Thank you for the music: June 2008

Wednesday, June 25, 2008

He dances his troubles away

(Thursday, February 24th, 1600) When I spoke with Master Kemp at the inn in Burntwood he told me, though if it were me, I would certainly have made more of a complaint of it, that he had strained his hip as he left Romford. But he decided it would not be worth the trouble of consulting a surgeon. Having pulled my own shoulder slightly (I should have accepted help with my saddlebags) I feel the same way: the most likely treatment would be either leeching or bleeding and a rub with something that smells like horse liniment and probably contains most of the same ingredients.

I do feel, though, that if anyone has cause to complain, it is poor Will. The market crowds combined with sightseers both from London, and North Essex were so thick when he reached Burntwood (these days the name has slipped to Brentwood) that he had difficulty making his way to an inn. I managed to find a 21st century picture of the Bell where we stopped in Ingerstone (Ingatestone), which is a comfortable stopping-place, if not very large. I'm just thankful we managed to get a room to ourselves. Most of the travellers are sleeping two or three to a bed tonight. I sometimes think the horses are more comfortable down in the stables than we are, crammed in like peas in a pod. While I was talking to Will, he told me that the town sheriff arrested a pair of cutpurses who followed us all the way from London. Right now, they are as he put it, "enjoying the hospitality of the town", and I wouldn't care to bet on a rosy future for them unless, and this is very unlikely, they can claim "benefit of clergy". The penalty for misdemeanors is commonly corporal punishment, and most felonies are capital offences. In Kemp's own words, he foresees them dancing a lively Trenchmore in the Burntwood pillory to the rhythm of the cat-o'-nine tails. From his description, I think they might be the types of villains commonly known as dummerers: when first captured, they pretended to be dumb and deaf, and might have succeeded, but the sheriff knows a few tricks himself. The events of the day have brought home to me in a horribly real way what a brutal age this can be: although I had put it out of my mind, on our way out of London we passed the Bear Pit where the yelping and growling that accompanied the cheering told the story of a bear baiting in progress. I thought that Master Kemp would remain in Burntwood, resting his injured hip, which is why I recommended we make the most of the daylight, riding for Ingatestone, but to my surprise, even though it is now dark outside, bitterly cold and snowing half-heartedly the commotion outside heralds the arrival of Will Kemp, purveyor of the best bel-shangles and tril-lilles between Sion and Mount Surrey, together with the hardy folk determined to follow him on his jig. Having made something of a friend in Tom Slye, I pay for a hot supper for himself and Will Kemp, and ask Tom's help in transcribing another morris which helps to take my mind off the sorry thoughts that have occupied my mind for most of the day.

To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

References

Justice in Kemp's Time Crime in the Tudor era

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Resting in Romford

(Monday, February 21st, 1600)
"Over here! I've settled with the innkeeper so we're good for a couple of days, which should be long enough. Now, let me introduce you to Master Tom Slye; this is the fellow who is playing the pipe and tabor for Master Kemp on his journey."

It's nice to be back in the warmth of an inn. Before you got here, Tom was telling me how within a quarter-mile of the town, a gentleman on horseback offered Will to ride the little distance remaining while Tom had to make his own way on foot, in the frosty moonlight. At least Master Kemp was kind enough to stand him a hot pie when he arrived at the Red Lion (later renamed the Golden Lion ). Nobody seems to know where Master Kemp is right now. My guess is he's probably flaked out on a lumpy bed somewhere in the inn, and I think he deserves his rest: according to Tom, most of the Londoners who followed him as far as Mile End expected him to give up his jig before he ever reached Mile End, or at least stop there for cakes and cream (which is what most of the spectators did after braving the cold).

Before you got here Tom was explaining to me the peculiar fingerings for his pipe which is played with only three fingers, the pinkie supporting it, yet it can play through more than an octave. His other hand is free to beat the small tabor which hangs from his pipe arm when he plays. The pipe is surprisingly long, longer than a tenor recorder, but not particularly demanding of breath, which makes it an ideal instrument for someone walking and playing. Since supper time is still a little while off, and I have a penny in my purse, I think it not unreasonable to ask Master Slye if he would entertain us with a jig, and for my pennyworth we have the Fox and Geese: a traditional Morris tune, and one that he has already played several times on the journey.

Of course, like most musicians, one tune leads to another, and by the time our host comes to ask what fare we might choose for supper, Tom has played more than a handful of dances and other tunes to the delight of the guests who have danced merrily. In the opinion of the innkeeper, Tom has earned his supper, and chooses from the meals offered by the kitchen tonight a coney with a pudding boiled in his belly, a little better than his usual fare, I think.

To boyle a Cony with a Pudding in his Belly. Take your Cony and fley him, & leave on the eares and wash it faire, and take grated Bread, sweete Suet minced fiine, corance and some fine hearbs, Peneriall; winter savery; percely, Spinage or beets, sweet margeram, and chop your hearbs fine, and season it with Cloves, Mace and Sugar, a little creame and salt and yolks of Egs, and Dates minst fine. Then mingle all your stuf togither, and put it in your Rabets belly and sowe it up with a thred, for the broth take mutton broth when it is boyled a little, and put it in a pot wheras your Rabet may lye long waies in it, and let your broth boile or ever you put it in, then put in Gooceberies or els Grapes, corance and sweet Butter, Vergious, Salt, grated bread and Sugar a little, and when it is boyled, lay it in a dish with Sops. And so serve it in.

References

Pipe and Tabor A book of Cookrye

Kemp's Jig on Google Maps

To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

Thursday, June 12, 2008

A Nine Days Wonder!

Even with a warm travelling cloak, on days like this I miss comforts like central heating. And the settle near the fireplace is already occupied so we will have to make do with one of the less conspicuous tables in the corner.

"Potboy? Two halves of mulled cider, if you please, for me and my companion here. And I fancy we shall have an ounce of Virginia tobacco if you have any." I chose this seat for us, so that we can eavesdrop on the conversation between Master Kemp (the fellow with the ruddy complexion) and Master Pinchbeck (pale face, straggly hair. Nice suede jacket though.)

Did you hear that? I love it when we can be in at the beginning of something like this! He just wagered with Kemp that he wouldn't jig from London to Norwich!

OK, by way of introduction, Will Kemp enjoys quite a reputation as a clown, and has done several seasons with the various theaters of London which is probably how Pinchbeck knows him. Before he went solo he was in the service of the Earl of Leicester for a while, which seems to be how he began building the network of contacts that brought him to London.

While I love Kemp's sense of humor, I find his keen observation a little daunting, so personally I would prefer to keep a little distance between us, but watch him, particularly if there's a dog in the vicinity. He can turn anything into business.

To conclude their wager, Pinchbeck and Kemp raise a toast and Kemp's tongue sticks to his mug! His expression goes through shock, desperation, and a sort of forlorn hope as he gestures to the landlord to indicate his plight. The landlord of course doesn't believe it (and neither do most of his customers who have turned to watch the spectacle. When one of the gentlemen present steps up with a poniard bared and offers (with a broad wink) to free master Kemp's tongue, Kemp adds gestures and some raucous protests to the facial expressions. Considering the business afterward, I think it must have lasted about five minutes until he managed to communicate to the landlord that a pinch of nutmeg might free his tongue, if he could be recompensed for his inconvenience with another drink.

Ladies and Gentlemen, without further ado, from Will Kemp's own written account of his Nine Daies Wonder;

To the true ennobled Lady, and his most bountifull Mistris, Mistris Anne Fitton, Mayde of Honour to the most sacred Royall Queene Elizabeth.
HONORABLE Mistris in the waine of my litle wit, I am forst to desire your protection, else euery Ballad-singer will proclaime me bankrupt of honesty. A sort of mad fellows seeing me merrily dispos'd in a Morrice, haue so bepainted mee in print since my gambols began from London to Norwich, that (hauing but an ill face before) I shall appeare to the world without a face, if your fayre hand wipe not away their foule coulors. One hath written Kemps farewell to the tune of Kery, mery, Buffe: another his desperate daungers in his late trauaile: the third his entertainement to New-Market; which towne I came neuer neere by the length of halfe the heath. Some sweare in a Trenchmore I haue trode a good way to winne the world: many say many thinges that were neuer thought. But in a word your poore seruant offers the truth of his progresse and profit to your honorable view, receiue it I beseech you, such as it is, rude and plaine, for I know your pure iudgement, lookes as soone to see beauty in a Blackamoore, or heare smooth speech from a Stammerer, as to finde any thing, but blunt mirth in a Morrice dauncer, especially such a one as Will Kemp, that hath spent his life in mad Iigges and merry iestes. Three reasons moooue mee to make publik this iourney, one to reproue lying fooles I neuer knew: the other to co[m]mend louing friends, which by the way I daily found: the third to shew my duety to your honorable selfe, whose fauours (among other bountifull friends) makes me (dispight of this sad world) iudge my hart Corke, & my heeles feathers, so that me thinkes I could flye to Rome (at least hop to Rome, as the olde Prouerb is) with a mortar on my head. In which light conceite I lowly begge pardon and leaue, for my Tabrer strikes his huntsup, I must to Norvvich: Imagine Noble Mistris, I am now setting from my Lord Mayors, the houre about seauen, the morning gloomy, the company many, my hart merry. Your worthy Ladiships most vnworthy seruant,
William Kemp.

Kemp's Jig on Google Maps References

Kemp's Nine Daies Wonder, by Will Kemp

To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

From flours to flowers; tulipmania

On a warm summer's evening in 1634 the deal has been concluded and title deeds have been exchanged. In a deal that took me by surprise, a rustic miller sold the mill that he can no longer run for five rare tulip bulbs! (Unfortunately, by my time the famous Semper Augustus is extinct, and these are actually Adonis, a flower with a similar pattern to S.Augustus and to an untrained eye, indistinguishable).

The disabled miller proposes that we should celebrate by visiting the tavern and getting Fleemered (his word, not mine!). Far be it from me to object: while the rare bulbs with which the mill was bought were expensive in my own time, they were not worth nearly as much as they are in seventeenth century Holland.

The Dolfijn tavern offers tobacco as well as drinks, and as soon as Sebastiaan has made himself comfortable, both he and Susanna order tobacco as well as a round of drinks.

I can't help being a little concerned about Sebastiaan's long-term welfare: while the local community operates a primitive form of welfare, it is barely adequate to maintain the one or two derelicts that have no home beyond the village, and although the miller insists that he will learn to cope with his disability, I doubt that he will achieve a meaningful independence within the next couple of years, by which time the proceeds from the sale of his mill will certainly have been spent, not even allowing for the inevitable services of doctor and apothecary.

As the alcohol begins to weave its spell among us Sebastiaan confides in me that he has heard very promising reports concerning the tulip markets, and it seems to him that it would not be inconceivable that he could make a respectable living as a florist, using the proceeds of the days sale as his first stock-in-trade.

Perhaps it is just as well that Susanna is with us; as the evening wears on, I see a couple of young ladies with a very breezy manner making the rounds of the tables and even though there are only a handful of patrons, they seem intent on spreading mirth and flirting regardless of age, although perhaps they are paying a little more attention to those who are more finely arrayed?

My suspicions aren't entirely without justification, and while Susanna is absorbed in watching Sebastiaan try to blow smoke rings, I catch the sound of giggles and the occasional squeal from another room.

When I mention to Sebastiaan that I think somebody is playing "Klop de bever" in the back room, he guffaws, and bursts into song with Susanna joining in raucously. The irony strikes me that, at least for now, the purse isn't empty! The transcription of their song, presented below, is taken from Tylman Susato's Musyck Boexken of 1551, a rich collection of songs in the Dutch language.

Dutch	English
Och hoort toch ons bediet, Dit laetste liet Singt al verdriet, Omdat wy moeten scheyden. Ons mach gheen wyn verleiden, Maer tgelt en isser niet. Wy moeten trueren wat: Die buers is plat, Sy heeft een gat. Syn dat niet grote rampen? Wy souden meer slampampen Hadden wyt in de clampen.	Oh hear our story well, This last song Sounds quite sad, Because we must depart. Yonder wine might tempt us, But there is no money. We must suffer a bit: The purse is flat, It has a hole. Is that not a terrible thing? We would like to "play" a while longer If it was within our grasp.

References

To convert the code above to sheet music, or listen to the tunes, copy the code for a single song, then paste it here and [submit].

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Thank you for the music

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Wednesday, June 25, 2008

He dances his troubles away

References

Wednesday, June 18, 2008

Resting in Romford

References

Kemp's Jig on Google Maps

Thursday, June 12, 2008

A Nine Days Wonder!

Kemp's Jig on Google Maps References

Tuesday, June 3, 2008

From flours to flowers; tulipmania

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