Our Fall 2018 Webathon – seeking to raise $225,000 (and more, which is sorely needed, if possible) to support NR’s ace political reporting and analysis – enters its final two weeks. In a month where some six million people have visited NRO, and where many hundreds of thousands of those feast all day long at the all-you-can-eat buffet we offer, we can say, in part with pride, in part with sadness, that some 1,900 people have stepped up to donate.
In Sadness: What to say of the many who know there is no such thing as a free lunch, who enjoy NRO in thanks to many who have – in this effort and in ones past – seen fit to contribute, but who consciously avoid buying a round, doing their part, even if that means tossing a measly sawbuck into the collection plate? We don’t know what to say, other than . . . make the long-overdue donation now, right here. Why? Because you know, down deep and not even so deep, that it is the right thing to do, for the sake of the principles we share and that require vigilant defense.
In Pride: What to say of the few who do stand alongside NR’s writers and editors in the hand-to-hand combat that is necessitated by the utter depravity of the Left’s relentless culture warriors? We say thank you, and very much, and we say it is an indescribable honor to be with you on the ramparts and in the foxhole and alongside as we charge with bayonets fixed at the hordes.
And on this day, today, the 25th of October, the Feast Day of Saints Crispin and Crispinian, like Henry the Fifth we express our honor at being in the company of so very few, a happy few, a band of brothers and sisters dedicated to fighting for conservatism.
What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin:
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires:
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England:
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian:’
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember’d;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
The few has room for a few more. Join this band of brothers (and sisters!). Contribute here.
If you prefer to send a check, please mail it to:
National Review, ATTN: Fall 2018 Webathon
19 West 44th Street, Suite 1701
New York, NY 10036.
May Saints Crispin and Crispinian bless you for such.
And do watch Larry Olivier render the above with particular eloquence.