Sic transit gloria mundi

Although I discussed my concerns with my director a little while ago, it never occurred to me that my concern with the brevity of human life is not so uncommon. So when I returned to the mill at Hazerswoude Dorp which is a convenient source of income for operations in and around the 17th century period it was a matter of mutual comfort to discuss my concern with Philip Thonisz who is picking up an order of flour for some friends. It seems that, as happens all too often, someone has lost a child and among the things Meister Thonisz is bringing home from his visit to Leyden is a new painting, a vanitas. The painting below is a useful example:

As Meister Thonisz explains to me, the purpose of a vanitas is not just to please the eye, but to serve as a constant reminder that we should not attach too great importance to anything in this world, for nothing is permanent.
In the example shown above, the subtle clue could be little miss mousie nibbling on her nut, or the flying lizard, frozen in midair - anyone familiar with the flowers portrayed (as my Dutch hosts are, of course) knows that these blooms open at different times of year, and the artist has ingeniously suggested that, transient as we are, every life adds something different, yet equally vital to the composition of the whole picture.
As a visitor, apart from the occasional encounter with civil militias, it is easy for me to forget that the Netherlandish provinces are still caught up in a power struggle with Spain, a legacy of the Hapsburg empire, although as one of the Leyden burghers expressed the situation in a speech a few days ago

"It is known to all the world that whereas it is generally the nature of war to ruin the land and people, these countries on the contrary have been noticeably improved thereby."

I am also indebted to Meister Thonisz for introducing me to the following melancholy song:

Click here to visit the Tune-O-Tron where you can hear the song, or download a PDF file.

Leyden en verdraghen

Lyden en verdraghen Moet ick op dit termyn. My en baeten gheen clagen: Ten mach anders niet syn. Want myns liefs claer aenschyn Moet ick voerwaer derven. Maer ick en acht gheen pyn, Mach ick noch troost verwerven.

To suffer and endure Is what I must do at this time. No use in my complaining: It cannot be otherwise. Because my darling's lovely face I must truly do without. But I would feel no pain, If I could obtain comfort once again.

Sic transit gloria mundi - so passes the glory of the world

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Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all the earth:

Saturday evening in the Wheatsheaf. I'm trying not to drink too much, being on my second pint of cider, while Philip, Michael and Joshua are all at least on their third pint of old and mild. I spent most of the day either helping Michael with the pigs or Joshua getting feed and clean straw out to the sheep and the cattle. Now, as the beer starts to relax the men, they surprise me by producing instruments here at the table: Michael has a beautiful fiddle, Philip draws a tin whistle from his jacket pocket, and Joshua has a small harp, a rather celtic-looking instrument. Notwithstanding that the men are keen to begin their musical practice for the evening, I am full of questions.
Joshua is kind enough to explain that the harp has been in his family for five generations, since his great-great-grandfather brought his family to Suffolk from Betwys y coed when the family's butchery business failed. Michael's pride in his fiddle is quite evident as he unwraps it from the silk handkerchief in which it rests in its case. I am surprised to learn that it was made by his own grandfather, a cartwright known locally for his woodworking skill.
But all this is a distraction from the real purpose of the evening, which is to try out some new harmonies for Sunday's worship in the little church of King Charles the Martyr. The group expresses mixed feelings since tomorrow's service will probably be the last time the little west gallery quire will make their joyful noises since a local benefactor has bequeathed funds to the church for the installation of a barrel-organ. At least the instrument to be installed is a very fine specimen and fit for a house of God, not the typical hurdy-gurdy of the streets.

Richmond is the hymn tune the boys are rehearsing, and while I expected it to sound a bit odd in a pub, they actually get quite a crowd joining in lustily, although not singing the words John (later cardinal) Newman wrote. In fact, on Sunday morning the hymn is "My God, the spring of all my joys" by Isaac Watts, and when the quire begins to sing, (and play), to my surprise, the congregations turns their backs to the altar to literally "face the music" where Joshua is conducting on the tiny gallery.

For the completion of my account, I must credit my colleagues who have spent more time in the later Georgian and early Victorian eras. It seems that at some time in the mid-nineteenth century the leadership of the Anglican church felt that the church was in danger of becoming too romanized, too frothy and fancy, and not serious enough about the worship of God. The so-called Oxford Movement led to a simplification of the music, and dogmatic changes in search of a renewed holiness within the church. Sadly, many of the musicians that had once made up gallery quires were either persuaded that their music was unnecessarily elaborate, or otherwise felt unwelcome, and so sought the communion of more evangelical churches.

References:

The West Gallery Music Association

Bedford Gallery Quire
An introduction to the West Gallery Quire
Studies in Worship Music, John Spencer Curwen; 1884

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We're all jolly fellows that follow the plough!

One hangover is more than enough for a lifetime. I'm definitely swearing off drink after this! I came to the small Suffolk village of Shelland to learn more about the customs of Plough Monday, an age-old tradition marking the end of the Christmas festivities and the return to work for the rural folk on the first monday after twelfth night. Having been offered temporary accommodation with the Pollard family who work for the Jewers farm, I can't quite decide whether to be flattered, or insulted that I have been chosen as the Molly for the Plough Monday procession. While the menfolk of the farm will pull the plough through the village stopping at the houses of the more well-off folk, in my persona as a young man, I get to dress up as an old woman and dance in the lead. While the primary aim of the procession is to boost funds for the village ale-house, this is also one of the inconspicuous ways that the village folk support their own; those less fortunate will be given some support from the monies and other gifts collected during the procession. And I have an opportunity to buy a broadsheet ballad for a penny from Philip: the Murder of sir John Barly-corne. He tells me with some pride how, last year in late spring he travelled to Ipswich market where he bought several ballads, as well as a basket of ribbons for his wife.
The procession leads out of the village to the first of the fields which will be ploughed, and in the cold weather, this is a fair test of the men's muscle. Some of the girls of the village have turned out to cheer them on as they break the sod.
The business of guiding the plough looks deceptively easy; I was offered the chance to try my hand for a while on the basis that with the men pulling, I wouldn't have to worry about guiding a team of oxen or horses, but I quickly found that I was constantly missing my footing and stumbling in the furrow, and keeping the plough straight took more muscle than I have. After no more than a hundred yards the ploughman took back the handles and at the end of the furrow, pointed out to me, with some merriment on the part of the team, where I had veered wildly compared to his neatly spaced, straight cut. I will never again dismiss farm work as mindless drudgery!
The men were only supposed to plough the single furrow, but some of the fellows were keen, and insisted on making a second row before going to their regular work. Having seen the hard work most of them put in, whether ploughing, or working with pigs, sheep and cattle, I was quite happy to spend my day clearing the overgrowth from drainage ditches filled with chilly water. Some things, though commonsense really, surprised me. Of course there is no bathroom out in the fields. You just find a space in the nearest coppice and do what you have to. But be careful where you step, there are traps set for poachers, so be sure you talk to the charge hand to learn their locations before you leave to start your work!
By the end of the day everyone is tired and well-ready for a rest beside the fire at the Wheatsheaf, with plenty of beer to warm chilled limbs, and a song to lift flagging spirits. The husbandman's year has begun once more.

References

BBC Radio 4's Making History programme about Plough Monday

More about the traditions of Plough Monday
Pulse of the Planet looks at the history of Plough Monday
Some serious research, and Plough Monday in Nottinghamshire
A photo album from a modern Plough Monday in a Suffolk village

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Fun, Games and a Spider

As much as I enjoyed the Commedia performance at the wedding festivities of Ferdinando de Medici, I have to confess that it wasn't quite what I expected. I had hoped for something, shall we say, more rumbustious? Which is why we jumped four years forward, and north to the city of Milan where we have another opportunity to see the Fedeli troupe in action in a romantic comedy on a grassy space behind the Ospedal Maggiore.
As the Prologue explains, this is a story about mistaken identity, true love, and how Heaven watches over poor foolish mortals. But what I'm here for, more than the scripted story, is the improvisation between the actors.
To cut to the chase (and yes, there was one of those, involving Il Capitano, Arlecchino, Isabella and a dog with a string of sausages) the story could be loosely summarized as follows:
Il Capitano, a blowhard and cowardly soldier, who has managed to avoid any actual fighting through various ruses, but struts as if he is a seasoned veteran, has taken a shine to Isabella, the daughter of the wealthy merchant Pantalone. While agreeing terms for a marriage contract with the assistance of Il Dottore, poor Arlecchino, the manservant of Pantalone overhears some of the details being discussed and immediately jumps to the conclusion that Il Capitano intends to marry Colombina, Pantalone's maidservant, for whom he bears an unrequited (and thus far unexpressed) passion.
By the end of the play Arlecchino and Colombina express their love for each other, Il Capitano is called upon to defend his honor (using every dodge and maneuver he can find to get out of harm's way when it turns out that the sword in his impressive scabbard is wooden!), and Il Dottore narrowly escapes being exposed as a trickster who failed to graduate and has subsequently lived on his wits and partial learning. The adults in the audience have enjoyed the twists and turns of the improvisations, and the children have laughed at the comic business, but the catch of the day as far as I am concerned, is the bonus of being able to obtain a copy of the tarantella with which the cast opened the performance:

If I look like someone who has just seen a ghost, it may be because I have. Or else poor Kit Marlowe who was killed in an unfortunate brawl just a couple of months ago at the end of May, has a doppelganger here in Milan!

Reference

The image of Pantalone above comes from this page on masks.

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