Lives of the Saints- With Reflections for Every Day in the Year
Oct 17, 2026 · 7 hr 58 min · 77 segments
"Jeremy And Hamlet A Chronicle Of Certain Incidents In The Lives Of A Boy, A Dog, And A Country Town" by Hugh Walpole invites listeners into the charming and poignant world of a boy and his faithful…
Poetic dedication of Jeremy and Hamlet, a chronicle of certain incidents in the lives of a boy, a dog, and a country town.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Wales.
Jeremy and Hamlet, a chronicle of certain incidents in the lives of a boy, a dog, and a country town by Hugh Walpole.
Poetic dedication.
To my father and mother from their devoted friend, their son.
It is not growing like a tree in bulk, doth make man better be.
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, to fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day is fairer far in May, although it fall and die that night.
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions, we just beauties see, and in short measures, life may perfect be.
End of poetic dedication.
Chapter one of Jeremy and Hamlet by Hugh Walpole.
Chapter one, Come Out of the Kitchen.
One, there was a certain window between the kitchen and the pantry that was Hamlet's favorite.
Thirty years ago, these chronicles are of the year 1894, the basements of houses in provincial English towns, even of large houses owned by rich people, were dark, chill, odor-full caverns, hissing with ill-burning gas and smelling of ill-cooked cabbage.
The basement of the Cole's house in Polchester was as bad as any other, but this little window between the kitchen and the pantry was higher in the wall than the other basement windows, almost on a level with the iron railings beyond it and offering a view down over Orange Street and obliquely, sharp to the right and past the Polchester High School, a glimpse of the cathedral towers themselves.
Inside the window was a shelf, and on this shelf, Hamlet would sit for hours, his peaked beard interrogatively a-tilt, his leg sticking out from his square body as though it were a joint leg and worked like the limb of a wooden toy, his eyes sad and mysterious, staring into life.
It was not, of course, of life that he was thinking, only very high-bred and in-bred dogs or conscious philosophers.
His ears were stretched for a sound of the movements of Mrs. Hunslow, the cook.
His nostrils distended for a whiff of the food that she was manipulating, but his eyes were fixed upon the passing show, the pageantry, the rough and tumble of the world, and every once and again, the twitch of his Christmas tree tail would show that something was occurring in this life beyond the window that could supervene, for a moment at any rate, over the lust of the stomach and the lure of the clattering pan.
He was an older dog than he had been on that snowy occasion of his first meeting with the Cole family, two years older, in fact, older and fatter.
Poetic dedication of Jeremy and Hamlet, a chronicle of certain incidents in the lives of a boy, a dog, and a country town.
For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by David Wales.
Jeremy and Hamlet, a chronicle of certain incidents in the lives of a boy, a dog, and a country town by Hugh Walpole.
Poetic dedication.
To my father and mother from their devoted friend, their son.
It is not growing like a tree in bulk, doth make man better be.
Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, to fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day is fairer far in May, although it fall and die that night.
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions, we just beauties see, and in short measures, life may perfect be.
End of poetic dedication.
Chapter one of Jeremy and Hamlet by Hugh Walpole.
Chapter one, Come Out of the Kitchen.
One, there was a certain window between the kitchen and the pantry that was Hamlet's favorite.
Thirty years ago, these chronicles are of the year 1894, the basements of houses in provincial English towns, even of large houses owned by rich people, were dark, chill, odor-full caverns, hissing with ill-burning gas and smelling of ill-cooked cabbage.
The basement of the Cole's house in Polchester was as bad as any other, but this little window between the kitchen and the pantry was higher in the wall than the other basement windows, almost on a level with the iron railings beyond it and offering a view down over Orange Street and obliquely, sharp to the right and past the Polchester High School, a glimpse of the cathedral towers themselves.
Inside the window was a shelf, and on this shelf, Hamlet would sit for hours, his peaked beard interrogatively a-tilt, his leg sticking out from his square body as though it were a joint leg and worked like the limb of a wooden toy, his eyes sad and mysterious, staring into life.
It was not, of course, of life that he was thinking, only very high-bred and in-bred dogs or conscious philosophers.
His ears were stretched for a sound of the movements of Mrs. Hunslow, the cook.
His nostrils distended for a whiff of the food that she was manipulating, but his eyes were fixed upon the passing show, the pageantry, the rough and tumble of the world, and every once and again, the twitch of his Christmas tree tail would show that something was occurring in this life beyond the window that could supervene, for a moment at any rate, over the lust of the stomach and the lure of the clattering pan.
He was an older dog than he had been on that snowy occasion of his first meeting with the Cole family, two years older, in fact, older and fatter.
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