a moat defensive to a house,
Against the envy of less happier lands,
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.”

Yes, those lines proudly remind the people of England that since the coming of William the Conqueror in 1066 – 908 years ago, no invading army has ever stepped on the soil of Old England.

Another item in that first broadcast concerned a new literary discovery that has continued to interest me through the years. My interest has been sustained because a close friend of mine had for the next quarter of a century a leading part in the consequences of that discovery. The friend is Dr. Frederick Pottle, now Professor Emeritus of English at Yale. Fred and I were born only a few miles apart in Maine’s western region, he in Otisfield and I in Bridgton. My wife and I were close to Fred, his brothers and sisters, and especially to his remarkably talented mother, who, though a widow in moderate circumstances, managed to see three sons and two daughters through college.

Under the renowned Professor Tinker at Yale, Fred Pottle became interested in the career and writings of James Boswell, the biographer of Samuel Johnson. Hence, a significant Boswell discovery in 1948 came just at the right time to start Fred Pottle on a brillant career.

Now let us see what I put on the air in November 1948. Here are the words.

“In the 18th century, James Boswell wrote what is considered the greatest biography in the English language, his Life of Samuel Johnson, the leading literary figure of mid-eighteenth century England. After Boswell’s death, his precious notes and journals became scattered, neglected and largely forgotten. For more than a hundred years no one knew whether they still existed or had been destroyed.

But in recent years, Col. Ralph Isham, a young officer in the First World War, spent time and money collecting every scrap of paper connected with Boswell. A few weeks ago his search was strikingly rewarded. In a battered old croquet box in a Scottish castle were found the Boswell journals. They have now been brought to Yale, where they will be minutely examined and published, with needed explanatory notes, by Colby graduate Frederick Pottle.”

That was what I said in 1943. In the 25 years that have followed the scholarly devotion of Fred Pottle has given to the literary world not only the text of the journals, telling with great candor what Boswell thought and wrote and did, but has produced from Pottle’s pen the definitive biography of Boswell, itself a work that bears commendatory comparison with Boswell’s own Life of Johnson.

I recall visiting Fred at Yale early in his work on the journals. When he showed me photocopies of those almost illegible manuscripts I got a glimpse of the tremendous task of decoding thousands of almost unreadable pages, but with the competent assistance of his wife Marion, herself also a Colby graduate, he saw through to the end that prodigious, almost excruciating task.

I am also pleased to note a third item that I put into that first broadcast. Here it is.

“A common thing is hero-worship. Many of us have felt the stirring influence of some person we have come to idolize. Yet how rare it is that any of us has known intimately a person who could truly be called great. Yet many people in Waterville have known one such person, for Rufus Jones was a truly great man. His last book, published only a few months before he died, was entitled “A Call That is Vital”. It was a book written for informed persons with a scientific outlook, who had ceased going to church. Dr. Jones told them they need not reject scientific truth in order to keep religious faith. He expressed a lot of sympathy for people who said, “I’d rather see where I’m going than remember where I’ve been.” Dr. Jones went on to interpret in every day language the dynamic spirited force that activated his own wonderful life, a clarification of what Quakers call the inner light. This great Quaker philosopher and founder of the Friends’ world-wide relief organization, a Maine native, was indeed a great man.”

Several times on this program I have talked about Maine place names, especially about the origin of the names of many Maine towns. Today I want to talk about some of the local names that became attached to other places than towns, places like mountains, hills, brooks, ridges, landings, coves, and islands. Some of those names were meant to be descriptive, suggested by what the place looked like, such as Bald Mountain, Groundnut Hill, Ox Bow, Slidedown Mountain, Waterspout Hill, Horserace Brook, Sweet Chopping Ridge, and Screw Auger Falls. Sometimes the name suggests activity or use, as Bear Trap Landing, Big Hen Island, Brimstone Hill, Grindstone, Gun Point, Hog Cove, Sawpit Bank, Slab City, Must Landing, and Pump Box Brook.

Often the name is decidedly uncomplimentary. Consider Bad Mountain, Coffin Brook, Deadman’s Corner, Fool Brook, Ghost Landing, Knownothing Cove, Misery Mistake Harbor, Poverty Pond, Purgatory, Surplus Mountain, Thief Island, and Stinking Brook. Several places are named for beverages: Cider Hill, Gin Cove, Rum Pond, Brandy Pond, Toddy Road, and Whiskey Island. Topping them off is Drunkard’s Ledge. Innumerable places are named for people. Some of those more unusual names are Andy Mountain, Dolly Gordon Brook, Ick Norton Hill, Jenny’s Nubble, Jack Munjam Stream, Joe Pokum Bog, Jo-Mary Brook, Sally Prude Ledge, and Aunt Hannah Brook.

At a loss for a name, the people resorted to such titles as No Name Brook, Anonymous Pond, and Unknown Steam. Maine actually has a place called Bingo. It is in the town of Waite. Especially unusual names are Hatcase Pond, Fiddler’s Ledge, and Night Cap Island. Names that defy explanation are Bonny Eagle, Ishpuddle Pond, Pickle Hill, Skedaddle Ave., and Tiptoe Mountain.

Of all the odd Maine place names my favorite are the names of two roads, Bellsqueeze Road in Clinton, and Cat-Mousam Road in Kennebunk.

Unusual as are some of the place names in Maine, they are matched by others allover the country. Here are a few that have intrigued me: Accident, Mich.; Auto, W. Va.; Biscuit, Ky.; Crook, Colo. ;Cuckoo, Va.; Dam Neck, N.C.; Difficulty, Wyo.; Ho Ho Kus, N. J.; Knockemstiff, Ohio; O.K., Ky.; Peapatch, Va.; Pie, W. Va.; Rat, Mo.; Truth and Consequences, N.M., and Yellville, Ark.

Several states have a place called Nixon, and, believe it or not, there is an Agnew, Neb., and a Spiro, Okla.

It is some time since I have mentioned old riddles. So, as we close, let us have a few.

What is the best thing to put into pies? Your teeth.
When does a horse eat best? When he doesn’t have a bit in his mouth.
What is the difference between a jeweler and a jailer? One sells watches, the other watches cells.
What was the first bus across the ocean? Columbus.
When your clock strikes 13, what time is it? Time to get it fixed.
Why does an Indian wear head feathers? To keep his wigwam.
If a rooster laid an egg on the top of a pointed roof, on which side would the egg roll off? Neither – a rooster can’t lay eggs.

Well so much for nonsense today. No more until next week.

Year: 1974