Wednesday, August 23, 2023
SCARECROW SINGS IF I ONLY HAD A BRAIN
Sunday, January 22, 2023
HOMER SMITH, URINE, AND MODERN WARFARE
HOMER SMITH, URINE, AND MODERN WARFARE JOAN D. LEVIN*
Selma, Alabama, was twice prominent in world history, once in this century for being the site of a major civil rights battle, and once, a century earlier, during the battle between the states. The earlier events were immortalized by Homer Smith, in his essay De Urina (1, pp. 127-147].
Smith was not only the most brilliant renal physiologist of the century, but also a distinguished novelist and historian as well. The relevant passages of his historical (and historic) essay follow: Though phosphate is important in the usefulness of urine as fertilizer, the nitrogen of its urea, ammonia, and other compounds is of no less significance in this respect, and urine as a source of nitrogen supplies us with an heroic example of what man in his ingenuity, when hard pressed, can achieve.
I refer to the sad plight of Selma, Alabama, during the Civil War. To prepare saltpetre for the manufacture of gunpowder, the Confederates had to resort to all sorts of devices such as leaching the earth from old smokehouses, barns, and caves, and making artificial beds of all kinds of nitrogenous refuse, having agents for this purpose in every town and city.
The agent at Selma was particularly energetic and enthusiastic, and advertised in the newspaper as follows: "The Ladies of Selma are respectfully requested to preserve the chamber lye collected about the premises for the purpose of making nitre. A barrel will be sent around daily to collect it. John Harralson Agent Nitre Mining Bureau"
This came to the attention of a poet in the Confederate Army who responded lyrically as follows: "HE ADVERTISED FOR CHAMBER LYE
"John Harrolson! John Harrolson! You are a wretched creature.
You've added to this bloody war a new and awful feature.
You'd have us think while every man is bound to be a fighter,
The ladies, bless the dears, should save their P for nitre.
John Harrolson! John Harrolson! Where did you get the notion
To send your barrel 'round the town to gather up the lotion?
We thought the girls had work enough making shirts and kissing,
But you have put the pretty dears to patriotic pissing.
John Harrolson! John Harrolson! Do pray invent a neater
And somewhat more modest mode of making your saltpetre;
For 'tis an awful idea, John, gunpowdery and cranky,
That when a lady lifts her shift she's killing off a Yankee."
This poem was printed on toilet paper and circulated all over the Confederacy, and a copy was smuggled across the line to fall into the hand of an anonymous Yankee poet who replied,
"THE YANKEE'S VIEW OF IT
John Harrolson! John Harrolson! We've read in song and story
How women's tears through all the years have moistened fields of glory,
But never was it told before amid such scenes of slaughter
Your Southern beauties dried their tears and went to making water.
No wonder that your boys are brave, who couldn't be a fighter
If every time he fired his gun, he used his sweetheart's nitre;
And vice-versa, what would make a Yankee soldier sadder
Than dodging bullets fired from a pretty woman's bladder?
They say there was a subtle smell that lingered in the powder,
And as the smoke grew thicker and the din of battle louder,
That there was found to this compound one serious objection,
No soldier boy could sniff it without having an erection."
To these two short, poignant poems, one from the southerner's point of view and one from the Yankee's, I have added a third version, bringing this art form up-to-date for the 1980s.
URINE AND NATIONAL DEFENSE: A NEW VIEWPOINT FOR THE EVE OF THE TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY
Oh Homer Smith, dear Homer Smith, it makes a maiden blush,
To think that national defense could turn upon a flush.
But that's enough of Civil War in ancient, dog-eared rhymes,
We need a new approach to meet the needs of modern times!
Our patriotic fast food joints might realize these hopes,
And spice their wares judiciously with radioisotopes,
The customers could eat their fill, and then each loyal feeder
Would soon become a urinary radioactive breeder!
]
And every little child from San Diego up to Maine,
Would give to national defense what once went down the drain.
And even R'on and Nancy could give of what they’ve got,
And donate all the contents of the Presidential Pot.
Forget about cocaine and hash, they'll fill us with ennui,
There'll soon be better uses for each worker's drop of pee,
And all those silly drug tests, they soon will be forgot.
No more of asking "Are you high?" but rather, "Are you hot?"
Oh Homer Smith, dear Homer Smith, behold a modern sight,
The nation's urine harnessed for her military might.
And we can fry the birds on high, and fishes in the sea,
With fifty million megatons of radioactive pee!
REFERENCE 1. CHASIS, H., and GOLDRING, W. (eds.). Homer William Smith: His Scientific and Literary Achievements. New York: New York University Press, 1965. (Reprinted from Kaiser Foundation Med. Bull. 6:1, 1958.)
*The author wishes to express her appreciation to Dr. Novera Herbert Spector of the National Institutes of Health for directing her attention to the classic Homer Smith work cited herein.
Address: 2114 South Tower, 4515 Willard Avenue, Chevy Chase, Maryland 20815. © 1989 by The University of Chicago. All rights reserved. 003l-5982/89/3204-0640$01.00 602 I Joan D. Levin · Urine and Modern Warfare
Perspectives in Biology and Medicine, 32, 4 · Summer 1989 I 603
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Cite: Perspectives in Biology and Medicine, 32, 4 · Summer 1989 pp 602-604
online at:
Saturday, January 21, 2023
LOCHINVAR AND THE LADY OF SHALOTT -- A ROMANCE
Please scroll to the bottom of this post to see how it all turns out!
1. Lochinvar BY SIR WALTER SCOTT
O young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,
He rode all unarm’d, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He staid not for brake, and he stopp’d not for stone,
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,
Among bride’s-men, and kinsmen, and brothers and all:
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,
(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)
“O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?”
“I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;—
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—
And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up,
He quaff’d off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—
“Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper’d, “’twere better by far
To have match’d our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.”
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach’d the hall-door, and the charger stood near;
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!
“She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
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2. The Lady of Shalott (1832) by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Part I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
The yellow-leaved waterlily
The green-sheathed daffodilly
Tremble in the water chilly
Round about Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens shiver.
The sunbeam showers break and quiver
In the stream that runneth ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
Underneath the bearded barley,
The reaper, reaping late and early,
Hears her ever chanting cheerly,
Like an angel, singing clearly,
O'er the stream of Camelot.
Piling the sheaves in furrows airy,
Beneath the moon, the reaper weary
Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy,
Lady of Shalott.'
The little isle is all inrail'd
With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd
With roses: by the marge unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken sail'd,
Skimming down to Camelot.
A pearl garland winds her head:
She leaneth on a velvet bed,
Full royally apparelled,
The Lady of Shalott.
Part II
No time hath she to sport and play:
A charmed web she weaves alway.
A curse is on her, if she stay
Her weaving, either night or day,
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be;
Therefore she weaveth steadily,
Therefore no other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
She lives with little joy or fear.
Over the water, running near,
The sheepbell tinkles in her ear.
Before her hangs a mirror clear,
Reflecting tower'd Camelot.
And as the mazy web she whirls,
She sees the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot:
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, came from Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead
Came two young lovers lately wed;
'I am half sick of shadows,' said
The Lady of Shalott.
Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flam'd upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down from Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down from Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over green Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down from Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:'
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom
She made three paces thro' the room
She saw the water-flower bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
'The curse is come upon me,' cried
The Lady of Shalott.
Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Outside the isle a shallow boat
Beneath a willow lay afloat,
Below the carven stern she wrote,
The Lady of Shalott.
A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight,
All raimented in snowy white
That loosely flew (her zone in sight
Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright)
Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot,
Though the squally east-wind keenly
Blew, with folded arms serenely
By the water stood the queenly
Lady of Shalott.
With a steady stony glance—
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Beholding all his own mischance,
Mute, with a glassy countenance—
She look'd down to Camelot.
It was the closing of the day:
She loos'd the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
As when to sailors while they roam,
By creeks and outfalls far from home,
Rising and dropping with the foam,
From dying swans wild warblings come,
Blown shoreward; so to Camelot
Still as the boathead wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her chanting her deathsong,
The Lady of Shalott.
A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy,
She chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her eyes were darken'd wholly,
And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot:
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden wall and gallery,
A pale, pale corpse she floated by,
Deadcold, between the houses high,
Dead into tower'd Camelot.
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
To the planked wharfage came:
Below the stern they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest,
Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest.
There lay a parchment on her breast,
That puzzled more than all the rest,
The wellfed wits at Camelot.
'The web was woven curiously,
The charm is broken utterly,
Draw near and fear not,—this is I,
The Lady of Shalott.'
3. Lochinvar and the Lady of Shalott by Joan Levin
Oh young Lochinvar was galloping east,
Having quietly departed his own wedding feast,
It seems his fair Ellen had told him to scram,
She’d decided Sir Lancelot would be her man.
But off in the distance young Lochinvar’s eyes,
Fell upon a fair lady, how sad were her cries!
He slowed his brave horse to a leisurely trot,
Until he had reached her: the Lady of Shalott!
“Why are you weeping?” was Lochinvar’s query,
“I’ve been dumped!” said the lady, her eyes sad and teary.
“But now I am happy, no longer afraid,
“Because it appears you have come to my aid!”
Lord Lochinvar held out his hand, which she took,
And jumped onto his horse, with no backward look.
And what of fair Ellen, Lord Lochinvar’s ex?
She rode off with Sir Lancelot and had lots of good times!
Joan Levin, 2022
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