Thank you for the music

First Light

2010-03-24T17:41:00.000-07:00

I was getting ready to leave at what I consider an early hour of the morning, although even at five o'clock there are a few intrepid souls already at work. Making my way into the Place du Saint-Sernin I found myself drawn by the haunting beauty of a girl singing where the walls of the Place produce an acoustic almost like a concert-hall. The words, “O quam mirabilis est” — “Oh what a miracle this is!”

She sang like a lark, apparently just enjoying the quiet morning air, and I loitered just inside the square to listen, waiting until her song wwas finished before crossing to greet her. I suppose I should not have been surprised to learn that she was the oldest daughter of Herr Grüneberg; that her family had lived in Bad Sobernheim for five generations becoming one of the wealthiest farming families. In the hope of learning more I invited Traudi and her father to share breakfast with me in the tavern and over the meal, I learned more about the hazards of den Weg des heiligen Jakobus.

The first hazard as you climb into the Pyrenean mountains, so Sigismund tells me, is the packs of wolves in the high forests which prey on lone pilgrims, and it was because of these that the hôpital at Roncesvalles was established. And it wasn't so long ago, that the souls of pilgrims were at risk from the pernicious teachings of the Cathar heretics who sought refuge in the mountains.

On the east of Lorca is the bitter river the local people call the Salado. There are wicked men who wait beside the river for unsuspecting pilgrims and encourage them to water their horses there. When the horses fall dead, these rogues skin them before their carcases have even cooled!

Once you pass over the mountains into Spain, do not eat their beef, pork, shad, eel or tench for they will almost certainly make you sick. (Spanish tummy? I wondered that such a thing has been known for such a long time) The Porma and the Sil are good rivers of sweet water, flowing through verdant and pleasant lands. A few miles from Santiago our party halted and we bathed in the waters of the Miño, a river surely blessed by God, stripping off even our underclothes.

Sigismund was so keen to tell me of the adventures they had been through, and the things they had learned along the road that our meal was done before ever I had a chance to ask Traudi about the song she was singing earlier. Before the poor girl had a chance to utter a word Sigismund told me with a note of pride in his voice that she had learned the song as a pupil, one of the few females admitted to the school run by the Benedictines at Disibodenberg.

References

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Shave and a haircut, two bits

2010-03-18T07:36:00.000-07:00

One of the reasons I love what I do is the unmitigated delight of being surprised by music; whether it's a workman whistling a tune I've never heard before, a party celebrating a wedding, or grieving family mourning a bereavement, every now and then, the music just bursts out in a spontaneous expression of our humanity no matter where, or when, in the world we live.

Throwing in my lot with Jacob Smollett and his granddaughter Amelia, on their way down to Wilmington delivering farm produce to Bencher's chandler has been enjoyable, but not particularly profitable. Old Mr.Smollett has admitted to knowing several songs which he has no intention of teaching young Amelia and Amelia has taught me a couple of interesting, but generally unremarkable schoolyard songs.

While Jacob fine-tuned the details of his deal with Captain Bencher, Amelia and I watched the longshoremen shouldering and carrying barrels, bales, and crates up the gangplanks to the Caroline. For a while, Amelia was held spellbound by the noise and smoke of a steam-powered derrick working further down the quay but the quay is a working environment, with heavy loads, strong men, and powerful machinery at work, and I was able to deter her from trying to get a closer look.

Lunch break for the longshoremen doesn't happen at 12 noon sharp; these men work until the ship is loaded or unloaded, one or two men taking a break at a time, as needed under the watchful eye of the bo'sun. By three o'clock the Caroline's cargo had all been loaded and the ship was only waiting on the harbour pilot and the tide.

With an hour or so before they would be needed again, a small group of stevedores had settled themselves on a stack of woolen bales and formed an impromptu choir. What surprised me was that these men (three negroes and two white men) were improvising what I would have termed barbershop harmony and their performance was in no way blemished by the occasional discord:

The youngest member of the group had a question about rhythm:

“Perfesser, yes'day you tole me you can write music down, on paper, same as writin' on paper? kin you show me how?”

“Well now, young Amos, let's take a real simple example – ‘shave an' a haircut; two bits’, I would write that like this:”

And taking a pencil and a scrap of paper from his pocket he jotted down the following sample:

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Those boots were made for walking

2010-03-18T07:32:00.000-07:00

Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,¹
and bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth²
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye³
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,—
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,—
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;⁴
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Checklist

April has quenched the drought of March
Gentle breezes have replaced the howling gales of the equinox
The Dawn Chorus has resumed rehearsals
Wanderlust takes hold once more

As you might guess from the checklist, my first, very ambitious thought was to make the pilgrimage, at least part of the way, for myself, to Santiago de Compostela. But the suggestion was vetoed very firmly citing the risk of exposure as a reason. Any physical risks I might take are part and parcel of the lives of the people around me, but the danger of being exposed as someone with ‘supernatural’ connections for the duration of quite a long pilgrimage would place my life in danger unjustifiably. I may not be able to make the pilgrimage immediately, but I intend to find some way to overcome any potential obstacles in due course somehow.

For the folks who live in the era, I can hardly blame them for wanting to go on vacation once the weather starts to improve: three months of cold, damp, and preserved food has certainly done it for me in the past. In my case though, I am looking further afield than Caunterbury; I figured if I can establish myself at Toulouse, long-since established as a popular rendezvous for pilgrim groups crossing Europe, there should be some good pickings for a seller of pilgrim memorabilia. Yes, even in the 13th century, there is a flourishing trade in souvenirs. And if you're rich enough, and have the right connections, you might even be able to buy one of St.James’ actual fingerbones (current estimates suggest that he had between thirty-five and forty fingers on each hand!)

As a first stage, before heading towards Toulouse I made the acquaintance of some of the craftsmen of L'Isle Jourdain, where I obtained a workable stock of rosary beads, small carved wooden figurines and some carved bone icons. Thus prepared I made my way to the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne in Toulouse to set up my stall. Describing my adventure in such bald terms belies the competitive nature of the vendors already there, and I was obliged to display my stock at the furthest edges of the market.

Identifying the pilgrims returning is simplified in many cases by the scallop shells which they wear fastened to their hats or breasts, although in a few cases, they are equally identifiable by the evidence of miracles which they proudly display to anyone who shows the slightest curiosity: I obtained the following song from an older man who was keen to show me his well-worn crutch, explaining that for many years he had been lame as the result of an accident, but now, not only could he walk, but as he eagerly demonstrated, he could dance once more!

Herr Grüneberg, as he identifies himself to me, knows many of these pilgrim songs which have even been set down in written form by King Alfonso X, ‘The Wise’ of Spain.

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... and New York

2010-03-04T10:46:00.000-08:00

Has anyone told you, you look like a penguin? Seriously, you look very dashing. Are you ready to hit the street? I think I could fall in love with the Chrysler Royal that you hired for our runabout! I was thinking that drinks before the show wouldn't be an option and of course, we wouldn't want to risk getting on the wrong side of the law, but I had a word with the desk clerk earlier and he hinted in the broadest terms that Fifth Avenue is a very hospitable area for folks like us from out of town.

When I was checking the paper earlier, I saw that Jerome Kern's Show Boat is playing at the Ziegfeld Theater, and if they don't have any seats there, Merry-Go-Round is playing at the Sam Harris Theater.

At this point, I need several aspirin and a shot of java to facilitate the proper recollection of the events of last evening. Show Boat was wonderful. I love live theater and now my head is full of songs like “After The Ball”, “Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man” and “Ole Man River” (although I would have liked to see Paul Robeson in the role, I have to say that Jules Bledsoe was very good). And I apologize sincerely for complaining (I remember that part very clearly) about not taking the breezer; after ankling into “Jumpin’” Jack Jones’ Jazz Joint we both would have been a danger to traffic. Are you sure we weren't a danger to the cab that took us home? Did I do anything frightfully embarrassing? I really don't remember.

What I do remember was the hopped-up kids in the place. And I don't mean just the babies, I'm sure I saw flappers, dappers, and Methuselah himself putting away the coffin-varnish. I couldn't have imagined such a mix; from dewdroppers to face-stretchers. If they weren't getting a wiggle on they were sinking the juice like it was going out of style! And maybe it's the product of my gin-soaked imagination, but I remember the band being hot stuff, they were rocking the dive with their jive! Was it my imagination again, or did they have a negro up there tooting that horn? It's details like that that make me realize how far we have come even if we still have a long way to go.

References

Get hip to the jive with a little help.

And stay out of the way of the ladies of the Manhattan Women's Christian Temperance Union!

And when you visit the watering-hole, make sure you know where the other back door is. Better leave your soda in a hurry than wait all night in the cooler to talk to the beak in the morning.

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Down and out in London...

2010-02-25T18:08:00.001-08:00

...the poor always ye have with you; ...

John 12: 8.

All the lonely people
Where do they all come from?
All the lonely people
Where do they all belong ?

Eleanor Rigby (by Paul McCartney)

Don't get me wrong. Things have improved a lot over the years, but wherever you go, these lost souls are still wandering. Most of us will never know them, never want to know them, but a very few see beyond the unshaven chin, the unkempt hair and the outmoded clothes. And are ready to offer a warm meal and a few minutes of companionship even if it means missing an appointment.

Doing the right thing means being sensitive without showing it; the veteran who can't hold down a job, lost his family, doesn't want to talk about anything but will accept a few dollars for helping with yard work.

The bag-lady, pushing her world around town in a shopping-cart, accepts the offer of a warm meal.

When the Vagrancy Act was passed in 1834 concern had been expressed about soldiers returning from the Napoleonic wars with no home, or job to return to, and of course it wasn't long before civic authorities began to see the possibility of applying the terms of the Act to the professional beggars, prostitutes and other undesirable persons in their towns and villages. Of course, not all the individuals living on the streets and by their wits can be justly tarred with the same brush. Some of them inhabit their own incomprehensible world, not dangerous to themselves or others, the municipal asylums are unable to help them so that homeless people like Bert, often known to the local constabulary by a friendly appelation, like Burlington Bertie find themselves being shuffled from district to district. Burlington, at the time when the song was popular (and even at the time of writing) is one of the more respectable suburbs of London, favored by the well-to-do and aristocratic families who maintain a residence in the city in addition to their country estates.

Of course, when the case of a vagrant comes before the court, the individual concerned must be represented by a competent barrister; someone like Mr.David Hunter, or Mr.Reginald Smythe, Justice Lord Rosebery presiding.

I'm Bert, p'raps you've heard of me
Bert, you've had word of me,
Jogging along, hearty and strong
Living on plates of fresh air
I dress up in fashion
And when I am feeling depressed
I shave from my cuff all the whiskers and fluff
Stick my hat on and toddle up West

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And saunter along like a toff
I walk down the Strand with my gloves on my hand
Then I walk down again with them off
I'm all airs and graces, correct easy paces
Without food so long I've forgot where my face is
I'm Bert, Bert, I haven't a shirt
But my people are well off you know.
Nearly everyone knows me from Smith to Lord Rosebr'y,
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow.

I stroll with Lord Hurlington,
Roll in The Burlington
Call for Champagne, walk out again
Come back and borrow the ink
I live most expensive
Like Tom Lipton I'm in the swim
He's got so much 'oof', he sleeps on the roof
And I live in the room over him.

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And saunter along Temple Bar
As round there I skip
I keep shouting 'Pip Pip!'
And the darn'd fools think I'm in my car
At Rothchilds I swank it
My body I plank it
On his front door step with 'The Mail' for a blanket
I'm Bert, Bert, and Rothchild was hurt
He said ' You can't sleep there' I said 'Oh'
He said 'I'm Rothchild sonny!' I said 'That's damn'd funny,
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow'

I smile condescendingly
While they're extending me
Cheer upon cheer when I appear
Captain with my polo team
So strict are my people
They're William the Conqueror's strain
If they ever knew I'd been talking to you
Why they'd never look at me again

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And reach Kempton Park around three
I stand by the rail, when a horse is for sale
And you ought to see Wooton watch me
I lean on some awning while Lord Derby's yawning
Then he bids two thousand and I bid Good Morning
I'm Bert, Bert, I'd buy one, a cert
But where would I keep it you know
I can't let my man see me in bed with a gee-gee
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow!

My pose, Tho' ironical
Shows that my monocle
Holds up my face, keeps it in place,
Stops it from slipping away.
Cigars, I smoke thousands,
I usually deal in The Strand
But you've got to take care when you're getting them there
Or some idiot might stand on your hand.

I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten thirty
And Buckingham Palace I view.
I stand in the yard while they're changing the guard
And the queen shouts across Toodle oo!
The Prince of Wales' brother along with some other
Slaps me on the back and says Come and see Mother
But I'm Bert, Bert, and Royalty's hurt,
When they ask me to dine I say no.
I've just had a banana with Lady Diana
I'm Burlington Bertie from Bow.

References

The Theatre of the British Legal System, Part 1, Part 2

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Terra Firma once more

2010-02-18T13:29:00.000-08:00

When I disembarked, Christopher, the black giant was playing a merry jig for those of his shipmates that were staying aboard during their off-hours:

Whatever the reason for the pings earlier, I've been spared long enough (just a day or so) to complete my voyage to Panjim, and the difference from Munambam could hardly be more pronounced: from a tiny fishing village to a huge, bustling port city. Where the accents of Munambam were almost exclusively Hindi, walking through the bazaar here my ear detects English, Spanish / Portuguese, Hindi, something that I think might be African, and even Arabian.

And the cosmopolitan character of the city is emphasized by the odd mix of Christian churches, and Hindu shrines which populate the whitewashed stucco streets. Though, I am told, most of the shrines are a fairly recent development: when the Holy Inquisition sent their missionaries to ensure the eternal welfare of the Hindi natives in the sixteenth century, many of the faithful risked torture to smuggle their idols to a safe haven about fifteen miles away in the town of Ponda.

I suppose I should really have followed tradition and offered a prayer of thanks for safe conduct in the cathedral of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception, but I was more concerned with finding someone to continue my education on the subject of traditional Indian music. Guitars seem to be ubiquitous, but as evening drew on I managed to find a duetting pair adding their music to the lilt of the breeze across the marshes on the edge of the city. In all probability I will never know for certain whether they were father and son as I supposed, the elder improvising hypnotic arabesques on a sarangi, and the younger playing the melody of an evening raag on a bamboo flute.

References

Maps of the region, in PDF (not much help to a timetraveller!)

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Morning Raga

2010-02-10T17:14:00.000-08:00

Thank you, my faithful companion, for coming with me on this voyage. The Taoists have a proverb that The journey is the reward, and it certainly seems to have been the attitude of Dispatch in sending us here: barely forty-eight hours since we docked at the small fishing village of Munambam, and already I am getting a ping to warn me that the elastic is being stretched. When I say docked, what I should say is that the ship anchored offshore in the Arabian Sea and we were permitted to go ashore at Munambam.

The first thing I appreciated about Munambam was the variation in diet made possible by our brief stop: bananas! fresh, ripe bananas which must surely be proof that God loves us! Even in a small fishing village like this, there are brilliant colors everywhere, and here and there, small shrines piled with offerings from the faithful. So far, I have seen several shrines to the elephant-headed Ganesha as well as the universal presence of the Buddha.

With the captain's permission to spend the night in the village at the tiny inn to wait for the village market today, I was too excited to sleep much and the constant chattering of the monkeys from the jungle around the village, and the songs of the night birds populated my thoughts with vivid images of ancient temples and mossy stones beside quiet streams. When the sky was just beginning to lighten, I caught the strains of a sitar somewhere nearby and it was then that I left my bed to go in search of the music.

The old man I found, accompanied by his son and nephew, was introduced to me as Baladhi after perhaps three hours of almost hypnotic improvisation repeating the same underlying theme until the music ceased and the spell broke. It is to Baladhi, and Haresh that I am indebted for the following morning raagas, which I hope I have transcribed (more or less) correctly allowing for the differences between the western scale, and Indian thaat. As explained to me briefly, Indian music not only employs more complex rhythmic devices (taals) than can be easily represented in western notation, but much more subtle divisions of the thaat.

The village market was a surprisingly variegated event; a travelling silversmith set up a small workshop with anvil and forge repairing jewelry and selling beautiful work set with turquoise stones and red coral. The local farmers bring yams, peppers, goats and chickens for sale, and buy fish, and a merchant has a stall selling bolts of cotton.

I hope that at some point it will be possible for me to return to India and explore the culture more thoroughly; it seems nonsensical that despite the technology that makes it possible for me to traverse time and space, the constraints of the project do not permit me to linger even though I can return almost to the same instant from which I departed. Being a mere mortal however, I have a limited number of years available to me, no matter how I use them, so perhaps should take care to spend them carefully!

References

If you're interested in Taoist proverbs, there's a small but concentrated collection of them here.

Gaiye Ganapati; (Real Player) a song in praise of Lord Ganesh
Performed by Chandrakantha Courtney.

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Jack fell down and broke his crown

2010-02-05T04:27:00.001-08:00

We're almost down to the Cape of Good Hope, and the weather has stayed fair for the last few days, just getting a little cooler. However, I am feeling a strange sense of loss after one of the crew fell from one of the crosstrees. He survived the fall, but took a dent on the noggin when he landed and had it not been for the willingness of our surgeon-barber to accept the assistance of an Indian physician from a trading dhow, I am afraid we would have lost him.

After the unfortunate fellow was diagnosed with bleeding into a part of the brain referred to as the Cave of Rama by the physician, I suspect it was partly by virtue of being female that I was invited to assist in an operation to relieve pressure within his brain. Overruling the objections of his western counterpart, the physician first produced a natural sponge soaked in a pungent preparation which I learned later.¹

Despite the smell from the sponge which I held over his nose, the patient quieted noticeably and I actually had to make an effort to engage him in conversation and keep him at least semi-conscious while the physician worked with astonishing speed and dexterity, making his incision, trephining a small piece of bone and spilling bloody fluid on the deck.

As soon as he had finished suturing the wound and I was able to remove the sponge, he applied a compress made with the leaves of the Ekdandi to staunch the bleeding. Now, several days later, the patient is recovering well although he complains of a splitting headache which is apparently caused by contamination of his spinal fluid. But he is able to perform light duties, mostly swabbing and sail-mending. But he shows a marked change in personality. Where he had been one of the more exuberant members of the crew, now he is quiet and rather withdrawn and I'm not sure whether it is the result of his injury, the remedy applied, or perhaps, the anaesthesia?

During their off-hours, his shipmates try to engage him in games and songs, looking for traces of their old comrade, but it seems he may not be there any longer. However, in their efforts to kindle the cheery spark of former times, I have learned that there are shanties for:

Hauling the halyard
Pumping the bilge
Winding the capstan or the windlass
And Fo'c'sle shanties for just making whoopie in off-hours!

The example below is a good Short-drag shanty from one of the African members of the crew:

References

- Opium
- Mulberry juice (from unripe berries)
- Decoction of Mandragora root
- Decoction of Ivy stem
- Decoction of Hemlock stem

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Would you believe it?

2010-01-28T17:00:00.000-08:00

We're riding at anchor down by Oeiras, Portugal where the captain has arranged to take on supplies of fresh water, and some fruit and we are handing off a mail packet. The bosun of the small barque that brings our supplies also brings news of recent activity by Arab pirates off the Strait of Gibraltar which is a little worrying, but I have to trust that the captain knows how to deal with a pirate attack; we have four ten-pound guns on the deck each with a small pile of shot sitting ready beside them.

When the time comes to weigh anchor and set sail once more, the bosun (boat-swain) of our ship gets the men laboring at the capstan with a capstan shanty (below) and there's something viscerally exciting about hearing the bosun singing the verse, while the men breathe easy for a moment, then the men singing the chorus lustily as they turn the capstan.

As I mentioned before, sailors are superstitious fellows, and since the ship's carpenter and the ship's cook have become fairly good friends of mine, I decided to ask them about some of their personal superstitions. They might seem silly or pointless to someone safe on dry land, but I'm sure they originated in real hazards that some of the seamen still remember. The results of my interrogation are offered below:

'Tis bad luck to whistle on board. When I asked about this, the carpenter asked me if I had never heard of whistling up a storm on land, and thinking back, I have heard such a thing from a miller.
We don't niver bring plants on board. Seeds is a'right mind. And parts of plants is a'right but I'm of the mind that the ship gets jealous, being tree-en.
You won't niver see a ship leave port on a Friday. Tis awful bad luck to take the ship out of harbor on a Friday.
How do you feel about the little fellows with the pink tails, down in the hold? (I had to ask the cook who he meant by this) You mayn't like 'em, and I'm loath to share my vittles with 'em, but when they leaves the ship, you know you're in trouble!

The bosun has also been helpful in learning more about the ship, but I get the feeling that he is amused by my confusion between terms like sheet (a rope tying the sail), yard (the sail itself), crosstrees (the parts that go across the mast), and fo'c'sle (the fore-castle).

References

Drop by this link to learn more about the parts of a wooden ship. Item 14, just aft of the figurehead is the "necessary seat"! Yup, that's the head.

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Gloriana!

2010-01-14T17:38:00.000-08:00

Some things never change: for a really good show, Londoners will always be ready to camp out on the streets overnight making sure they get a good view point. Despite the snow and the damp of the streets, little huddles of hopeful sightseers have set up braziers and the vendors of hot pies, roast chestnuts and soup have all been doing a brisk trade. And it's not mere chance that the coronation is to take place on Sunday, January 15th, 1599. The date was selected by Doctor John Dee as the date for which the astrological configuration would be most positive.

As I have been informed by various London natives, the first stage in ascending to the throne was for the princess to occupy the Tower of London, going by river from Hatfield in the state barge on Friday. And when I think about it, it makes sense. Since it was built the Tower has been the castle of the rulers of London.

Yesterday the crowds were treated to their first close view of their queen-to-be; along the planned route of the Royal Progress to Westminster the Guilds of the City of London presented a series of pageants: at Fenchurch the princess was welcomed on behalf of the City. At Fenchurch Street were three ceremonial arches, and above the greatest of them, figures representing Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn, Queen Elizabeth's late mother. And surmounting them all, a figure representing Queen Elizabeth herself. At the top end of Cheapside, the queen graciously received from the city a purse of a thousand gold marks, giving a short speech of thanks.

And what was I doing with all this merriment going on? well, for once I had a chance to peddle broadside ballads myself, the bestseller of the hour being this:

References

The coronation of Queen Elizabeth in detail.

Snapshots of the divers pageants that greeted the princess

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Do you hear what I hear? Do you see what I see?

2009-12-18T04:49:00.001-08:00

A cold clear night, stars twinkle above. I can make out the shape of Orion the hunter near the horizon, and the Great Bear, riding high. And as I watch, a figure materialises, like a man outlined in fire, or a shower of gold dust, up there outshining the stars. He's so beautiful, I've never seen anyone like him!

His voice... well I know it's a cliché but his voice is loud and clear, the best way I can describe it is like the sound of a trumpet Glory to God in the highest! And on Earth, peace, good will to men. And before I know it the sky is full of these radiant beings, the stars barely visible. And the music! Oh, the music of their singing!

As they faded from view I was such a mix of emotions; I felt so little, so insignificant, and shameful, as if I had been in the presence of someone who knew the worst things I had ever done, yet at the same time I was so full of joy, I wanted to laugh and cry, and love and be loved. It was some minutes before I realised that my eyes were streaming with tears and my knees were numb on the cold hard ground.

Whatever you believe, whatever faith you keep, let me wish you a very Happy Christmas. And know this, something is coming; something wonderful!

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The Absolute Monarch

2009-12-09T13:53:00.000-08:00

The picture I had of Bluff King Hal before starting this assignment was, I suspect, fairly typical; on the one hand the epitome of a renaissance man, athletic, artistic and gallant, on the other hand, a ruthless bluebeard who used up women in his quest for a male heir. As I learn more from the Grass Roots level, I can't help thinking that in a later age, he would probably be described, albeit quietly and far from court, as a Gunboat Diplomat.

Since I began working at the Black Swan Inn, in Greenwich, we have had the first snowfall of the winter and in addition to my usual round of scrubbing barrels and floors (not always with the same brush) I have been helping fetch faggots to kindle the fires which not only heat the rooms, but water for brewing and laundry, and the stoves for cooking. And among the stories which I have been hearing from the guests, is the good fortune that Will Somers has found.

The way I heard it, on his way back to his property in Isham, in the county of Northamptonshire, Master Fermor attended the King delivering letters and news
from France and Italy gathered during a business trip. His fool Will Somers accompanied him to the court where he immediately attracted the attention of the King with his bold wit. The King and Queen Catherine were walking in the palace garden discussing developments in Europe with Richard Fermor and Henry mentioned his hope that Catherine would soon present him with a prince. At this point, Will Somers addressed the queen;

Look to thy husband, Kate, lest he cozen thee; provide civil oranges enough, or he'll have a lemon shortly

For the following song suggested by the sight of me nailing sprigs of holly and mistletoe to the rafters, I am indebted to Benjamin Comys, one of the itinerant immigrant musicians who often entertains at court. I have his assurance that this was indeed composed by his majesty who plays very well upon the harp, though I wouldn't recommend that Queen Catherine put too much faith in the sentiment expressed.

Arranged by Taco Walstra.

References

An introduction to reading lute tablature

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Dancing for Joy

2009-12-03T08:50:00.000-08:00

Is it really you? I didn't recognise you with your hood up. Has anybody ever told you you've got nice legs? Anyway, what can I get you to drink?

When I bring your mulled cider I'll point out a couple of members of the party travelling with Master Fermor, merchant.

He's come all the way from Calais and among the party is a sharp-witted fellow whose company I think you might enjoy. The story I heard is that plague has been spreading through southern France, and Master Fermor wanted to get out before it
began heading north.

The thuggish looking fellow with the gorilla brow and the shaved head is actually not as rough as he seems. In fact he's quite the wit; he's asked me to have a word with the band at the far end of the room, which I intend to do as soon as I don't have my hands full of tankards and thirsty customers wanting their drinks. And by the way, the choice of fish pies isn't bad but I wouldn't recommend their stargazy pie unless you're planning to share with Scrattleclaws, the inn cat! And I should warn you, she doesn't wait to be asked, if she likes the look of what you eat, she'll be in your lap before you've even smelt it.

Sam Boteler doesn't generally approve of the staff joining the dancing, but the punters seem happy enough tonight and Sam himself is sick and can't stray far from the privy so I took the chance to join in a round dance for a while and one of Master Fermor's men was being utterly merciless, exaggerating the movements and mannerisms of anyone who caught his eye!

References

Lady Eleanor Cleavely's dissertation
on the Fool in King Lear

A Dedicated Follower of Fashion!

2009-11-27T16:15:00.001-08:00

Ordinarily, I don't approve of the I'm so glad that didn't happen to me attitude. But after celebrating Thanksgiving with Annabelle Sarah Hale (and with not only her permission, but her encouragement) the following song (to the tune of "Oh Susanna" for those of us who don't read music) struck us both as an entertaining gift to share with music-lovers for ages to come.

I think the lyrics tell a better story than anything I could concoct!

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A Dedicated Follower of Fashion!

2009-11-27T16:15:00.000-08:00

I think the lyrics tell a better story than anything I could concoct!

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Through a Glass, Darkly

2009-11-21T08:29:00.000-08:00

To answer the riddle that Master Garrett puts to me, I must have two things:

I immediately find myself thinking along the lines of "eye of toad, and wing of bat..."

Doctor Dee continues to explain:

A lock, and a key. Our Lock is an item of knowledge, but not how it may be used. Our Key is he that hath understanding to use what is known, but possesses not the Lock.

And am I one of these two, Doctor Dee?

You are. Or more properly, what you have told us of last night is the Key. Now it is for Doctor Kelley and myself to find the Lock and apply the Key. And in order that the Key may open the lock, we shall also have need of you if you are willing?

How do you propose to use me?

If you will, get you to the priest and be shriven and fast until the seventh hour today when you shall come here and join myself and Doctor Kelley in a scrying for the Lock.

I followed the instructions given, firstly seeking confession with the village priest. I never imagined I might have accumulated so many sins until he suggested a list of possible headings! And although Master Garrett wasn't keen on the idea, I was given leave to make my way to the house of Doctor Dee. By the time the seventh hour rolled around I think I could have recited the pater noster backwards and my tummy was rumbling quite noticeably.

Doctor Kelley's study was surprisingly tidy; a couple of shelves held ancient-looking books, and such furnishings as there were had been moved back against the walls to make room for a small table in the centre of the room on which lay a bundle wrapped in black velvet. Doctor Dee bade me be seated, and carefully unwrapped the velvet bundle to reveal a slab of polished obsidian.

Now Doctor Dee picked one of the vials from the collection on Doctor Kelley's desk, uncorked it, and using the feather end of an uncut quill, proceeded to draw a faint circle encompassing the chairs and table where I was seated. At each of the cardinal points of the compass, he added an obscure symbol and invoked the protection of one of his familiars; I remember the names of Il, Po and Va but forget the fourth.

Finally Dee and Kelley settled themselves around the table equidistantly we joined hands and Doctor Kelley advised me to close my eyes and recall as clearly as I might, every detail of the night before when I was awoken.

With eyes closed, I listened to Doctor Kelley murmuring what seemed at first to be random phrases; a cat cries, a rat finds an apple core, the mice scratch at their fleas. I know my mind started to wander, and I may have missed something, but when he said The heaven opens and the seeker descends! I came back to earth with a start. I am afraid my surprise disturbed the mood and if neither of the Doctors had said anything I still would have known that they were less than pleased with my conduct. However, they did at least confide that they felt something had been achieved, even if they did not elect to enlighten me further.

Leaving the house of Doctor Dee in the dark, my spirits were thoroughly cast down and I would happily have slunk back to Master Garrett's loft to break my fast with a cold pie but on my way back into the village Peter and his sweetheart, Susan siezed me one by each arm and frogmarched me to the tavern, refusing to let me leave once more until I had lined my belly, drunk good cider, and danced a measure or two.

References

Doctor Kelley hath his own page in the Booke of Faces

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Who owns the night?

2009-11-12T16:32:00.000-08:00

Once again, this is a difficult entry to write. I've been living in the real, tangible world for so long (and "real" and "tangible" take on new meanings when you spend the evening singing songs over a half-pint in a candle-lit tavern rather than watching re-runs on television) that despite my previous experience^{1, 2} with the fey folk, I am having some difficulty incorporating the latest developments into my understanding of the world.

As part of the terms of my employment I am allowed to sleep on the premises, in Master Garrett's workshop on a small straw pallet over the lumber store and it was only days after starting here that I was awoken by a brilliant light shining into the lumber store. Of course, I thought I had overslept and was about to hear the Master's opinion of my work ethic, so as quickly as I could, I scrambled into doublet and hose but halfway down the ladder the light shifted and disappeared as if someone had passed by with a brilliant lantern. Of course, in the year of our Lord 1583 electric light is unknown, so I was puzzled and alarmed. I shinned back up the ladder and into my sleeping loft where I tried several times to strike a light with tinder and flint in hope of lighting a candle, but achieving flame from flint sparks is a tricky business at the best of times, and something I have never mastered.

Perhaps because of my nocturnal surprise I woke earlier than usual, and remembering what happened before I fell back asleep, I was out into the workshop as soon as possible to check that all was in order; none of the tools or workpieces were disturbed, and nothing taken, so after a breakfast of honeycakes and hazelnuts I stepped outside to look around the shop. What I found was three indentations pressed into the dirt almost four inches making a triangular pattern, and this in soil packed hard enough that even wagon wheels scarcely mark the surface unless there has been a good rain first.

Peter, the apprentice was the first to arrive for work and after taking a brief look at the impressions, crossed himself and looked at me: "Mark my words, this will not sit well with Master Garrett!".

Sure enough when Master Garrett arrived he gazed at the marks for a few minutes. "Have either of you stepped inside the triangle?"

Once he had satisfied himself that neither of us had done more than look from a safe distance, he ordered me to ask whether Doctor Dee would examine the site, and gave me directions to the Doctor's house. The door was answered by the Doctor's manservant who sent me back bearing the message that the Doctor was with a gentleman but would attend Master Garrett in the
first hour after noon.

After that, work in the shop proceeded with an uneasy quietness making the morning seem longer than ever, but as promised Doctor Dee arrived, with another professional-looking man, both of them wearing their black doctoral robes, and close-fitting black caps. The Doctor was immediately recognizable by his long, neatly brushed pointy beard and took Master Garrett first to examine the marks. After a while, Peter and I made excuses to step outside the workshop and Doctor Dee requested a pitcher of water.

Watching the Doctor pour a little water onto the ground between marks was one of the most surprising things I have ever seen: the water sat, forming a small puddle. A little more water a short way outside the pattern was quickly absorbed, making sticky mud of the dry soil. Without being able to stay and learn more I was dismissed inside, and a few minutes later was
joined once more by Peter but it was not until Master White, miller, came to arrange the fitting of new axles to one of his carts that Master Garrett joined us once more.

This song didn't make it into the printed archive until the eighteenth century, but I couldn't resist the temptation to slip it in here!

References

Beltane Fire

Away with the Fairies

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The Moth and the Flame

2009-11-08T17:31:00.000-08:00

Eventually getting me into the workshop of Dr.John Dee was a major triumph for the laboratory team. Getting me back again in the
same shape was a significant achievement for me as well!

For reasons I still don't understand, departure took three attempts and when I did finally go, I found myself in some
ill-defined green-lit fog of a space. Through the green fog I could make out perhaps eighteen feet away from me two men,
one in late middle-age, and the other younger. The older one ordered me to state my name and given the circumstances I
wasn't about to identify myself, so blurted out "Podhoffinog". Armed with this information, the older man spoke an
incantation in a language I had never heard before, including the name I gave, and I found myself back in the laboratory
with a shocking headache.

After that attempt there was a debriefing at which I agreed to be sent to alternative coordinates in the village of Shene
in Surrey, to the west of London. The assignment started with more of a bump than usual, and perhaps I should have taken the
hint; in the event, it proved more difficult than ever before to inveigle myself into the household of my subject. It didn't
occur to me until some time after my return and debrief that Dr.Dee's protective wards must have been both effectual, and
powerful.

My first opportunity in the village came in the misfortune of Willy Barlowe, no longer able to work with the village
wheelwright as a result of a severe scald from the steam chest. The job is ideal for me since it involves working with
wood and occasional visits to the smithy for tires to be fitted, and while Master Garrett, the wheelwright, and his
apprentice do most of the work, I act as the extra pair of hands, helping to carry the baulks of elm for the nave (hub)
of a new wheel, sweeping the floor, and after poor Willy's example, I approach the steam chest with
a good measure of caution when refilling the cauldron or stoking the fire.

To watch Master Garrett work, holding a spoke on the shaving horse, shaping each part with a razor-edged drawknife to
match its sisters perfectly, or mortising the nave to receive the spokes is delightful but I can't spend as much time as
I would like watching; Master Garrett expects work from his employees and his tongue is as sharp as his spokeshave! The good
part is that he whistles habitually as he works, and this little delight is the song I learned while working around him:

References

Check out this site for some pictures of a modern wheelwrighting workshop.

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The Last Hielandmen

2009-04-03T00:21:00.000-07:00

When I learned at school about the history of the slave trade, I was taught how unscrupulous western merchants trapped, enslaved and sold African natives, in the most barbaric conditions, giving little thought to the welfare of the men, women and children that they sold, but concerned above all to turn a profit. So it came as quite a surprise to hear another side to the story altogether from Mr.Alexander Stewart, Scottish expatriate in France, in 1752.

Having not paid too much attention during my schooling, I was marginally aware of the events of the two great Jacobite rebellions against English rule, the ‘15 and the ‘45, but I have no recollection of being taught more than the most rudimentary facts concerning the aftermath of the terrible Battle of Culloden at which the Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart, was trounced.

To set the scene: the Lowland Scots, a people culturally apart from the Highlanders, favoured political union with England under the reign of Queen Mary and Prince William of Orange, recently arrived from the Netherlands. However, the Highland Scots still pledged their allegiance to the House of Stewart despite the desperate haste with which King James the VII of Scotland, and II of England fled from the advance of the Orange forces during the Glorious Revolution of 1688.

The highland Scots saw their way of life threatened and in hope of some measure of security, lent their support to the exiled young prince Charles Edward Stuart, Bonnie Prince Charlie, grandson of James VII. The rebellion was short-lived. On July 23rd, 1745, the prince landed on the Isle of Eriskay to begin raising support for his campaign to reclaim the throne. Ten months later, on April 16th, 1746, seeing his army outgunned and outmanned the Young Pretender fled the field of battle, at which point I let Alexander Stewart take up his account:

After his royal highnes came over the Water of Nairn, after the battel, escorted by a partie of the Fitze James's horse, his highnes went to the right of the highway that leads to Ruthven of Badenoch. I having the cantains behinde me, I went a little of the highway after his highness, and asked his highness if he would be pleased to take a refreshment of any thing, as he hade not eate nor drunk any thing that day.
His highness reply to me was, ‘Stewart, no meat no drink;’ but desired me to go on the highway to Ruthven of Badenoch and the Fitze Jamess horss would escorte us, which I went, but with a sorieful heart to parte with my royal Prince and master, ... about two aclok in the afternoon, ... his Grace, the Duke of Perth, and Lord John Drummond cam upe to us. So they consulted that everie man should doe for himself and God for us all, which accordingly we all disperseed, and everie on took his own way, and I went southward till I came to Mr.Rattrays of Craighall, ... till on Reid, a Justice of the peace, came their to dine, and beged of Mr.Rattray that he would not give quarters or entertainment to any of those men called rebells, for which Mr.Rattray came after and told me after dinner that he was not safe to keep me any longer about his house.
So I went directly away to Mr.Rattray's of Rannegoolen ... And about two o'cloke in the morning Sir James Kinloch and his two brothers and Mr.Rattray and his brother in law and three servants of us was all taken by a pairtie of the Queene of Hungaries hussares, commanded by a cornell, a Pollander he was, but I never could know his name ... And from that we was taken away to Couper of Angus, ... where I served the table the time of dinner, and the cornell, when he asked a drink or bread in French, I went and gave it to him directly. For so doing he tooke me to be a Frenchman, because I served it to him readily; for which he asket Sir James what I was, or if I was a French-man? and Sir James told, without asking me, that I was a servant to Mrs.Murray, the Secretares lady; ... And after dinner their was horsses prepared for the gentlemen and a cart for us three servants, and from that we was cairried away to Perth, and taken to the Prince of Hess quarters, and was examened by him and the Duke of Athol and the Earle of Crafoord, and several other gentlemen that I did not know; but on of them that they called Cornell Stewart, who came upe to me and asket what was my name. I told my name was Stewart. So, says he, my lad, you dont think proper to deny your name for all that's done. I have done nothing as yet, Sir, says I, dishonourable but served my master, for which I have no reason to deny my name. And he went away sueiring and lughing to the dor, and the Prince of Hess say to him, ‘Poor gentlemen, I am sorie for their misfortunes.’
Then we were all cairried from that to Mr.Hicksons untill George Miller, that common hangman, the sheriff clerk of Perth, should be found, because he was out of the way at present; and their we stayed about a quarter of ane hour, and then Miller came and we were all taken away to the Councell chamber, and the said Miller examened us all, and then we were all put upe into prison by his orders and remained their in Perth goal untill the ninth of Agust following.
So last of all Mr.David Bruce, commenly called Judge Advocate, came to Perth, and we was all called on by on and examened by him. Then [he] asked me if I knew any of those men that was standing their? I told them I had the misfortune to know them too weel since they and me hade been in prison together, but never before.
‘Weel,’ says Bruce, ‘you will not know on another heir, but I shall cause cairrie you to Carlisle, and caus the on of you hang the other.’
I told him I would defye him or any one to doe so, for if I was to be hanged I should hang no man but myself. However he said he would try for it, which accordingly he dide to the fatal experience of many a brave fellow.

After this, the prisoners of war were roped together in pairs and marched through Falkland, Lintoun, the Kirk of the Beild, Moffat, Lockerby and Gretna Green to Carlisle, being joined by the prisoners from Stirling at around noon.

... about two a clock in the afternoon a rascall of the name of Gray, Soliciter Hume's man from Edinburgh, with his hatful of tickets ... presented the hat to me, being the first man on the right of all the twentie that was to draw together. I asked Gray what I was going to doe with that, and he told me it was to draw for our lives, which accordingly I did, and got number fourteen. So he desired me to look and be sure. I told him it was no great mater whether I was shure or not. ... And betuixt five and six a clock at night Web, Miller, and Gray, and on Henderson, came all out to the yarde, where we was sitting on the grass, with a verie large paper like a charter, and read so much of it to us as they thout proper, and told us that it was to petition their king (George I) for mercy to us, and that it was to go of that night for London, and as soon as it came back we might probably get hom, or els transportation, which would be the worst of it; ...

Now the men were marched from Carlisle through Penrith, Kendall, Lancaster, Preston, Ormkirk and finally to Liverpool on April 30th, 1747 where they boarded two ships.

The names of the two ships was the Gillder and Johnstoun, both belonging to Gillder, member of parliament for Liverpool, and their was eighte eight of us in the shipe called the Gillder, Richard Holms, captain, and Robert Horner, supercargor, a Yorkshire byt. When we went aboard we wer all stript and searched that we hade no armes about us, or any instrument for taking of our irons, and thene we put on our cloths again, and then we was desired to go aft to the steirreg until we got on the Hanoverian pleat on our leags, and went to se the apartment where we was to ly.

The ships put to sea on May 18th, but a violent storm on the 22nd separated the flotilla until the Gillder reached the inlet mouth between Cape Charles and Cape Henry, at which point a Spanish ship gave pursuit, but could not catch the ship before they entered American waters.

So being got within the river, our supercargor and the Doctor went to take their rest, and our Captain came and sat down on the trap that came down between dakes and discours'd us, and asked us what we was to doe now when we was near our journey's end. ... So when we came up forgainst St.Maries, the Captain went ashore, it being the pleace where the Custom hous was, that he might enter us all their, and in two or three hours time he came aboard again, and caused the carpenter go and take of all our irons, which accordingly was done. ... And that night being Sunday the 19th of Jully 1747, we came to ane ancor at the port called Wecomica, where we was to be put ashore at, and as soon as the shipe came to ane ancor, we was all ordred below dake, for Robert Horner, the supercargor, wanted to speak a queet word to us, which accordingly went all doun between daks, and Horner came doun and made a verie fine speach concerning the goodness of the countrie that we was going to; and if we would atest for seven years, the men that would by us, if we pleased them weel, would probably give us doun two years of our time, a gun, a pick and a mattock, and a soot of cloths, and then we was fre to go thorou any place of the illand we pleased.
And so away ashore with the Captain he went that night, for our Captain's wiffe lived about a mill and ane half from the shipe, and from that Horner hade about ninteen milles to go where the Governor lived to Annapolis; and the time he was there our Captain sent letters to all the Romman Catholick gentlemen and others, who was our friends, so that we might not fall in the common buckskin's hand, for so the people that are born their are called so.
So as I told you befor that Captain Holms acquanted all the gentelemen of three or four counties of the province of Maryland to atend on board the day of the sale, which hapned one the 22d of Jully 1747, after the shipe came to ane ancor at Wecomica, in St. Mary's countie, Maryland, who bought all the eightie eight that was aboarde of our shipe except thre or four that went with two of the common buckskins, ... and would not take advice to go allong with the above gentlemen.
Doctor Stewart and his brother, William, both living in Annopolis, and both brothers to David Stewart of Ballachulan in Montieth, Scotland, who were all my loyal masters fast friends, and paid the nine pound six shillings sterling money that was my price when sold to Mr. Benedict Callvert in Annopolis, who is a verie pretie fellow, and on who hade my being set at libertie at heart as much as any man in the province.

Being now a free man once more, Mr.Stewart sought the household of Mr.Edward Digs, one of the gentlemen who had helped buy the freedom of Stewart and his compatriots and ...

...stayed there untill Mr.John Mushet found out ane honest man, a captain of a shipe (called the Peggie of Dumfries) bound for Dumfreece, ... and the 11th of January 1748 I took my livee of all my friends, and went aboard on the 13th of the said month, but our cargo not being all got ready so soon as was expected, it was the 28 befor we set saill to fall down the river towards the Capes, and being within 3 leags of the Capes we was obliged by ane easterly wind to put in to Hampton Road and their we dropt our ancors and lay for 12 days, and on the 13th of February 1748 about two in the morning we got cleare of the Capes and put to sea and befor daylight we got out of the sight of land, and in 27 days we saw the Irish land;

As a tribute to the brave young men who died that day on Culloden moor, and those who were later put to death for their part in the uprising, I am including a score of the traditional Highland lament The Flowers of the Forest.

References

The full account of Alexander Stewart's capture as a prisoner of war, and subsequent transportation and sale as a slave is told in his own words, in Vol. II of The Lyon in Mourning

This map shows the approximate route taken by the prisoners and escort, to Liverpool docks for transportation.

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Away with the fairies

2009-03-27T00:31:00.000-07:00

By the time I tottered off to my room the hour was late, and I was rather feeling the various effects of

more than two pints of cider
a couple of hours of very vigorous dancing
learning a couple of new songs from Mr.Nolan,

not having a timepiece with me I had no idea what time it was when I was shaken awake by Mr.Connelly, but as he yelled at me that the tavern was afire my nostrils confirmed the tang of smoke in the air. The decision to sleep in my long-tailed shirt meant that I didn't have to worry about decency in the midst of the emergency, but even as I was pulling my knee-britches on Mr.Connelly asked me to help him save the strongbox which held his wife's few items of jewellery, and most of the family's savings.

I should explain at this point that the tavern was built into the side of a steep hill, so the window of my upstairs room opened perhaps six feet above the ground level, and it was through my room that Mr.Connelly urged his two older children to make their escape, their terrified mother accompanying them with baby Sean held tightly in her arms.

In the Connelly's private apartment we took hold of a small wooden chest no more than eighteen inches in any dimension by my reckoning, with sturdy black iron handles. But for its small size it still proved surprisingly heavy. At some length, between the two of us we manhandled the chest out of the window and dropped it to the ground where I was almost certain it would burst, but the iron bands on the lid, and around the sides held it firm.

Mr.Connelly insisted that I should jump next, and that is where things began to get confused. I wasn't confident about jumping even such a short distance to the ground and was trying to pluck up courage, that much I remember clearly. But then I think I was pushed.

Whether I landed badly, I'm not sure, but I don't remember anything between hesitating in the window, and waking. The next morning, when I woke I was cold, stiff and still only partly dressed. And laying on the hay in the hayloft of the stables opposite the tavern. Of course, my first thought was to look for the Connellys and see how badly the tavern had been damaged, and that was when I got the biggest surprise.

The building itself showed no signs of fire, but searching around to the rear of the building, the window of the room which I had occupied was ajar, and while I was out there, Angus the apprentice and potboy came down the hill, carrying a basket of fresh eggs and whistling cheerfully.

"'tis a fine clear morning for the fresh sweet air, is it not?"

I asked Angus if anything ... had happened last night, and of course he wanted to know why I might think anything had. So I was obliged to recount most of my recollection of events to him.

His face took on a thoughtful expression: "Well, I would say it is possible, though some might disagree, that the fair folk played a trick on you last night."

After that, there was no stemming the tide of gossip from the pub and I left as soon as was decently possible, but not without a fair bit of good-natured mirth at my expense; Mr.Connelly was kind enough to reassure me that his family's wealth was quite secure. But what concerned me more were the few, mostly the womenfolk, who crossed themselves and lowered their gaze as I left the village.

Still in Ireland

some notes on the history of Irish dance

a tantalizing glimpse of the history of firefighting in Ireland

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The Minstrel Boy

2009-03-19T21:16:00.000-07:00

Since I happened to be in the area, in a manner of speaking, I couldn't miss an opportunity to do some research on a favourite if somewhat neglected, baroque composer. Turlough O'Carolan, whose name is much more well-known and respected in folk-music circles than among musicologists of the classical tradition, is widely held to have been the last of the true celtic bards: a musician and poet who made it his business to glorify in song the nobles who fed him, clothed him, paid physicians to attend him in sickness, and above all, revelled in his finely crafted praises or delighted in his cunning mockery of their rivals!

As usual, a tavern makes a good base of operations, and starting point for my enquiries. The first thing I learn from the landlord of the Cock as a result of asking about Mr.O'Carolan is that I should either make my services indispensable to some family of rank, or learn to brew the finest whiskey in all of Ireland. According to my landlord, Mr.Connelly, since his talents as a harper were recognized by Mrs.McDermott-Roe, Mr.O'Carolan has been greatly in demand at noble houses across the country, and while Mr.Connelly thinks he might be in County Clare as a guest of Lord Inchiquin he admits that the last news he heard of Mr.O'Carolan's whereabouts is more than two months old now.

Evenings in a tavern like this are always entertaining; there's a lot of animated conversation going on over by the snug next to the open hearth, and in the yard outside, two teams of three men each are competing in a game of skittles when Mr.Connelly himself summons me to the bar to meet Feargus Nolan, himself a musician of no small ability.

Mr.Nolan is a smallish fellow with long ginger sideburns, and sparkling blue eyes, wearing a heavy dark blue woolen coat with bright brass buttons, a large package wrapped in canvas standing beside him on the floor.

Mr.Nolan tells me that he has met, and played with Mr.O'Carolan, a most extraordinary fellow who could drink Saint Patrick himself under the table, and still pick a tune as delicately as a faerie, and such a fancy he has, for the most astonishing tales! He would almost as soon play a song for the telling of a tale of mystery and the fey folk as for another glass of whiskey.

I don't have to wait long before Mr.Nolan unwraps his package, placing the canvas neatly folded under his stool as he takes his small clarsach in his lap to play an air and variations on a popular song. And of course, he has a devoted crowd of "groupies" singing along in their native tongue.

In talking to the local people, there are many stories to be recorded, and I know that if I don't come back here, someone else will have to, if we are to ensure these tales are not lost. But a recurring theme, which I want to follow up for myself concerns the abduction and enslavement of those who survived the wars of pacification with England; taken from their homes and shipped overseas to work on plantations in English colonies. At first, it is easy to dismiss the stories as isolated incidents, but as the numbers mount the question begs to be answered: was Jonathan Swift's seemingly ironic proposal that the problems of famine and poverty in Ireland should be solved by making the Irish sell their offspring as a food crop really intended sarcastically?

References

For more information about Irish genealogy (but mainly for the beautiful spiral pattern included above)

Some must-see parts of Ireland

Don't miss Simon Chadwick's Early Harp page, Simon has also produced at least one CD of early harp music.

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Oh Mr.Porter!

2009-03-13T01:08:00.000-07:00

I'm going to break with custom for this entry, and make this both a blog entry, and a review. Since Ireland is only a day or so's steaming from Swansea, it seemed like a good idea to see if I could arrange passage on a collier crossing the Irish Sea since the Irish Republic is remaining neutral during what the Irish, with their delightfully characteristic understatement refer to as "The Emergency". Having made the crossing without any interference from Adolf's U-boats I'm almost in time for Saint Patrick's day, which, rather surprisingly, is not as flamboyant an affair here, as it is, in for example, the United States.

Finding accommodation presented no particular obstacles, and I have a bed and breakfast room for the week at Mrs. Callaghan's house, in a quiet residential street about ten minutes walk from the waterfront. In contrast to the sirens and bombings of London, the most disturbance I have encountered here has been the singing of a couple of inebriates returning from the Cobbler's Rest at the end of Mackintosh Street, and an enthusiastic rag-and-bone man.

Alright, my review: Mrs. Callaghan has been very hospitable in inviting me to join her listening to the wireless in the parlour during the evenings, but last night I accepted the invitation of Michael Connor, an employee of the shipping company with which I came over, to see the latest Will Hay comedy at the Supreme Picture Theatre.

"Oh Mr.Porter!" tells how a ne'er-do-well poor relation of one of the directors of the railway company is propelled into the job of stationmaster at the rural Irish railway station of Buggleskelly: it's a job that nobody really wants, and the last half-dozen stationmasters have either gone missing in mysterious circumstances, or lost their wits as a result of an encounter with the ghostly fiend, One-Eyed Joe, who haunts a railway tunnel beneath a disused mill.

Will Hay is supported by the mischievous talents of Moore Marriott and Grahame Moffatt as the two resident railway porters who seem to have no regard whatsoever for the railway company's regulations!

Mr.Connor was in infectiously high spirits after the picture, whistling a jaunty polka and even breaking into a dance for the last few hundred yards back to Mrs.Callaghan's. I genuinely regretted that it would not be possible for us to "walk out" again as he put it, but at least he granted me the favour of helping me jot down the tune of "The Aberdare Railway" during a short visit to Milligan's Restaurant. I hope you enjoy it, too.

Ticket Office

Oh Mr.Porter! may be available on DVD from Emporium Pictures,
P.O. Box 28,
Somersworth,
NH 03878
USA

I also think it is worth mentioning that Emporium Pictures do far more than just remastering old movies to new media: my experience trading with them has been that they make a real effort to recreate the experience of the period, and I do hope my fellow picture enthusiasts will give them serious consideration when looking for hard-to-find movies.

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Afternoon Delight!

2009-02-26T22:53:00.000-08:00

It's a few minutes before four o'-clock as I turn into the Langestraat and work my way down looking for number 19. The sun has already set and the light is fading, there are lights in most of the windows and it has been snowing lightly since three o'clock. For warmth I have my hands buried in a thick fur muff under the folds of my cloak.

The Sweelinck house is just one in a street of tall, three and four-storey houses with wonderfully variegated gables, and the door, which opens directly into the downstairs conversatiekamer, is opened to me by a maid in plain brown dress, spotless white apron and cap carrying a small candle. She confers briefly with the occupants of the conversatiekamer before showing me inside where a beautifully decorated virginals stands close to the window taking advantage of the fading light, and three small candle lamps illuminate the rest of the room. On the opposite side of the window his mother, Elska Jansdochter Sweelinck is writing what I assume is a letter, and quite prominently placed on the wall is a largish print of King David playing the harp.

Jan seats himself with his back to the keyboard and asks me how he may be of service?

A bald question like that is a little like being at the site of a bomb going off! There are so many things I would like to ask, but the key to my mission is to collect and disseminate music which is in danger of being overlooked in favor of the new and gaudy. But to this, I make no overt reference. Instead, I explain that, as a working woman I cannot afford to pay him for regular lessons, but would be very grateful if he would let me observe his playing of a few pieces, and perhaps assess my own playing?

He looks thoughtful for a minute before suggesting that I seat myself and play something for him to observe me!

Shuffling through the manuscripts on the music stand he picks out an easy dance and gestures for me to start. I could hardly be more nervous if I was facing the Duke of Alva himself!

It is difficult to concentrate on reading the unfamiliar mensural notation and not surprisingly, I stumble repeatedly. But Jan surprises me when, at the end of the piece, he asks me to stand once more, and observe how he plays it.

The first thing I notice is that he is using the index, middle, and ring fingers of his right hand, only dabbing occasionally with his thumb or pinkie to ornament the line. And looking round at me with a grin, he even imitates one of my stumbles!

It is quite clear, even before he comments on my clumsy fingering, that I should either seek a good tutor, or consider learning to play a different instrument.

I am quite taken aback by the astonishing hospitality of the family when I am invited to join them for dinner, since the hour is approaching. For a middle-class family like themselves to consider entertaining a grauw servant like myself requires the abnegation of social boundaries but in the conversation that accompanies the meal they make it clear that my cover story is failing and they are well-aware that I am not an uneducated peasant! In the course of the meal, which compared to my fare of the last few days is nothing less than a feast, I have opportunity to learn more in depth about the occupation of the Netherlands, and Jan's musical skills, inherited from, and carefully nurtured by his late father, the previous organist at the Oude Kerk.

In a final desperate attempt to avoid questions that would expose me, I have hinted very broadly that I am gathering intelligence (true enough), though whether for Prince William, or another friendly power (or even for the Duke of Alva) I have tried not to suggest. Taking my leave, and thanking them for their generous hospitality, it is very definitely time for me to leave!

To learn more about Amsterdam in the 16th century I encourage you to visit the following sites:

How to play the virginals like Jan Sweelinck

Domestic life in 16th century Holland

A history of Dutch cuisine

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In the House of the Lord

2009-02-20T00:16:00.000-08:00

I am indebted to Marten van Delft for the suggestion (which is so obvious, I'm ashamed I didn't think of it myself) that I should ask Pieter Coningh, the kerkmeester of the Sint Nicolaas Kerk if he might know where I could meet Jan Sweelinck.

In my free afternoon, I make my way to the Kerk through the icy streets. The Kerk is every bit as huge and draughty as I expected but in the nave there are at least a few small braziers spaced out, where folk can warm themselves for a while. The whitewashed walls give the place a serene, and airy feel and the voices of visitors, mostly transacting business of one kind or another, echo from the vaults overhead. The Kerk still shows the traces of iconoclastic damage by zealous Calvinist believers fifteen years ago (although I can hardly blame them for their anger, considering the atrocities committed against their countrymen). I can't help wondering if Jan Pieterszoon shares the strong feelings of so many of his compatriots against catholicism. Being born at the time when the Spanish hold over the Netherlands was decisively broken, I expect he has no memories of events at the time, but his attitude has probably been colored by the recollections of his parents and older friends. If all goes well, in a few minutes I may be able to put the question to him in person.

Now that I'm here, Meester Coningh seems to be almost as difficult to catch as Jan Sweelinck; the church is a large building, and I worry that when I go east, he could be going west. An older man in a broad felt hat suggests I wait beside the brazier while he goes in search, and a few minutes later Meester Coningh comes hurrying up, taking a few minutes to warm his own hands. It's a good thing I picked today to come in search, Jan Sweelinck will be giving a short performance in perhaps fifteen minutes. With that information, I gratefully accept a small stool and make myself comfortable to wait.

In the next fifteen minutes, quite a crowd assembles in the nave of the church, mostly men, and mostly fairly well-to-do judging by their apparel, and many of them bring either stools or small folding chairs with them. Could this be the reason stoutly padded clothing is so much in vogue? the chairs and stools are un-cushioned, they wear their cushions!

It must be twenty minutes since the recital ended, and from my watch-post lurking beside a pillar near the west end of the kerk I approach the gangly pink-faced boy who comes down from the stairway beneath the tower with a leathern document wallet in one hand to be met by a girl in a dark brown dress, of more-or-less the same age.

"Heb ik het genoegen van het aanpakken van Meester Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck?"

The girl (girlfriend? sister?) who has taken his arm smiles proudly at him as he confirms that he is indeed the young man I am looking for, but if I will excuse him, he is required to attend lessons with his tutor, at the expense of the city burghers. Perhaps I would come to number 19 on the Langestraat this afternoon, about four-o'clock? and there he will be honored to introduce me to his family and answer my questions.

I haven't long left the Kerk when I am approached by a rather agressive woman, her face reddened with windburn, who demands alms of me. It does me no harm to give her a few silver schellingen and, concerned for her continued existence, I ask where she shelters. Perhaps because I try to show a measure of compassion her attitude towards me changes a little and she opens up.

"When I have a penning I go to the Gasthuis down past the 'house on the three canals' at night but if I have any money I have to hide it, or they take it all. Sometimes one of the taverns will let me sleep on the floor in return for sweeping."

It seems that, until the Calvinist influence spread to the Netherlands, such unfortunate souls were able to obtain a measure of assistance from the church, being allowed to shelter in the building, and receive whatever victuals might be donated from day to day. But now, charity takes a different tone, and emphasises the importance of working for one's daily bread.

References

Please take a moment to visit this page which has many fine illustrations as well as a condensed guide to the Oude Kerk.

For a more detailed history of the Kerk, this is a good page to visit.

This page, describing the commerce of the Dutch Indies, has some examples of currency.

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Live Free or Die!

2009-02-13T00:09:00.000-08:00

De eerste dach von April
Verloor Duc d'Alva zynen Bril

The first day of April
the Duke of Alva lost his spectacles!

When I set out to explore the highways and byways of time, I had no idea that tending bar would become such an integral part of my occupation. I knew a little astronomy, a little herbal medicine, a few odds and ends picked up from observing craftsmen at work, but next-to-nothing about how to flirt safely with carters and sailors, and how to manage a drunk. Well, little by little I'm filling in the gaps in my knowledge.

Having failed to locate Jan Sweelinck so far, it became necessary for me to find some short-term employment that would allow me enough leeway to continue my investigation; some free time is good, and plenty of interaction with Joe Public is vital.

Which explains why I am carrying pots of ale, the occasional mead (but we don't get much call for it these days) and making spiced wine in the kitchen here at the Neptunus inn. And this is where I was fortunate enough to engage Marten van Delft in conversation. Or rather, he snagged me as I was passing. He wasn't drunk, a little tipsy perhaps, and while he made a half-hearted pass at me, he wasn't serious about getting laid either. He just wanted someone to talk to.

Suited me fine! I recognized him as the boatman who had fitted his boat with wheels for the frost fair, and as it turned out, he had quite an illustrious career behind him as one of the notorious Watergeuzen, serving with the crew known as the Lost Child of Leyden. He recounts proudly the names of other crews as well, with names like the Great Thirst of Gorkum, The Cleaver of Alkmaar, and the Every Neck Forfeit, each of their names a reproach against Spanish atrocities.

He tells me the crews were a rag-tag mixture of disenchanted Spaniards, Frenchmen, English, Germans and Dutch, mostly mercenary buccaneer types happy to accept the nominal leadership of Prince William of Orange. It seems Prince William had issued very particular orders regarding ships sailing under his marque, but once at sea, the captains more-or-less made their own rules.

Every ship was to

carry a priest.
observe the Articles of War
be commanded by a Dutch native
accept neither soldiers or sailors unless they were men of a good reputation and respectable family.

Like all sailors, he can spin a good yarn, and at first I was disinclined to believe his story of the fleet led by Simon de Rijck blown off-course and forced to seek shelter in the harbor of Brijl where the ships' crews, impossibly outnumbered, surprised the Spanish garrison and recaptured the port. But I found out later, his tale wasn't embroidered all that much. Having misjudged the situation, the garrison force had been ordered to reinforce Utrecht.

The town gates had been locked and the militia turned out to man the walls while the town magistrates convened in the town hall. Captain Cornelis Roobol took a party of sailors and a length of mast timber and under fire from the ramparts of the wall, had his men lay tarred brushwood against the gates. Using black powder charges and fire to weaken the gates, the men finally managed to break the gates open using the battering ram and found the town largely deserted to the militia by the citizens who feared both the wrath of the Sea Beggars and the Spanish occupying forces.

It was at this point that I interrupted Marten to ask him if he could teach me any of the sailors' songs. He knit his brows in thought for a few moments, blushed slightly and grinned, then taught me the following, which I doubt very much was regularly sung by the sailors (although You Know What Sailors Are!)

References

For anyone who wants to learn more about the Sea Beggars, or to get a better picture of piracy in the sixteenth century, I recommend this book, available online from Google Books or as a PDF for download to read at leisure.

I recommend also, this Gallery of Captains of the Sea Beggars

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Water like a stone

2009-02-05T23:40:00.000-08:00

This report has taken more effort than usual to type up. It wasn't a particularly troublesome excursion, but I had to think very carefully about wording, and how to describe the activities which I engaged in, knowing that it would be read by Madam Director.

My intention was to skip backwards (yes, I know, a skip that involves harnessing a measurable percentage of solar energy and beating seven bells out of Newtonian physics) to Amsterdam in 1581 in the hope of meeting a young (15-year-old) and very promising Jan Pieterszoon Sweelinck. However, I gave almost no thought to the season in which I would be arriving: an icy February. So of course, not only are the city streets icy, and rooves limned with icicles glittering in the sunlight, but a frost fair is in progress!

My first priority, since for this trip I am not in drag, is to obtain a warm cloak and some woollen stockings, and I should really be conscientious and make my way to the Oude Kerke to begin my investigation, but there are more interesting things happening closer at hand.

On the Amstel there are people skating,there are booths set up selling mulled wine (my personal favorite is a variation called Bischopswijn), hot pies, roast meats, freshly baked buns, a couple of shoemenders offering to repair damaged skates, and various rides and games. I had to chuckle when I saw that some enterprising boatman had attached wheels to the hull of his boat and had a team of boys (relations I assume) towing the vehicle around on the ice.

And all of this had the effect of diverting me from my goal of finding Jan Sweelinck. However, the excursion wasn't completely fruitless, as I spent several hours in the evening getting some of the chill out of my bones beside the fireplace in one of the city's many taverns, and got to know for the first time, an instrument which is really very common, which makes it surprising that I hadn't met it before: the rommelpot.

The best way I can think of to describe the sound it makes is a grunting pig, and while it can be used as a percussion substitute, if interjected at the right moment in the right song, the effect reduces me to helpless giggling. With a couple of enthusiastic viollists, a rommelpot, and lute making up the band it doesn't take much to get feet tapping and I'm happy that I'm not the only one who feels like jigging for a bit.

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Sic transit gloria mundi

2009-01-29T21:55:00.000-08:00

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:

2009-01-22T21:24:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-01-13T11:36:00.000-08:00

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

2009-01-02T00:41:00.000-08:00

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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Something for everyone, a comedy tonight!

2008-12-26T00:45:00.000-08:00

Personally, I don't think I make a very convincing diplomatic figure. My clothing is the oddest mixture of fur and satin that I personally have ever seen, and the feather on my blasted hat seems to want to droop the wrong way all the time. In fact, I don't think we would have been welcomed quite as warmly as we were, had it not been for the rather nice, and very exotic gilded dinner service that we brought to present to the new Grand Duchess, princess Christine. If there's one thing you can always be sure of with the aristocracy, they never turn down gold.
The other thing, or rather, person that has been niggling me since I got here, is the Duke's insufferable vintner; I would guess his age to be in the early thirties, with a pasty complexion, thinning hair, and a fat face, although if you actually look at him, his body is quite spare, and his legs... well, I've seen more meat on kindling twigs! Whenever he looks at me he seems to have an expression as though he bit into a bun and found half a cockroach. And at the formal dinner last night, when he filled my wineglass, I had to keep urging him on. He seemed reluctant to pour enough for a mouse to get tiddly.
But making up for all my minor grouches today, there is to be an entertainment celebrating the Duke's marriage. This isn't a masque in name, but in most other respects, it will be pretty much the same kind of affair; a first-rate chance for the Ducal family to show off their wealth, power, and erudition, with food, drink and music at convenient intervals.
It's important to remember that this is a political marriage first and foremost (and quite possibly, exclusively). Duke Ferdinando de Medici wants to strengthen the Florentine ties with France once more, and marriage to Christine of Lorraine is a suitable opportunity. Or to put it another way, she can ensure the continuity of the Medici line, while he ensures the continuity of power (through her relatives!).
The prologue informs us that we are to see the story of the challenge of the Emathian princesses to the muses. Thank goodness for my east-european diplomat persona, while I know who the muses are in Greek mythology, it would be unthinkably ignorant for someone of my standing not to know the story of the Pierides if I was the representative of a (presumably) more educated western court.
I have to say that this is my first experience of the theatrical style that will become known across europe as the Commedia dell'arte, and while at this stage it doesn't have the fully-developed character of slapstick and mayhem for which it will become known (and which would be inappropriate to a courtly entertainment), it is quite clearly heading that way.
I'm rather disappointed that I wasn't able to get my hands on any of the sheet music for this afternoon's presentation, however, on my return I did manage to find Luca Marenzio's Diuersi Linguaggi: sung by the various characters of the commedia;

the Scholar
the Professor
Fate
Grace
Francescina
Girometta
Zanni (a clown)
Captain Magnifico
the German

For anyone who might be interested, here is the song "Various Languages", beautifully engraved by Christian Mondrup for the Werner Icking Music Library.

References

The Programme for the entertainment

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Eternal Triangle

2008-12-20T06:22:00.000-08:00

Before I came to the town of Arona in northwest Italy, I had no idea what it was like, or why it might be of interest. And I had never heard of the brothers de Lantins, so bumping into them, almost literally, outside a lively tavern on a May evening was a very happy accident.

I had managed to secure a temporary job as pot-girl during the festivities and was carrying a large jug of wine out to some thirsty patrons when a boisterous circle-dance broke up, scattering revellers in all directions, two of them being the aforementioned brothers, identical twins, differentiated only by their dress; one wearing a more sombre traveller's outfit, the other in a rich-looking tunic with the livery of some great house embroidered on the breast. They were good enough to apologize hastily for jogging my arm, and one of the pair asked if they might buy a couple of measures of cool wine after their exertions in the dance?
When I returned a few minutes later to find them seated and waiting they were already engaged in discussion:
"Can you not see how the pattern of the tune might be overlaid perhaps two or three times, at different intervals?"
"I can see that it might be possible, but surely, it would be cacophanous! What patron would want such music?"
"In Paris, already, this new art is being practised in the service of the divine, and surely what is good enough for God in France, will soon be good enough for the noble houses of Italy?"
"You will not convince me, Hugo, no matter how you try. Did you not learn from the holy brothers that 'God is not the author of confusion'?"
"No, no! You do not understand. Let me demonstrate..."
Drawing back a little on the bench, Hugo dips his finger in the red wine and starts drawing lines:
"A hop and a skip, I shall write it in imperfect time, perfect prolation, like so..."
He draws a broken circle, the symbol of imperfection, indicating two main phrases, with a small complete circle inside it, meaning that there will be three main beats in each phrase, then a sequence of squares indicating the notes.
"Now, after ... five steps, let us say with the beginning of the second three, another voice begins..."
Watching with fascination, I see how he repeats the same pattern of notes, at a lower pitch, harmonizing as the beginning of the second voice joins with the middle of the first! And suddenly, I am brought back to earth by a sound slap to my behind.
"Giovanna! this patient family is waiting for honey cakes. NOW!"
Perhaps it was the bang on the behind, but by the time I get home, I can barely remember the melody that Hugo wrote down. And as nearly as I can tell, it was the traditional carol "I saw three ships come sailing in". Considering the lyrics, I find myself wondering if this is another of the riddle songs that were once so popular:

Why three ships, for two people? and what does the song mean by "Our Savior Christ and His Lady"? Normally we use the term so-and-so and his lady to indicate a girlfriend or wife. Most people would probably have no trouble in identifying the virgin Mary as Christ's lady, but what about the Bride of Christ? His church? And why are they sailing to landlocked Bethlehem? riddle-me riddle-me ree!
It occurs to me too, that it might be more than coincidence that I met the twins in a town governed by the Borromea family, whose arms are three interlinked rings. Twos and threes every which way!

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Like a thief in the night, He comes!

2008-12-11T03:42:00.000-08:00

"Alms? Alms for the poor? Fair lady, will you give alms for the poor?"
The pitiful fellow sheltering as best he can under the arch of the gate against the chill of the driving rain is the only beggar I have seen today. The red raw skin of his craggy features tells a story of nights spent hiding from the frosts, and his clothing is an odd mixture of tattered homespun and once-fine velvet. Assuming that he is just unable to find work with an employer, it would be churlish of me indeed, not to give something. The busy market is only a few minutes walk up the hill and when I return with a warm meat pie the beggar is still working his patch. While he gratefully bites into the pie I try to slip a couple of Francs into his scrip without being too obvious.
"He comes, my lady. He comes! And none may stand before him."
I give him a perplexed look. "He comes, my lady. And Kings have tried to stop him, but he will not be stopped. He comes, and we must kneel before him. May God have mercy on my soul! He comes!"
It would seem the poor fellow has lost his wits! I cannot explain why I haven't made my way to the market which was my intended destination, and with the pie almost gone, my destitute companion begins to ramble once more:
"I was a sailor my lady, and visited far Indee where my christian soul was in danger of the heathen witchery. And for my soul's cure, I sailed to the Holy Land, but a hard time I had of it among the moors. God be thanked, though! He brought me safe home again to my native shore. A fine ship she was, with three tall masts, and a hold full of silver. But silver will not buy him, no. And he comes!"
Uncertain quite how to excuse myself, I pretend that I have just remembered that I have urgent business in town, and make my exit as quickly as I may, hoping that the beggar will seize on another passer-by. As I make my way up the hill once more I hear him singing in a cracked and uneven tone... Veni, veni, Emmanuel, come, come, God with us!

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Eternity in an hour

2008-12-04T23:25:00.000-08:00

Silly, I know, but one of the things that hits me occasionally, is the awful brevity of human life. I mentioned it to my director a few days ago and bless her, she did her best to reassure me; the people I have met mostly lived very full lives, and died at a ripe old age, but still, when I get back from an excursion, suddenly people I had spoken with, sometimes only minutes before, are gone forever. And have been, often for centuries! It's hard not to like some of them, and the realization that they are gone can be quite hard to take sometimes, particularly given that I can never visit the same time and place twice.
Anyway, I can tell by the look on your face that you're wondering what are we doing this early in the morning, in Coventry, on Wednesday June 12th, 1392? And by the way, I like your chaperon, very stylish!
Well, we're here before sunrise because today is the festival of Corpus Christi. And more importantly, we're here to observe community theater at the height of its development before the theater became a profession in its own right. Today, several of the major craft guilds of the city will be presenting dramatic tableaux based on the holy scriptures. Shortly after sunrise, members of the stonemasons guild will present "The Creation of the World in Six Days" by the Greyfriars gate.

As the day wears on, the other guilds will be presenting The Fall of Adam (the weavers and fullers), The Annunciation (the carpenters), The Birth of Our Lord (the goldsmiths), The Massacre of the Innocents (the tailors and shearmen), The Last Supper (the bakers), The Harrowing of Hell (the smiths and farriers), and The Last Judgment (the apothecaries) in St.Michael's Churchyard shortly after sunset.
The ingenuity of these little dramas demands to be admired, even by people like us, for whom technology is a commonplace. The simple illusions by which trees are made to spring forth from the wagon-stage, and birds and small animals released as if the Creator had just fashioned them delights me just as much as any of the audience here!
It's not too surprising that the guilds have seized the opportunity of the attractions to boost commerce, there are stalls everywhere offering everything from hot food or drinks to small commemorative items, and I've heard quite a few accents which clearly aren't local, so my guess is that anyone who knew of the event, and could make the trip, has done so. And although I don't know of any shrines in the area, I also saw one sturdy fellow with the cockleshell fastened to his hat, denoting a pilgrim.
But for me, the simple treasure of the event was a performance of this carol, by the Tailors and Shearmen, the three anxious sisters in dark robes performing a simple weaving dance to an instrumental interlude between verses.

As the sun sets, in St.Michael's Church Yard on a stage constructed of several wagons, a magnificent judgment throne has been set up, and towards the end of the performance, as the stars begin to appear while a small handful of the faithful are borne away by winged angels, the damned are driven by gleefully capering demons towards a gaping hellmouth, and a breathtaking display of pyrotechnics announces the end of the days festivities (and not, I sincerely hope, the wagons!)

Special thanks to:
The Medieval Woodcuts Clipart Collection

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A bastard genius

2008-11-26T15:06:00.000-08:00

In a feudal political system, how does a duke try to avoid unnecessary bloodshed and expense when he foresees the probability of a power struggle? Well, one way is by sending a peace offering (bribe!)
On the left, is Lodovico Sforza, Il Moro (the Moor, a nickname supposedly given to him because he tanned easily) duke of Milan, and on the right, Lorenzo di Medici, Il Magnifico ('nuff said).
And the reason we're here, the young man with the rather splendid legs and the two young pageboys carrying the package in the damask behind him, is none other than Signor Leonardo da Vinci. The content of the package, which will be revealed in a few moments is a magnificent silver lyre in the shape of a horse's head crafted by Leonardo himself.
The lyre is an excellent idea for a gift, suggesting that Lodovico will appreciate the classical associations of the instrument of Apollo and Orpheus, as well as being capable of playing the instrument himself. The fact that it is made from silver should give it a characteristically sweet tone, as well as representing more lucre in the ducal vaults!
Since I couldn't find a picture of Leonardo's presentation this detail from the mural of the court of the duke of Mantua should give a fair idea not only of the fashions, but the kind of characters that hang out with the duke.
As a matter of course, it is expected of any young man who moves in aristocratic circles that he should be a skilled horseman, poet, philosopher, soldier, and musician, and once the lyre has been unwrapped and offered to Lodovico, etiquette demands that Lodovico invite Leonardo to demonstrate the gift.
After the first few bars the murmur of chatter fades away. I think the thirty-year-old craftsman painter has made an impression, and no wonder! The piece he has chosen to demonstrate the lyre is quite a challenging song by the Flemish composer Johannes Ockeghem.
The musical riddles which Ockeghem poses in some of his compositions will keep scholars hard at work for many centuries to come, and no doubt the gentlemen of the court who pride themselves on their mathematical and scientific knowledge will find matter for debate in this piece for months to come.

the abc notation for the music below is available online.

Before it is time for him to leave Milan and return to Florence once more, Leonardo has received an invitation to enter the service of the duke of Milan, and I suspect he has been taken into the confidence of the duke. While it is not supposed to be generally known, the duke has plans to encourage France to invade Italy, presumably confident of overpowering the French invaders with the help of the cunning of Leonardo, and simultaneously taking advantage of his weakened neighbouring duchies.
For his part, Leonardo left a sodomy charge behind in Florence, and although he was acquitted, I wouldn't mind betting he has more admirers in the ducal court here in Milan than just Lodovico! But it ill-behooves me to speculate on Leonardo's private life. Let me present for you Jan Ockeghem's music:

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Organ Recital at St.Lawrence's Church

2008-11-19T12:32:00.000-08:00

The reason I was late getting to the rendezvous was that I had actually left St.Lawrence's and was following you into the churchyard when I heard the organist begin a fugue. I'm sure most organists of the time could have played this piece perfectly competently, but what caught my ear was a subtlety in the rubato that suggested this was not just a typically good musician, but someone quite extraordinary. Of course, it would have to be someone extraordinary to be engaged by a Duke. So I popped back inside and settled down to listen (of course!).

Click to listen

Having apparently satisfied himself that his practice for the day was sufficient, the organist collected his books and a few loose sheets, and was leaving the organ loft when I waylaid him. This was one of those "Wow!" moments for me. My first meeting with Georg Frideric Haendel, or as he is known in England, George Frederick Handel.

Mr.Handel is of average height, allowing an inch or so perhaps for his shoes and peruke, clean-shaven and nicely pomaded. The portrait of him which I include below was made later in his life, but now, in his early thirties he is already developing that well-fed corpulence, and moves with an easy, relaxed gait, even climbing down the slightly awkward stairs from the organ loft.

I drop a respectful curtsey; "Have I the pleasure of addressing the noted Mr. Handel, sir?"

"Goot Afternoon, Mattam. I am indeed Mr.Hantel, and might Mr.Hantel haf tse honor of knowink whom duss he attress?"

Introducing myself in persona as the representative of a tailor, I seize the opportunity of asking Mr.Handel about the music he was playing, and hopefully I shall have an opportunity to learn more about his engagement at Cannons.

"Tse piece fitch I belief you ver askink about voss my fugue in G major. I tsink perhaps a leetle more polish, and I shall seek to publish it abroad."

Among other things which we discuss, walking back to Cannons, I learn that Mr.Handel is engaged to provide new music for entertainments hosted by the Duke, and sometimes leads the small band from the harpsichord. His grace, it seems, is not so much a performer himself, as an Apollo of the arts, preferring to use his beneficence to encourage the arts (and Mr.Handel is nothing if not a perfect diplomat in discussing matters relating to his employer).

"Shall I have the pleasure of hearing you play again on Sunday, Mr.Handel?"

"I tsink not Mattam. Unless you fill be joinink his Krace in tse chapel at tse house."

At this I am obliged to seek some explanation for his presence in St.Lawrence's.

"Tse church hass a razzer fine acoustic for tse organ, and recrettably, his Krace's chapel is not yet completet, howeffer, tse verkmen fill make it retty for tse diffine serfice on Suntay."

Finally, before we part company, me to the rendezvous point, and Mr.Handel to return to his chambers within the house, I can't resist asking if Mr.Handel knows of any talented blacksmiths in the village?

"Tsere iss vun fellow, but I fould not fenture to assay his talent as a smit. Tsough I am sure he is as capaple a farrier as any man fitin fife miles. Haff you a horse in neet of shoeink?"

His expression betrays a mixture of curiosity and mild surprise. I think it is time I thanked him for his company and made haste to the rendezvous.

"Mattam, it hass been my pleshur, and a ferry goot afternoon to you also."

References

Have I whetted your appetite to learn more about fugal composition?

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The Music of Cannons

2008-11-13T17:34:00.000-08:00

Don't panic! There's no artillery involved. Our destination is Cannons, the stately home of the Earl of Caernarfon and first Duke of Chandos, James Brydges (if we should see the gentleman himself, the correct form of address is your Grace. But don't speak unless you're spoken to).
As is fairly common for the time, the house is open to visitors having business with the household, or members of the peerage, so I think if we present ourselves as representatives of a little-known but promising tailoring business, we should stand a good chance of getting in. These aristocratic types are always keen to have the latest fashions, and it wasn't difficult to obtain a collection of fine fabric swatches and a couple of recent pattern-books as we zoomed through France on the way here. Which reminds me, if we ever have occasion to travel by coach, bring a few cushions. As well-padded as this dress is, previous experience taught me that you can't have enough padding beneath you when you go over the bumps. And unless the weather is warm already, wrap up warmly too. There's no practical way to heat a coach.

While we're waiting for his grace's chamberlain, there's so much to take in. This whole place is money personified! I think the painting is Hercules in the palace of Omphale, and the sheer scale of it makes it so much more impressive. Literally Herculean! (The other thing, if you're going to have any dealings with aristocrats; it helps to have to have a bit of background in the classics).
Well, some things we can do, but some things will forever be beyond our control, and it seems that his grace is otherwise occupied today. How do you feel about sauntering down to St.Lawrence's church? The Duke had the church extensively rebuilt a few years ago, and by all accounts it is as sumptuous as the house.
When we arrive at St.Lawrence's, the exterior of the church has been remodelled in the neo-classical style, while the interior is the most astonishing display of opulence, everywhere is marble, gold, and rich dark wood. And the organist is practising a hymn tune:

References

I am indebted to the following sites. I hope you will take a moment to visit them:
A Church Near You
The Web Gallery of Art

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The Italian Job

2008-11-07T00:25:00.000-08:00

Don't tell me I look like a tramp, I already know. In fact, I worked quite hard to achieve this look.
One of the problems of trying to get to know someone famous is that, often, simply because they are famous, they don't have huge amounts of time to get to know everybody else. So it's often much simpler to be a nobody, and get to know somebody who knows somebody, and just once in a great while, you can get close.
Which is why I am dressed in this second-best last year outfit, and peddling a selection of glass beads. (The beads, by the way, were laughably inexpensive, although if I were really who I appear to be, they would have cost me a year's worth of careful savings, and they're so beautiful it's a great temptation to take a few back with me).

Now, let me introduce you to Proserpina Belmonte. Don't be fooled by the hare lip or that mole beside her nose. She may be a tad on the homely side, but she can play! Before you got here she was sitting outside the palazzo (yes, well they're all palazzo's along here) playing a piece for mandolin. I thought it sounded familiar, so I strolled over to see if I could interest her in some parmesan cheese. (I bought it from a trader who was coming down from the Vicenza area before heading south to Ferrara).
Well, after expressing my appreciation of her beautiful playing we got to talking, and I asked her what the song was that she played. It turns out that it was the andante from a concerto for two mandolins, by Padre Vivaldi who runs the girls choir at the Ospedale della Piétà*!
Proserpina (she goes by 'Pina) told me she was a beneficiary of the Ospedale, and a student under Padre Vivaldi until she was eighteen, at which point she was more than ready to take on the world. (And all the while she was telling me this, she was talking, like a typical Italian, with her hands). I had to ask what she meant by that last statement, since I had always had a mental image of Vivaldi as the gentle, creative, kindly priest who churned out music as fast as the musicians could play it (some wit once quipped that Vivaldi didn't write five hundred concerti, he wrote one concerto, five hundred times!).
Perhaps unfortunately for Vivaldi's reputation, by the late twentieth century, it was a fair assumption that anyone who had ridden in an elevator had been subjected to a rather mechanical reproduction of one of his best-known suites, the Quatre Stagione (Four Seasons).
Pina laughed scornfully at my rosy description! It turns out, (at least according to her) that he was the foulest, most irritable, sweaty, smelly creature ever to walk God's blessed Earth. He frequently suffered from shortness of breath (asthma?), and when he did, his temper which was short at the best of times, just evaporated completely. She recounted one occasion when his scathing comments reduced one of the girls in the choir to a sobbing wreck, quite unable to continue the rehearsal, and indeed, it was only a matter of a few weeks before she left the Ospedale, indentured to a modestly wealthy merchant family. She also told me how the young ladies nicknamed their slavedriver Il Prete Rosso (the Red Priest), not so much for his hair, but his tendency to turn puce when enraged.
She doesn't mind telling me a little about her experiences in the Ospedale either. She has no memory of her parents, and the sisters of the Ospedale would only ever tell her that she was "a child of God". She never went hungry, or without clothing or shelter at night, but sometimes she wondered what her parents had been like. After leaving the Ospedale, she worked for a couple of years for a bookseller, and it was during that period that she met her husband, Guido. When he first came to the bookseller he was looking for a pattern book that he could use as a guide for decorative carvings for his building work. His clothing was covered in stone dust, and his hair was slicked down from rinsing himself off before leaving work.

Click on the gramophone to listen to the music below.

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Goatee and moustache, dressed in scarlet: Guess Who?

2008-10-29T04:25:00.000-07:00

Yippee! I did it! I got to see his Eminence up close and personal! (I can't say anything to anybody here, but in his cardinal's scarlet robes, with his pointy beard and moustache he makes me think of a Victorian pantomime demon king !) And I am so glad that all the hard work I put into studying the techniques of old master painters had proved rewarding, too. I had better try and contain my excitement, and tell the story carefully.
During my brief tour of the Palais Richelieu with Signor Paolo Vasari, and Signor Luca Buonfranca (who plays the lute and the viol, but has a knack for really putting a skip into dances! and a magnificent twirly moustache which he is rather proud of; it sets him apart from the hundreds of little goatee beards that the men seem to fancy so.) we bumped into (literally), Madamoiselle Duchesne, daughter of Nicolas Duchesne who has been discussing the cardinal's requirements for a state portrait that might be copied for some of the noble families.
Although I was almost certain we were the party in the wrong, hurrying in a narrow corridor, Lucille Duchesne apologized very courteously for obstructing our passage so thoughtlessly and after the terse explanation of our haste, asked if I would be interested in visiting her father's lodgings to look at some of her own drawings? Naturally, I was in no hurry to leave with another opportunity to explore offered so generously, and so a couple of days later, she met me, as arranged, on the steps of Saint Eustache after mass. The church is still a busy building site, and worshippers leave under a canvas canopy to protect them from odds and ends that might fall from the scaffolding.
We stopped for a while to collect a light lunch at Boulangier Poulain before scuttling through the narrow little streets. If there is one thing that seems never to have changed, it is the smell of those Parisien streets!
Duchesne Pere was already hard at work when we arrived and Lucille popped her head into his studio just long enough to let her father know that she was home before running up the stairs to fetch her drawings. When she returned she had a huge portfolio and a wooden board tucked under her arm. (The portrait is Monsieur Poussin, who was a junior member of the project team, but this was painted when he was older).
I was a little concerned in case she intended to make a drawing of me! (Always the same rule; take nothing but the clothes you stand up in, leave nothing more substantial than footprints and memories) but my concern was groundless. She showed me later that the board was a tiny oil painting of her own, beautifully detailed, with jewel-like colors, a "noli me tangere" with a very dishy athletic Christ drawing back from a rather disappointed-looking Mary Magdalen. I'm sure I have never seen it in my own time, and I very much hope it still survives somewhere, enjoyed perhaps by a family who appreciate its subtleties.
Most of her portfolio consisted of figure studies (draped, since even at this time, for propriety's sake, an artist would hang a gauze veil between themself and the nude) in red or brown chalk, some smaller landscapes, mostly, so she told me, painted not far from the city itself, one or two from her home town.
"Do you know how to mix colors?" she asks me. "This week, Monsieur Charille was to assist Papa, but he was the victim of an attack by footpads a few days ago. He is able to assist in the studio still, but he has such a great ugly bandage about his head! I will be assisting, but if you have the science of mixing pigments, perhaps Papa would let you assist him? and I could spend some time with Monsieur Champaigne."
She begins instructing me in the essentials:
"two parts oil of poppies with one part oil of linseed mixed, and a little clarified beeswax. Use the cooled wax like this, make it a paste, almost runny and add powder little by little. He keeps two dippers at hand, always keep the one not in use clean and filled with spirit, and be ready at a moment to take the dipper for cleaning. He keeps his brushes in three pots: large flats, large rounds, and squirrel pencils."
In the end, Lucille agrees to prepare a set of small vials with the most commonly used pigments, and I will assist by setting out Monsieur Duchesne's palette, making up additional paints as and when needed.
It is a bright, chill February morning a little after 8am when we arrive at the Palais Richelieu, and I direct as Monsieur Duchesne's portable easel, stretched canvas, and cases of paints and oils are unloaded from the carriage. While we are exactly on time as directed, we have to wait several minutes before his Eminence appears and settles himself patiently under the direction of the Master Painter. And all the while the sitting is in progress he discusses current affairs with the Master. It isn't long before one of his cats, Pyramus, settles contentedly in his lap.
Do you recall the news, two years ago, that King Charles of England had forged a pact with us, and with Spain? But as I recall, there was very little discussion of the details of the pact at the time. The King of England had dissolved the English Parliament, and taken upon himself the burden of rule, as God truly intended for a King. And has not his courageous action borne fruit? England is the stronger for him.
It appals me that King Charles should be expected to share his government with a rabble of commoners. Yes, truly! Absurd is it not? And for this, many shook their fists in the very face of God Himself, murmuring to usurp the rule of the anointed King! Now is not the time, with the present difficulties between Madame de Medicis and His Majesty, King Louis, but perhaps in time, we may lend the aid of our strong arm to set England once more on her true path."
Every time he gesticulates, I catch a slight waft of the scent of Parma violets and really good leather.
The sitting is finished a few minutes later than planned, but slightly short of the half-hour we had been given. In these crowded minutes, Monsieur Duchesne has added definition to the face and hair, particularly the moustache, and defined the hands more clearly, adding quick swatches of color to the cardinal's robes which presumably will be completed in the studio. Another ten minutes or so to clean brushes and palette, and we are ready to leave once more.

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Signal is Red - Proceed with Caution

2008-10-24T00:19:00.000-07:00

To be honest, before leaving on this assignment, all I knew of Cardinal Richelieu was the rather unflattering portrait of Alexandre Dumas' "The Three Musketeers". Although I have been completely unable to catch more than a distant glimpse of the great man however, it seems my prejudice was entirely without foundation. Far from being the underhanded, scheming and ruthless politician of popular fiction, the various people I have spoken to have contributed to a much more charismatic picture.
While he is undoubtedly a master of political strategy, he is not a politician. He may be decisive and visionary, but it is not entirely fair to describe him as ruthless. And rather than underhanded, perhaps he should best be described as discreet. And I don't say these things as some wretched prisoner, hoping for mercy and terrified by the looming shadow of the Inquisition, but as an independent observer, visiting the age momentarily to learn what I can, and retrieve what seems most valuable to future ages. While my primary mission is to preserve examples of some of the best music ever recorded in codified form, I think I am also justified in paying tribute to his Eminence, and in my small way, remedying the injustice of his fictional portrait.
Sadly, none of my usual subterfuges have succeeded in gaining me access to the Cardinal, but I was fortunate enough to encounter a couple of musicians, members of an ensemble engaged to play for one of the Cardinal's entertainments at the Palais Richelieu, at one of the taverns nearby. And it is to these gentlemen that I am indebted for a rather hasty guided tour of the Palais during an interruption to their rehearsals.
Two things struck me during my tour; firstly, his Eminence is not only a very intelligent and capable statesman, but also a man of deeply-felt artistic sensibilities. His collection of works of art must surely be one of the finest in Europe, and, according to my guides, he collects not simply for the beauty of the paintings themselves, but for the ideas which they represent. Take for example the portrait of Robert Arnauld d'Andilly with his long gray hair and velvety black cloak. He might look, for all the world like some frail old grandma, but the bright eyes, and the firm grip with which he holds the scroll tell a very different story. This minister of finance for the nation of France is not a man to be trifled with, and I can quite understand how even Marie de Medicis hesitates to challenge him.

The Vow of Louis XIII skilfully combines the twin allegiances of his Eminence in a single painting, showing the King as he offers his crown and scepter to the dead Christ and the Virgin. And it is to the King that Richelieu owes his position as cardinal, for it was Louis XIII who nominated him for the scarlet robes nine years previous to my visit.
Over a couple of carefully nursed glasses of wine, I manage to learn that my host, Signor Paulo Vasari is an Italian musician in France to fulfil a contract to perform, and compose music for the Comte de Soissons, Louis de Bourbon. It's worth keeping in mind that in this period, the idea of arranging a piece of music, that is, of taking someone else's tune and using it in a new way, is taken for granted, so there is no meaningful distinction between a composer as someone who creates something entirely novel, and someone who cherry-picks the best of somebody else's output to express it a little differently.
I am indebted also, to Signor Vasari, for shedding some light on Richelieu's reputation as a zero-tolerance law enforcement officer; he tells me that before Richelieu was given his responsibility under the King, France was a notorious place not only for petty criminality, but for a corruption that was threatening to rot the state from within. If Richelieu's style of justice is sometimes forthright and brutal, it has brought about some far-reaching reconsiderations of the positions and liberties which momentarily threatened the throne of France.
Before we part company, Paulo is flattered that I insist on copying from his collection of songs and dances brought as he says "with my cap and my candle" from Italy, an entertaining Spanish dance. It seems that in court circles adaptations of real rustic dances are gaining popularity in contrast to the rather more refined, and classically influenced pastoral ballets of the previous generation.

References

please visit the Web Gallery of Art for more paintings by Philippe de Champaigne.

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Love is ... the oldest, yet the latest thing

2008-10-16T11:38:00.000-07:00

To paraphrase Lewis Carroll's "Alice", all this jumping back and forth in time makes one quite giddy! I used to think it was bad enough when I woke up in the morning and couldn't remember where I was. Now I have to think "when am I?"
And as if that wasn't enough, I almost didn't get to go with the excursion I had requested. Madame director wanted me to go to France at the beginning of the seventeenth century, while I wanted to follow the link back from John of Salisbury.
In the end I managed to convince her of the value of the trail I was following, and since the technicalities make it impossible to travel to the same place and time more than once, my request was reluctantly granted. And so it is that I find myself in the company of some of the most extraordinary minds ever to gather in a single place:
Here, in 1139, at the Abbey of St.Gildas-de-Rhuys in Brittany, Father Abbot Pierre Abelard takes time from his monastic duties to engage students from some of the furthest reaches of the known world in philosophical and religious debates.
I am surprised (but perhaps, unfairly so) that among the young men who attend so eagerly and listen so attentively to his discourses, are several dark faces with features suggestive of Arab, or Indian heritage. I would have thought that differences in religious belief might have deterred these fellows from aspiring to learn from someone who is now known as much for his sermons as for his rhetoric and knowledge of classics.
Of course, Pierre Abelard was not always a friar. As a young man, quite apart from his promise as a scholar, he had opportunity to indulge his appetites at the various hostelries that catered to the students of Notre Dame university in Paris, but it seems physical pleasures were generally less enticing than intellectual ones. Until, that is, he got to know Heloise, a most unusual young woman taking full advantage of her uncle's guardianship to study alongside the menfolk.
The unhappy outcome of their relationship was that Heloise was compelled to enter holy orders, while Abelard was castrated by her uncle! But not before Heloise had conceived a child.
Despite their forced separation, it seems their love for one another never died.
In tribute to one of the great love stories of all time (for more information, I recommend the tale of Abelard and Heloise), I would like to reproduce in modern notation, the chant of Abbess Hildegard von Bingen, received recently at this abbey with other correspondence.

The full text of Pierre Abelard's own account of their story, Historia Calamitatum is available as an online e-text.

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With the tongues of Men and of Angels

2008-10-08T13:47:00.000-07:00

"For he who sings praise, does not only praise, but also praises joyfully; he who sings praise, not only sings, but also loves Him whom he is singing about/to/for. There is a praise-filled public proclamation in the praise of someone who is confessing/acknowledging (God), in the song of the lover (there is) love."

(St. Augustine, Commentary on Psalm 73, 1)

Whenever I see John of Salisbury, Bishop of Chartres, I can't help thinking of the Bishop from the Lewis chessmen. A stocky saxon nobleman, with a permanently fixed distracted expression as if he's always in conversation with someone hiding under his mitre, but lively, ice-blue eyes, a firm handshake, and those extraordinary brightly-colored clerical robes.
The reason I sought out the Bishop was to learn more from him about the practice of singing organum which is rapidly gaining popularity in the church community. Since the earliest days of the established church, song has been an integral part of worship, but until recently the singing was limited to the style which eventually became known as Gregorian chant, although there is no solid connection between the tradition of an unaccompanied choir singing a melody in unison. In the year we are visiting, 1179, opinions are still divided over the question of whether chant should be in blessed unison or heavenly harmony.
In conversation with one of the Deans of the Université de Notre Dame here in Paris, the Bishop expressed his opinion which seems to favor continuing progress with careful moderation:

"When you hear the soft harmonies of the various singers, some taking high and others low parts, some singing in advance, some following in the rear, others with pauses and interludes, you would think yourself listening to a concert of sirens rather than men, and wonder at the powers of voices … whatever is most tuneful among birds, could not equal. Such is the facility of running up and down the scale; so wonderful the shortening or multiplying of notes, the repetition of the phrases, or their emphatic utterance: the treble and shrill notes are so mingled with tenor and bass, that the ears lost their power of judging. When this goes to excess it is more fitted to excite lust than devotion; but if it is kept in the limits of moderation, it drives away care from the soul and the solicitudes of life, confers joy and peace and exultation in God, and transports the soul to the society of angels..."

I was also surprised and delighted when I learned that in his youth, the Bishop was a student here himself, under the tutelage of Pierre Abelard, famed forever in the story of Abelard and Heloise!
For the students here in Paris, this is an age of wonders. A time when the glory of God seems almost tangible, the Kingdom of God is certainly at hand, and anything might be possible. And even hiding behind the persona of one of the Bishop's retinue, I can feel the tide of excitement surging as young men engage in lively debates in the taverns nearest to the schools of the Université, and learned doctors speculate on ways in which the majesty of the Creator is revealed in His creation.
Undoubtedly the most exciting evening of my own visit here is attendance at an evening service in the cathedral at which the Bishop will officiate; the music the choir is singing is an organum triplum composed by Magister Perotin.

Perhaps it is because they are used to helping students to answer queries, that when I approach the Bishop with my question about the beginnings of organum singing, not only does he answer me from his own experience, but he also tows me along through the huddle of worshippers to ask Magister Perotin himself!
Between the two of them I manage to understand that as early as the ninth century, choirs had begun to embellish the music on special occasions by dividing into two groups, one group singing tenor, the plain melody, and the other singing the same melody at a fourth, or fifth above, or below. And although there is a new development being tried experimentally by some choirs, the organum contrarium, in which the tenor is inverted by the vox organalis, the Bishop is not as enthusiastic for it as he is for Perotin's organum duplum and triplum.
Magister Perotin asks me whether I can read (have you ever tried reading a medieval manuscript? in latin, too); the library of the Université contains copies of the treatises Ad Organum Faciendum, (To Make Organum) and Musica Enchiriadis. As much as I would love to stay and study the manuscripts, I worry that my ineptitude as a reader might provoke too many questions about my background, and not for the first time, I find myself confounded. While the technology of my native time has made it possible for me to explore history, it has not provided me with any better recording media than my own brains.
I should mention that I didn't learn until almost I was ready to return to my own time, that Magister Perotin is well into his eighties, but I would have guessed his age to be roughly contemporary with the Bishop. Like Moses, his eye was not dimmed, nor his natural force abated!

In Memoriam: Midnight_In_Gethsemane 1953-2008

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Szmytke of Flickr, for permission to use the image of the Lewis chessmen, and the M.A.B. soloists and M.Moriwaki for their transcription of Perotin's organum, shown above.

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The Happiest Days of Our Lives

2008-10-02T04:31:00.000-07:00

The history alone, of St.Trinian's Academy for Young Ladies should be required reading for anyone considering entering the teaching profession.

In 1954, under the leadership of headmistress Millicent Fitton, the school which was facing bankruptcy proceedings at the time, was the subject of an undercover police investigation. Following the disappearance of two Ministry of Education Inspectors in mysterious circumstances, Sgt. Ruby Gates was assigned to the case, posing as a temporary teacher. What she discovered was an appalling misuse of school resources to organize a gambling ring.
Having been saved from bankruptcy by the extraordinary twisted ingenuity of the pupils, and some questionable legal horsetrading, in 1957 the school was again involved in criminal proceedings. As a result of the 1954 scandal, Miss Fitton was jailed and two Army units were assigned to peacekeeping duties on the premises. It was during this interregnum that one of the school parents, who had participated in a major diamond robbery, took refuge in the school, posing as the replacement headmistress.
The original school building was destroyed by arson in 1960, for which crime the pupils were indicted and committed to the care of a child psychiatrist. It was while in the care of the psychiatrist that the entire sixth form were abducted and traced to a ship headed for Arabia. While the Ministry of Education, local police and Army forces were coordinating a rescue effort, the abducted girls were rescued by the fourth form. An Army spokesman described the collateral damage as "within acceptable limits".
The school made headlines once more in 1966 when the pupils learned that the proceeds of a major train robbery had been concealed on the school grounds. The Barchester county Chief Constable admitted in an interview that the successful capture of the gang responsible was due in large measure to the quick thinking and effective action of the girls.
In 1980 the schoolgirl rhyme

God made the bees,
The bees make the honey,
We do all the bloomin' work
And teachers get the money!

took on a new and more urgent significance than ever before as the pupils of St.Trinians went on strike!
Most recently, in 2007, the school was once again rescued from bankruptcy when the pupils intercepted an art theft. The school received a £50,000 reward (approximately $100,000) for recovering and returning safely the painting "Girl with a pearl earring" by Dutch 17th century artist Jan Vermeer.

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Moving the Furniture

2008-09-26T00:22:00.000-07:00

A couple of months ago, we collected a beautiful organ. Nothing wrong with the instrument, as far as I have been able to tell, but presumably the church that had owned it had acquired something newer. I spoke to the beefcake and asked them if the instrument could be moved indoors from the storage space outside, and they assured me that it could, and would be in due course.
The days passed quietly as I continued to explore the musical highways and byways of time, and still the organ sat patiently in the storage space while the beefcake drank their coffee and looked for a slug in the garden outside.
There came a point at which I realized that unless I applied the point of something sharp to a sensitive area of the collective beefcake, the organ would still be sitting in the storage space when our tiring old sun finally blossomed into a red giant, "licking clean the faces of her daughter planets" to paraphrase Arthur C.Clarke rather clumsily.
Armed primarily with the knowledge gathered in my researches, I manufactured, tested, and installed a set of pulley blocks and rope tackle and hoisted the organ into the building by myself. Naturally, when the beefcake emerged from their intense debate of the merits of various sporting teams, they expressed mild surprise that the organ had been translated without their involvement, before returning to the matter of debate.
The whole effort put me very much in mind of this little ditty (which also became the name of a popular band), performed by the British actor and entertainer, Bernard Cribbins:

X:76 % number T:Right Said Fred % title C:Myles Rudge and Ted Dick % composer O:http://www.mudcat.org/thread.cfm?threadid=6684&messages=92&page=1#39192 M:2/4 L:1/8 Q:1/4=160 P:A2BA2BAC K:D P:A "D"d2"A"A2|"G"B4|"D"d>cd>A|"G"B2d2|"D"d2A2|B2F2|F>AF>D|"A"E4| w:"Right!", said Fred, "both of us to-ge-ther, one each end and stead-y as we go." w:"Right!", said Fred, "give a shout to Char-lie!", up comes Char-lie from the floor be-low. w:"Right!", said Fred, "Have to take the door off. Need more space to shift the so-and-so" w:"Right!", said Fred, "Have to take the wall down. That there wall is gon-na have to go" w:"Right!", said Fred, Climb-ing up a lad-der With his crow-bar gave a might-y blow! "D"F2A2|"G"E2D2|"D"F>AF>A|"G"E2D2|"D"F2A2|B2d2|f2f2-|"^al coda"f2e2!coda!| w:Tried to shift it, could-n't ev-en lift it, we was get-ting no-where_ and w:Af-ter strain-ing, heav-ing and com-plain-ing, we was get-ting no-where_ and w:Had bad twin-ges Tak-ing off the hing-es And it got us no-where_ and w:Took the wall down. Ev-en with it all down we was get-ting no-where_ and w:Boy! Was he in troub-le, Half a ton of rubble Land-ed on the top of his d4|"G"e4|"A"A>BA>G|F2E2|| w:so, we had a cup of tea, and P:B "A"A>AA>A|"G"G2G>G|"A"F2F2|"D"D3D|"A"A2A2|"G"G3A|"A"F2"D"D2-|D2B"E"^G|"B"B2B2| w:Char-lie had a think and he thought we ought, to take off all the han-dles_ and the things that w:Char-lie had a think and he said "look Fred, I've got a sort of feel-ing_ if_ we re- "A"A2B2|^G2E2|^GAB2|"B"B2B2|BBE>"E"E|E>EE2-|E2"A"A2|| w:hold the can-dles, but it did no good, well I nev-er thought it would._ All w:move the ceil-ing_ With a rope or two We could drop the blight-er through". "Oh" P:C "^coda"!coda!"D"f4|f2"G"g2|"D"f2e2|defd|ecd2|"B"B2"A"A2|A3e-|e"D"d3!fermata!|] w:dome! So Fred and me had a-noth-er cup-pa tea and then we went 'ome. %%text (spoken) I said to Charlie, we'll just have to leave it standing on the landing, that's all. You see the trouble with Fred is, \ %%text he's... he's too hasty. Now you never get nowhere if you're too hasty.
Image credit

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Lord of the Dance (4/4)

2008-09-18T10:33:00.000-07:00

Mishto hom mi dikava tute! (Good to see you made it here!). I'm sure you're wondering why I just took off and jumped all the way to eastern Europe. One of the German chivalric orders has been supervising a programme of (rather militaristic) colonization in this area, so here in Schäßburg,
Romania, seemed like a good place to start looking for the missing children.
The date today is Friday July 7th, 1284. With the extraordinary powers of persuasion which two gold ducats endowed me I bought us both temporary fellowship in a kumpania (Romany family), including sleeping quarters in one of their vardos. The accommodation is actually pretty respectable if you compare it with most common folks in this period. And I have to credit the Rom; their personal hygiene is a good deal better than most common folks. Of course, since we aren't Rom ourselves we get referred to as "paash raat", their term for a gaje who has adopted the nomadic lifestyle.

I should also explain that I abandoned my male persona shortly after arriving here. These wily gypsies saw right through my disguise and actually suggested a couple of improvements I hadn't thought of, but I'm quite happy for them to refer to me as miri kushti b'o-r (my dear (non-Rom) lady). I'm afraid as far as the family is concerned I haven't been much use for more than the most basic tasks; grooming the horses (they have three, two of them fine draft horses apparently), and fetching water and firewood. The wife of Chief Lovar has offered to teach me some fortune-telling skills but nothing has come of it so far.
However, the family has been very helpful in establishing a rapport with Laszlo Kriwaczek, one of the shepherds, and it is from Laszlo that I gleaned the most important information.

If you come with me up the hill I will show you the place that Laszlo pointed out to me where he saw, with his own eyes, as he told me, "a great river of alien children emerge from the cave. Some of them crying, and all of them weary." He has also told me how some of the families of the town took the younger ones in and lodged them with their own children. Most of the older children have been taken in as servants; the region is still recovering from raids by Mongol invaders about forty years ago, and there is plenty of work for young healthy bodies.
Without any prompting he gave me some important details: none of the children were more than eleven or twelve years old by appearance, and their language was strange to his ears.
Sadly, as a gypsy my welcome is tempered by a suspicious caution and I haven't been able to make a close approach to any of the local families, but I have heard small groups of children talking in German!
So let me close this account of my investigation with a stamping dance which Dinu Dalakis (his "local" name) taught me, playing his bosh:

Click on the music to visit the site and get a complete copy

References

Romany / English Dictionary
Excerpts from the original Finding Romanistan programme

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Lord of the Dance (3/4)

2008-09-11T09:06:00.000-07:00

s friars, even mendicant friars, we are expected to attend mass once in a while, and since today is Monday the 26th of June it would look fishy if we failed to attend the festival mass of Saints John and Paul. The town is busier than usual for a Monday with people from many of the surrounding villages who have come to town for the festival mass, and presumably at least some of them are hoping for special blessings on this festival of two saints.

It's not hard to get caught up in the crowd squeezing into the Minster of St.Boniface and once inside I am surprised yet again by the absence of something I had expected: the smell of a large mass of unwashed medieval humanity in a confined space is much less noticeable (or my nostrils have become desensitized during our stay here) than the sweet scent of bunches of herbs hung from the walls and stacked in the corners of the windows. At about the point that the priest is making the absolution I plan to slip outside, and I encourage you to do the same. If anybody asks where we're going, say it's a call of nature. On a feast like today's the mass can take quite a bit of time if the clergy are keen to include all the various options in the service which might give the piper more time than he needs to do his dirty work. My hope is that we can catch him in the act (but remember, look, but do nothing that might change the course of events!). We don't have long to wait in the shadows of the Minster before I hear the sound of that shawm once more. The streets are not deserted, but very much quieter than earlier, with the few traders who have chosen not to attend mass vying for the closest positions to the entrance to the Minster. Making our way towards the town walls, aiming to get closer to the sound of the shawm a couple of young girls come running out of one of the smaller houses. The older girl is clearly trying to get her younger sister to listen to her cries to come back, but within minutes, both seem more curious about the sound of the shawm which is definitely playing more musically this time. The air is a dance tune with a lively beat, and I find the jigging rhythm almost hypnotic.

Getting to the town gate, it is clear that we are following the last of the stragglers. Ahead of us, on the westward road heading up towards the hills is a sizeable crowd of dancing children and keeping up is quite an exercise in itself. By the time they reach the stand of yew trees on the lower slopes I have lost sight of them completely and when I manage to struggle up there myself, the grove is completely quiet.

The story we are trying to follow speaks of them entering a cave and it doesn't take long to find the trail of trodden-down bushes and broken branches. By the time the undergrowth gives way to the rocky ground there is a cleft in the rocks a few meters to the right, small enough for less well-nourished bodies to squeeze through. But my calls and whistles go unanswered. The eeriest thing though, to me, is the silence up here. No birds, not even crows cawing in the trees. And nothing grows under the yew trees. The ground is just littered with leaf mold and little red berries. Perhaps the best plan would be to return to the town and make a respectable exit. If we just disappear I am worried that we might become part of the legend, however unlikely it is that anybody would ordinarily notice the departure of two mendicants. Particularly, I am worried that if we should disappear without some kind of explanation, somebody will make a link between us, and the missing children. And Mother Church has a long reputation of accepting oblatus novices without examining their past too closely.

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The Lord of the Dance (2/4)

2008-09-05T01:47:00.000-07:00

I hope you slept better than I did. It took me hours to get to sleep because of flea bites and I woke a couple of times in the night (apart from Matins ), convinced that there were rats nipping at my fingers and toes although I don't think I've heard any skittering feet since last night's frische Luft performance.
oday, God be praised! is Friday, the 23rd of June, in the year of our Lord, 1284 and if the tales are correct ('scuse the pun), the ratcatcher will be attempting to collect his payment from the burghers of the town, a gros for every rat according to his account. Since the rathaus is a busy commercial focal point, we have an ideal excuse to find a convenient perch beside the entrance where we can sing psalms, perhaps preach a couple of improvised sermons, and ask alms while watching for the ratcatcher.
By sext, I have all but given up hope of seeing anything notable. And my piety has given way to my mischievous nature, which is why when you came back from getting some lunch I was wearing my most pious face and singing quietly "In Taberna Quando Sumus" from the Carmina Burana. The latin sounds pious enough to most common folk, but the words are fun!

In taberna quando sumus
non curamus quid sit humus,
sed ad ludum properamus,
cui semper insudamus.
Quid agatur in taberna
ubi nummus est pincerna,
hoc est opus ut queratur,
si quid loquar, audiatur.

Quidam ludunt, quidam bibunt,
quidam indiscrete vivunt.
Sed in ludo qui morantur,
ex his quidam denudantur
quidam ibi vestiuntur,
quidam saccis induuntur.
Ibi nullus timet mortem
sed pro Baccho mittunt sortem:

Primo pro nummata vini,
ex hac bibunt libertini;
semel bibunt pro captivis,
post hec bibunt ter pro vivis,
quater pro Christianis cunctis
quinquies pro fidelibus defunctis,
sexies pro sororibus vanis,
septies pro militibus silvanis.

Octies pro fratribus perversis,
nonies pro monachis dispersis,
decies pro navigantibus
undecies pro discordaniibus,
duodecies pro penitentibus,
tredecies pro iter agentibus.
Tam pro papa quam pro rege
bibunt omnes sine lege.

Bibit hera, bibit herus,
bibit miles, bibit clerus,
bibit ille, bibit illa,
bibit servis cum ancilla,
bibit velox, bibit piger,
bibit albus, bibit niger,
bibit constans, bibit vagus,
bibit rudis, bibit magnus.

Bibit pauper et egrotus,
bibit exul et ignotus,
bibit puer, bibit canus,
bibit presul et decanus,
bibit soror, bibit frater,
bibit anus, bibit mater,
bibit ista, bibit ille,
bibunt centum, bibunt mille.

Parum sexcente nummate
durant, cum immoderate
bibunt omnes sine meta.
Quamvis bibant mente leta,
sic nos rodunt omnes gentes
Qui nos rodunt confundantur
et sic erimus egentes.
et cum iustis non scribantur.

When we are in the tavern,
we do not care that we will go to dust,
but we hurry to gamble,
which always makes us sweat.
What happens in the tavern,
where money is host,
you may well ask,
and hear what I say.

Some gamble, some drink,
some behave loosely.
But of those who gamble,
some are stripped bare,
some win their clothes here,
some are dressed in sacks.
Here no-one fears death,
but they throw the dice in the name of Bacchus.

First of all it is to the wine-merchant
the the libertines drink,
one for the prisoners,
three for the living,
four for all Christians,
five for the faithful dead,
six for the loose sisters,
seven for the footpads in the wood,

Eight for the errant brethren,
nine for the dispersed monks,
ten for the seamen,
eleven for the squabblers,
twelve for the penitent,
thirteen for the wayfarers.
To the Pope as to the king
they all drink without restraint.

The mistress drinks, the master drinks,
the soldier drinks, the priest drinks,
the man drinks, the woman drinks,
the servant drinks with the maid,
the swift man drinks, the lazy man drinks,
the white man drinks, the black man drinks,
the settled man drinks, the wanderer drinks,
the stupid man drinks, the wise man drinks,

The poor man drinks, the sick man drinks,
the exile drinks, and the stranger,
the boy drinks, the old man drinks,
the bishop drinks, and the deacon,
the sister drinks, the brother drinks,
the old lady drinks, the mother drinks,
this man drinks, that man drinks,
a hundred drink, a thousand drink.

Six hundred pennies would hardly
suffice, if everyone
drinks immoderately and immeasurably.
However much they cheerfully drink
we are the ones whom everyone scolds,
and thus we are destitute.
May those who slander us be cursed
and may their names not be written in the book of the righteous.

The traffic to and from the building has consisted entirely of scruffy town folk and the occasional richly dressed burgher until a fellow comes out of the building with a deep scowl and shouts up at the windows;
"Wenn Sie nicht zahlen mich in Gelt, ich will etwas viel kostbare von Ihnen" before storming off. ("If you will not pay me in gold, I will take something more precious from you!")
His tatty clothing and the beery smell aren't at all what I was expecting, but he seems like the most likely candidate for the fellow we are looking for. I think we should both hurry along and see if we can't get a good look at him. Perhaps if we offer him a holy blessing he will pause long enough that we can get a good look at him?

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The Lord of the Dance (1/4)

2008-08-28T22:29:00.000-07:00

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Hamlet, Act I, scene 5 W.Shakespeare

To prepare for our latest excursion, I recommend reviewing a few perplexing mysteries. It vexes me that with almost a thousand years of human history available to us for exploration, and the benefits of scientific observation, there are still mysteries that resist explanation to any substantial extent. In 1872 the brigantine Mary Celeste was boarded while under sail, and found to be sailing unmanned towards the straits of Gibraltar. The ship's lifeboat had apparently been launched but the ship's company were never found. In 1809, on the night of November 25th, in the town of Perleberg, British diplomatic officer Benjamin Bathurst disappeared from the White Swan Inn after a pause to change horses. In the fifteenth century, an opportunistic grave-robber who hoped to avail himself of the gold supposedly manufactured by alchemist Nicholas Flamel opened the alchemist's grave in Paris, but was shocked to discover that the grave contained neither projection powder for the manufacture of gold, gold, nor body! In the twelfth century, two incongruous green-skinned children wandered into the village of Woolpit in England from the forest behind the wolf pit which gave the village its name. The boy grew sick and died, but the girl grew stronger and in time her skin colour became a normal human pink. The German town of Hameln seems not to have been the only one that received a visit from a mysterious rat-catcher, though thanks to the Brothers Grimm it is probably the most well-known instance. The town of Brandenburg lost all its children to a musician who enchanted the children and led them to some hidden place inside the Marienberg. On July 15th, 1237, the children of the town of Erfurt were entranced, and followed a mysterious piper, dancing as far as Arnstadt where they collapsed, exhausted. When news of their whereabouts reached their parents in Erfurt their parents sent wagons to bring them home. How do you fancy being a mendicant friar for a week or so? it'll probably mean going hungry a bit, but hopefully we will have a chance to see at first hand, who conjured the children away, and how they did it.

I have selected Thursday, the 22nd of June, 1284, a couple of days before the recorded date when the children of Hameln danced away from the town, as our starting point. That way we should be able to see the ratcatcher in action, and I hope, confirm that he is one and the same as the so-called "pied piper". Perhaps because it is a river port on the Weser, the town certainly seems to be infested with rats as we arrive. Passing the dungpits outside the town walls the vermin are very much in evidence, not even bothering to conceal themselves from the men who cart the night soil. Once inside the town the rats are even more in evidence: every shady alley has its skitterings, small dark shapes disappear from the tops of barrels, and appear from under crates of fruit. And any article of food left untended for a moment soon receives the attention of the rodents. Did you see that monster carrying away the fishhead? I'm sure its tail was six inches long at least! ugh! Since we arrived events have been fairly unremarkable, allowing for the constant presence of these disgusting rats, and their confounded fleas. One of the women trading in the marketplace convinced me that if I eat enough garlic the fleas will be less troublesome, so I have been adding a clove or two crushed, to my opportunistic meals. With a bellyful of barley pottage at about two hours after Compline, having passed most of the day in asking alms and preaching, I am contentedly watching the sun set beside the Weser, and it is then that I hear the raucous sound of a shawm somewhere across town. You're welcome to remain here, but I'm off to see if I can find the source of the commotion. Contrary to my expectations, the player (should I dignify his performance by calling him a musician? it seems to be more enthusiasm than skill right now) is not leading the rats, but herding them, from behind! As extraordinary as it seems, the rats seem to be running from the sound of the shawm as the player leaps and bounds from street to street!

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Love that dares not speak its name

2008-08-21T09:18:00.000-07:00

When poets write about the idyllic life of shepherds, sleeping till noon, and making love in the meadows, I am forced to conclude that they have little or no practical experience of sheep herding; of getting up before sunrise to set out fresh water, of carting hay, of long nights spent in a freezing hut listening for the bleat of a ewe giving birth. Such rosy dreams as they described were probably experienced, if at all, in the grounds of the home of whichever noble family they were guests. Making love on manicured grass, watching herds of sheep in the distance, tended by peasants. And relatively untroubled by the carnivorous insects repulsed by a carefully prepared pomander. Pennyroyal and fennel to help deter fleas and cedarwood and willow herb to discourage gnats. Shakespeare had his "Dark Lady", and I have my Beloved. Like Scribbling Bill, I shall keep her anonymous to spare her blushes, but I wonder if she knows that she is the sun that lights my days, and the moon that comforts my darkest nights? If I have to spend time away from her as I search out the musical jewels buried in time, it is always to her that I return. To you, my beloved, I dedicate this song, originally written by Dr.Campian of London (after the classical poet, Catullus' example). X:29 T:My Sweetest Lesbia % title C:Thomas Campion %(or Campian) O:A Booke of Ayres for Voyce and Lute % origin. M:3/4 % meter L:1/8 % length of shortest note Q:90 % tempo V:V clef=treble name="Voice" sname="Vc." V:P1 clef=treble name="Piano" sname="Pno." V:P2 V:P3 clef=bass V:P4 clef=bass %%staves V {(P1 P2) (P3 P4)} K:G % key [V:V] z6 | z6 | G G A B2 A |\ w:My sweet-est Les-bia, w:If all would live their w:When time-ly death my [V:P1] GGA B2 c | d>c B2 A/G/G/^F/ | GBA G>GF |\ [V:P2] B,2 F D2 G | D2 DG/=F/ EA, | B,2 D B,2 A, |\ [V:P3] g2 d g2 e | f2 g2 cd | g2 f g2 d |\ [V:P4] z6 | z6 | z6 |\ % [V:V] c c c B A2 | d d c B2 A |\ w:let us live and love. And, though the sa-ger w:lives in love like me, Then blood-y swords and w:life and for-tune ends, Let not my hearse be [V:P1] [EC]2 [AC][GB,] [^FA,]2 | B/c/de/f/ g>gf |\ [V:P2] Z | z2 c B2 A |\ [V:P3] c2 =fg d2 | gba g2 d' |\ [V:P4] z6 | z6 |\ % [V:V] c2 c B>c d | A2 z A A G | F2 D |\ w:sort our deeds re--prove, Let us not weigh them. w:ar-mour should not be. No drum nor trum-pet w:vexed with mourn-ing* friends. But let all lov-ers, [V:P1] e2 c B>AB | A2 z c/B/ AG | F2 z |\ [V:P2] z E/=F/G/A/ D3 | z ^F2 z z B,/^C/ | D2 z |\ [V:P3] c'c/d/e/=f/ g2 G | d2 d'a/g/ fe | d2 z |\ [V:P4] z6 | z6 | z3 |\ % [V:V] d2 c B2 A | G2 B2 A G | F2 G |\ w:Heaven's great lamps do dive in-to their west, and w:peace-ful sleeps should move, un-less a-larm came w:rich in tri-umph, come and with sweet pas-times [V:P1] A>G E/F/ [GB,]2 [FA,] | [EG,]2 DG ^FG | F z/ D/B/c/ |\ [V:P2] F/E/DC z2 z | z2 B,2 DB,/C/ | A, z3 |\ [V:P3] d'/=c'/ba g2 d | e>=f g2 de | d2 e |\ [V:P4] z6 | z6 | z3 |\ % [V:V] A2 d2 c A | B2 z | B B c d2 B |\ w:straight a-gain re-vive. But soon as once set w:from the camp of Love. But fools do live, and w:grace my hap-py tomb. And, Les-bia, close thou [V:P1] d>c B2 A/G/G/^F/ | [GB,]2 z | G2 A B>A G |\ [V:P2] D2 DG/=F/ EA, | z3 | B,DE D2 B, |\ [V:P3] f2 g2 cd | g2 G | g2 c g2 G |\ [V:P4] z6 | z3 | z6 |\ % [V:V] c2 e2 c d | B2 z | G B c d2 B |\ w:is our lit-tle light, then must we sleep one w:waste their lit-tle light, and seek with pain their w:up my lit-tle light, and crown with love my [V:P1] GA/B/ c3 d | B z/ D/d/c/ | B>A G d2 B |\ [V:P2] E2 EGAF | G z2 | D2 E F2 G |\ [V:P3] c2 c'2 ad' | g2 z | g2 e d2 g |\ [V:P4] z6 | z3 | z6 |\ % [V:V] d2 A2 c B | A2 c4 B2 A2 A2 | G8 |] w:ev-er-dur-ing night, ev-er-dur-ing night. w:ev-er-dur-ing night, ev-er-dur-ing night. w:ev-er-dur-ing night, ev-er-dur-ing night. [V:P1] A2 d2 AG | F2 c4 B2 A2 A2 | G8 |] [V:P2] F3 DED | A,2 [GE]2 F2 G2 GF/E/ F2 | D8 |] [V:P3] d4 cG | d2 c2 d4 d4 | [dG]8 |] [V:P4] z6 | z4 d'abc' d'3 c' | b8 |] %

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Journey's End. (at LAST!)

2008-08-14T01:53:00.000-07:00

(Wednesday, March 15th, 1600)

After spending Tuesday in the village of Hingham, Will Kemp set out on the final stage of his journey to Norwich this morning. With five boisterous young men running alongside, we make it through Barford Bridge, until we are within sight of the city. And within sight, and hearing of the astonishing crowds that have turned out, even on a working day, to welcome Master Kemp. I think Will is wise to take the advice offered by George Sprat to take his gelding and ride to lodgings which have been offered a stone's throw from St.Giles's gate; to try to dance through the crush would be almost impossible, not to mention physically dangerous! In the evening, talking to drinkers in the White Lion tavern I learn that Will has been advised by Master Roger Wiler, Mayor of the city, to delay dancing into the city until Saturday (March 25th) by which time many nobles, and other wealthy patrons will have had time to visit the city to witness the spectacle (and of course, spend their money!). In the meantime, Will and his company are offered the hospitality of the city. For myself, I manage to turn a small profit on three dozen pairs of fine woolen stockings that I bought before leaving London; enough to cover my travelling expenses and the remaining costs of my stay here in Norwich if I live frugally. And I have, besides, some letters entrusted for delivery which I hope will gain me a few more pennies. (Saturday, March 25th, 1600) The weather has improved noticeably since Will began his astonishing dance, and this morning, by ten O'clock, having returned to St.Giles's gate to resume his progress the air is mild and the sky has cleared after an early shower. And this time, to combat the press of the crowds Mayor Wiler has appointed Wifflers to make room for Kemp to dance forward. At St.Stephen's gate, Thomas Gilbert recites a short poem of his own composition to welcome Master Kemp to the city:

W With hart, and hand, among the rest, E Especially you welcome are : L Long looked for, as welcome guest, C Come now at last you be from farre. O Of many within the Citty sure, M Many good wishes you haue had. E Each one did pray you might indure, W VVith courage good the match you made. I Intend they did with gladsome hearts, L Like your well vvillers, you to meete : K Know you also they'l doe their parts, E Eyther in field or house to greete M More you then any with you came, P Procur'd thereto with trump and fame.

And before I leave for my own time once more, I am able to buy a printed copy for a farthing, perhaps from one of the same ballad-sellers who will later give Will such grief by publishing sorry slanders, suggesting quite unfairly that he cheated on his wager in various ways. We were just past the market place (and believe me, even in the twenty-first century, that's something to see!) when Will had the misfortune to land on the hem of a young woman's petticoat. Naturally, she jumped, trying to get out of his way, and something broke, leaving her blushing crimson in bodice and shift while a gang of boys (why do cities always have these ruffians?) made off with her fallen skirts. By St.John's churchyard Will leapt over the churchyard wall, apparently thinking to take a shortcut to the Mayor's house, but it seems at that point, his overseer, George Sprat lost sight of him, which I suppose gave rise to many of the slanders against poor Will. At this point, let me thank you, my patient friend, for your patience in going with us through frost, mud and pressing crowds, and refer you once more to Will Kemp's own account of his dance, where in closing, he offers some advice concerning good management of business.

Kemp's Jigg

arranged by Frank Nordberg

X: 1
T: Kemp's Jig
M: 2/4
L: 1/8
R: polka
K: Dmaj
f>g fe | d>e dc | BA Bc | d4 |
f/e/f/g/ fe |d/c/d/e/ dc | BA B/A/B/c/ | d4 |
~fa ~fa |fa/g/~f2 | eg eg |ed/=c/ B^c |
dA FA |dA/G/ FA |BA Bc | d4 |
fa f/g/a | fa/g/ f/e/d |eg e/=f/g | ed/=c/ B^c |
dA F/>G/ A | d/A/B/A/ F/>G/ A | BA B/A/B/c/ | d4 |]

And with Mr.Dowland's jaunty "Kemp's Jigg" I bid you adieu, at least for now.

References

For a map of Norwich

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].

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.

Presenting Arms

2008-08-07T23:53:00.000-07:00

(Friday, March 13th, 1600)

In order not to be conspicuous, I can't carry a personal wristwatch in this century. But I can get away with a pendant watch on a necklace. Whoever was occupying the room next to mine at the Bell Inn for the last couple of days was suffering with a very bad chest infection; coughing and wheezing all night and most of the day when I was there. And the inn staff were often bringing hot soup and strong-smelling home remedies to the room. While I haven't been able to get much sleep, I've managed. But I feel worse for the poor soul in the next room. According to my pendant watch at about four thirty this morning one of the inn staff woke me banging on his door, and it turned out that he had finally succumbed to his illness.

After that, I couldn't really sleep - too much coming and going; a priest administering a final blessing, the constable of the town making certain that no mischief had been done, and two men from the almshouses to collect the body.

One of the good things about an inn is that it never sleeps. For the next couple of hours I sat in the snug nursing a mug of mulled cider before breakfasting on oatmeal with cream and a drop of honey. And for once, Master Kemp didn't leave me behind. Although I should admit I was still brushing down Leto and had to make haste to saddle her.

By mid-morning we had reached the village of Rockland where Master Kemp intends to rest awhile, generously standing a round of drinks for all in the party. But forasmuch as he would like to speak to the innkeeper, Master Garner would not see us until he had put off his workaday clothes for his armour! When he finally honored us with his presence he made Master Kemp such a welcome as I don't think I have seen anywhere else, nor do I expect to, as Will himself later remembered it: "Going down on his knees he blessed the hour that any of the Queens well-wishers or friends would vouchsafe to come within his house." (Personally, I think he was a little overawed firstly by Will's reputation which had preceded him by some days, and secondly by a visit from a gentleman from London, no less. Someone who had entertained Her Majesty!)

Yet again, someone who has heard tell of Kemp's epic journey chooses to keep company with him in his dance, but like so many before him, Trojan that he is, Master Garner lays down in the way, red-faced and puffing before we have gone two furlongs from the village.
And once more, the road, such as it is, is so muddy, wet and sticky, that I am obliged to dismount for fear of Leto losing her footing.

X:209
T:The Queen's Delight
M:6/8
C:
S:Bacon (MDT)
N:
A:Bucknell
O:English
R:Jig
%P:A/2(AB$^3$)$^6$(AC$^3$)$^2$
P:A.(AB3)6(AC3)2
K:G
Q:C3=100
P:A
|: d2 g dcB | cBc ABc  | d2 G d2 c | BcA G3  :|
P:B
cBc  cBc | ABc def  | gfg  eag  | gfe def |
g2 g gfe | dec ABc  | d2 G d2 c | BcA G3  ||
P:C
cBc  cBc | ABc d2 e |
M:3/8
L:1/8
f3 |
M:6/8
g2 f g3 | (2ea g3 | g2 f e3 |
M:3/8
L:1/8
def |
M:6/8
g2 g gfe | dec ABc  | d2 G d2 c | BcA G3  ||
%abc

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].

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Run rabbit, run rabbit! run! run! run!

2008-07-31T20:10:00.000-07:00

(Friday, March 10th, 1600)

During our stay in St.Edmundsbury I have had opportunity to ask around, and found that Moyse's Hall is currently the home of the King family, local merchants. From Mistress Woodgate, one of the family servants, I learn that the house was, as I thought, originally the home of a Jewish financier who dedicated the hall on the first floor for use as a synagogue, although later part of the building was used as a tavern before being bought by the King family.

Since Will Kemp planned to stay a few more days in Bury St. Edmunds, I had time to follow up my ambition to trace the town walls. Of course there are places where it was difficult or impossible to follow the path of the walls, but in many places the knapped flint walls are still standing at least partially. And the houses don't reach all the way to the wall; in many places there are small meadows with sheep or blanketed horses huddling against the snow and munching from bundles of hay on both sides of the wall.

In the course of my exploration I took a few minutes to ask one of the shepherds about the tedious business of stone-picking and he told me that the flints grow underground during the winter, so that every year there are more stones to be picked!

Once again, undeterred by the frosty dark, Will Kemp sets out at 7a.m., jigging with unbelievable stamina past conyers heath*, and through the villages of Timworth and Ingham where an enterprising carter has stationed a wagon beside the road for curious villagers to cheer him onward, and by 10 o'clock we reach the enthusiastic crowds at the edge of the small market town of Thetford!

Since the assizes are in progress the town is packed and Sir Edwin Rich of Mulbarton, in deep crimson velvet hat and cloak greets Will personally from horseback, welcoming him to the town, and inviting him to accept the hospitality of his manor.

I feel obliged to write in support of Master Kemp that though he has been succoured in diverse places, he has remained true to his cause in taking up his jig at whatever place he left off. And it has been encouraging to see the generosity that has been offered to him by men of all stations appointed by God.

X:246
T:Three Handed Reel
T:Fanny Frail
C:Trad.
A:Bromsberrow Heath, Gloucestershire
S:Dommett
B:Dommett, p. 4, 26, 43
N:originally entered by Rich Holmes, 1996 Sept.
M:4/4
K:D
L:1/8
I:speed 300
fd A2 fd A2 | g2 f2  ec A2 | g2 f2 e2 d2 | edcB  AGFE |
DF A2 EG B2 | A2 d>d fd B2 | A2 dc B2 E2 | C2 F2 D4   ||
%abc

*Conyers Heath; so named for the rabbit-catchers who lived there, providing the town with a plentiful supply of meat and skins.

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].

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Saint Edmundsbury

2008-07-25T02:00:00.000-07:00

(Saturday, March 4th, 1600)

It's my birthday! I've already celebrated my birthday this year in my native time, so am tempted to have a second birthday back here. However, Will Kemp keeps up a cracking pace; even Tom Slye has admitted that sometimes he has trouble keeping up, and he's been a taberer these past fifteen years, five of them with Will.

Since Will has been staying with the Colts family, I have touched base with Master Slye, and am ready for once, when Will sets out before dawn, in the frosty March air. Master Colts' fool is accompanying Will in his dance as a good-sized crowd, some of whom must have been up as early as five a.m. trot along after.

It seems quite a detour to me, but Will Kemp has chosen to make his way through the village of Clare making a visit to the widow Everet.

Since I am not invited to visit I take the time to talk to some of the village folk who know Mistress Everet and their accounts are uniformly full of praise: a woman full of charity and virtue, quiet, devout, modest and well-spoken. I learn from them, that in his time, her husband was a Yeoman, a farmer who owned and worked his own land, which explains her comparative wealth.

By the time we reach the outskirts of St.Edmundsbury the lowering sky has started to snow lightly: tiny tingling flakes that catch in my eyelashes and hair. And my fingers are numbly grasping the reins, scarcely feeling inside my gloves. And the crowds here are busier than anywhere we have visited so far. I learn later, that Sir John Popham, the Lord Chief Justice of the realm was entering the town at the same time, by another route and as the crowds cleared a path for the honorable gentleman, most of them made haste to gawp as Will Kemp danced and frolicked his way into the town, being forced to pause seven times before he could reach the Angel Inn opposite the abandoned abbey.

X:204 T:The Morris March (Winster Processional) M:2/2 C: S:Bacon (MDT) N: A:Winster O:English R:Reel %P:(AB)$^{infty}$ P:(AB)8 K:G I:speed 400 L:1/8 P:A |:g2 d2 d2 ef | g2 d2 d2 ef | g2 d2 d2 c2 | B4 G2 z2 :| P:B |:c2 e2 e2 dc | B2 d2 d2 cB | A2 B2 c2 d2 | B4 G2 z2 :| %abc

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].

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 Unported License.

Merrily to Melford

2008-07-18T03:50:00.000-07:00

(Wednesday, March 1st, 1600)

I continue to be taken by surprise by Will Kemp's eagerness to get going. Being somewhat of a late riser (around 7pm) on these chilly mornings, the other tavern guests are usually finishing their breakfast or making horses ready by the time I get to the table. This morning master Kemp set out nearly an hour before, borrowing a horse to ride the three miles he danced previously and continue, so I will have some way to make up.

I finally catch up with Will in Sudbury, the first of the Suffolk market towns which we will pass through but I have no idea where he is. Usually it's a pretty fair bet that if I head for the nearest excited crowd, Will is either in the middle, or somebody can tell me where to look but today a wagon has lost a wheel and there is no shortage of bystanders with advice on how to raise the wagon, repair the axle and take care of the horses!

I am alerted by a ringing "Heigh Ho! Master Kemp!" as Will sets out to leave the town for Bury, and along with the rest of the throng I run for the edge of the marketplace to see a large and hearty-looking fellow with a ruddy complexion stripping off a butcher's apron announce boldly that he would count it an honor if he might keep Will company in a morris as far as Saint Edmundsbury. Will, of course, is always glad of a companion in his epic dance and the pair set out together. I choose to follow them, leading Cherry, my mare.

We have covered barely three-quarters of a mile by my reckoning when master Cobbold, for such is his name, calls a halt, panting, drenched with sweat, and crimson in the face.

He seems a tad embarrassed to admit that Will's energy is uncommon, and though he might be offered a hundred pounds (more than a year's income) he would not make the distance.

To add insult to the poor fellow's embarrassment one of our fellow-travellers, a red-haired young woman, taunts him as a "faint-hearted lout"! saying that if she had begun to dance she would go at least a mile if it killed her. Which raised as much of a laugh from the group as any of Will's quips might have.

And so it was that Will's "Maid Marian" borrowed a set of bells (fortunately for us, Tom Slye was carrying an extra set), kilted up her skirt, and danced with determination to Melford.

After slaking our thirsts we parted company, "Maid Marian" (Mistress Martyn) to a nearby farm, and Master Kemp, with his company, to the home of Master Colts, who would not suffer him to stay at a common inn. And I took my weary limbs to sleep at the Swann Inn, but I couldn't get this particular morris tune out of my mind. For some reason it seemed to suit Mistress Martyn.

X:135 T:The Maid of the Mill M:6/8 C: S:Bacon (RKS MSS) N:ending of A part rationalized H:abcTranscriber: Alex Boster A:Ilmington O:English R:Jig P:${1}over{2}$A(AB$^2$)$^4$A %P:A.(AB2)4.A K:G %I:speed 300 P:A L:1/16 |: E2 | G4 G2 F2E2D2 | G4 G2 A2B2c2 | B3AG2 A4 F2 |1 G8-G2 :|2 G12 || P:B L:1/16 d4 d2 d4 e2 | e4 e2 e4 e2 | g2f2g2 e2f2g2 | g8-g2 g2 | e2e2e2 e4 d2 | d4 e2 d6 | g2f2g2 e2f2g2 | g12 |] %abc

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].

Acknowledgements

Please visit the Kentwell Hall page to learn more about re-enactments at this historic building, not far from Long Melford, Suffolk, England.

Leapfrogging twixt Chelmsford and Braintree

2008-07-10T19:52:00.000-07:00

Having arrived late in Chelmsford, I caught up the day's events over breakfast with Will Kemp the next morning (Saturday). To summarise:

Sir Thomas Mildmay met him at the gates of his estate, where he graciously received a pair of garters from Master Kemp.

When Will finally made it through the crush to the Saracen's Head he was too weary to dance further, so tossed a few gags from the window for the crowds gathered below.

After breakfast, Will set out, but only made three miles of the road toward Braintree before turning back. I think he had overestimated his stamina and needed more time to recover.

During the stopover in Chelmsford a young lady of fourteen obtained permission from her parents to dance a Morris (or three). The innkeeper was good enough to clear a large dining room, and the pair danced for almost an hour, with bells jingling, and handkerchiefs waving merrily.

(Monday, February 28th, 1600)

When I got up this morning I found that Master Kemp had already accepted a ride with a gentleman setting out in the moonlight a little after 6am, shortcutting the distance he had danced previously.

The road between Chelmsford and Braintree left a lot to be desired: on either side of the road thick brambles and other undergrowth sealed the edges of the forest and the road itself was a well-trodden mire. Ruts, potholes, puddles and mud all the way. At times I was obliged to dismount my horse for fear of losing her footing, and by the time we caught up with Tom Slye and Will Kemp, we were all thoroughly muddy.

Before we caught up though, I saw a couple of equally damp and muddy lads making their way down the Great Waltham road. I found out later that these two game fellows had essayed to keep Master Kemp company in his dance, thinking it a small thing to dance a few miles from one town to the other, but they soon found the mud too much for them. After one of them fell into a huge puddle that Will managed to jump almost completely, he compared them to a couple of frogs, each trying to pull the other out of the mud!

X:87 T:Glorisher (Leapfrog) M:6/8 C: S:Bacon (MDT) N: A:Field Town (Finstock) O:English R:Jig %P:A.(AB)$^2$.(AC)$^2$ P:A.(AB)2.(AC)2 K:G Q:C3=100 P:A d/2c/2 | BAG GFG | ABA D2 (3E/2F/2G/2 | ABA Adc | BcA GAB | cde de=f | def g2 (3g/4a/4g/4f/2 | edc BcA | G>AG G2 || P:B z | e2 d dAB | cdc cAB | cde edc | GAG FED | G2 g gfg | G2 g g2 g/2f/2 | edc B>cA | G>AG G2 || P:C z | e3 d3 | d A2 B3 | c2 d c3 | c A2 B3 | c2 d e3 | (2ed(2cB | (2AB G3 | (2FE D3 | G3 g3 | (2gf g3 | G3 g3 | g3- g2 (3g/4a/4g/4f/2 | edc B>cA | G>AG G2 || %abc

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].

Horseplay

2008-07-03T18:43:00.000-07:00

(Friday, February 25th, 1600)

I would be the first to admit that I'm not a terribly good horse rider, and about a mile after leaving Ingatestone, I finally realized that my horse was favoring her right hind leg. Dismounting, I found that she had thrown a shoe, and while it wouldn't be a big problem on these dirt roads, in the long term it could lead to painful damage to her hoof, and the livery stable would certainly demand compensation from me when I change horses.

That was how I came to detour to Margaretting, the nearest village with a smithy. When I got there, three old men were sitting on logs in the shade of the barn end of the smithy while a "simple" lad busied himself chasing birds from the field beside the smithy. I asked the old fellows if the smith was also a farrier, and they laughed at me:

"No farrier, he. But a smith's no use in a village like this without he knows shoeing."

When the smith steps out of the workshop he calls to the lad chasing the birds and I watch in fascination as the boy gentles the horse almost as if they spoke the same language, while the smith sizes up the hoof that needs shoeing.

This is a fascinating process: first the surface of the hoof is pared with a sharp knife, and some dirt picked from the frog. I continue to watch patiently as the smith presses a hot metal shoe against the hoof making clouds of foul-smelling smoke, but my horse stands as calmly and patiently with her minder as if she were in her home stable. It takes a couple of returns to the ringing anvil inside the workshop to adjust the fit of the shoe and finally the smith twists off the protruding ends of the nails, rasping them flush to the wall of the hoof. The whole process has taken a little over an hour, not including time spent waiting.

When I get to the Saracen's Head at Chelmsford, it's late, it's cold, and I'm tired. But for once, I have a chance to talk to Will Kemp himself.

I ask Will Kemp what kind of jokes he uses, when he's not clowning. Of course, as he points out, most of the jokes he speaks on stage are written for him by the playwright, but

"I asked a painter of likenesses once 'how is it that your paintings are so fair, yet your children are so ugly?' 'Master Kemp' quoth he, 'I paint by day, but beget by night!'",

"John Nokes was driving his cart not far from here, and about noon, stopped to rest awhile. While he slept, thieves took his team, so that when he woke he exclaimed 'either I have lost my horses, or I have found a cart!'",

"What is't that a noble gentleman values so, that he wraps it in a silk kerchief, and keeps about him, yet a common beggar tosses away?"

When I admit to being stymied, he informs me "it is but the snot of their noses!"

Something about the way he tells it has me chuckling, and before I can regain my composure, he asks me if I would lend him my kerchief?

I pass it to him (it is clean, by the way) and he proceeds to stuff it into one nostril, then to my surprise (and mild disgust) draws it out of the other.

Before I can ask him to return it, he inserts it into the other nostril, sneezes a great sneeze, crosses his eyes, and proceeds to draw my kerchief from his right ear!

When Tom Slye his taberer joins us with a round of drinks, Will's eye catches a couple of wooden buckets standing in a corner, where the potboy left them after cleaning. Feigning drunk, he staggers across and trips on an imaginary uneven flagstone, landing with each foot in a bucket. Then quickwitted Tom (who presumably has had plenty of experience of Will's humor) strikes up yet another morris, and Will clumps the buckets to the tune of Bean Setting, a scene which puts me in mind of Gene Kelly's impeccable choreography in the 1949 musical, On The Town.

Kemp's Jig on Google Maps

References

Humor in Kemp's 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].

He dances his troubles away

2008-06-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

(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

Resting in Romford

2008-06-18T13:16:00.000-07:00

(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].

A Nine Days Wonder!

2008-06-12T01:59:00.000-07:00

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].

From flours to flowers; tulipmania

2008-06-03T04:55:00.000-07:00

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].

Footprints in the flour

2008-05-27T10:13:00.000-07:00

A few days before leaving on my latest expedition I met with my director who advised me that she was planning a longer-term investigation in the Netherlands around the Sixteenth to Seventeenth centuries.

Of course, I was immediately interested, having been there when the pilgrims were preparing to leave for America, and the director suggested that I might be a good choice for someone to look for a vacant property that could be bought to use as a base for operations.

One of the places that was recommended to me was a windmill. The miller had become disabled recently as the result of an accident and his wife, who had become his caregiver, had expressed an interest in selling the mill as a going concern.

When I got there the miller himself was sitting under an apple tree in a wheelchair; literally a chair which had been adapted by mounting it on a low cart. The extent of his injuries was quite apparent; he was missing his right leg from the knee down, and all of his right arm. He admitted that his injuries had been caused by the mill machinery, but he also admitted that he had been foolish enough to try to carry out a running repair when he was drunk, that should have been done when the mill was idle.

Although he is clearly in some pain, he insists on showing me through the mill itself, with the help of his wife. He asks me if I have considered running the mill myself, pointing out that he has added several labor-saving devices all of which are powered from the mill's main drive shaft. The devices include an ingenious harnessing of the power to operate sack hoists which can be used to lift heavy weights both inside and outside the mill, and a boulter, for sifting flour to produce a finer grade. Of course, the mill also makes use of several simple machines such as ropes and pulleys for lifting, screws to regulate the grain feed, and levers on the weighing scales.

My own thinking is that, for the rather high one thousand nine hundred and fifty guilders asking price, we could not only have a useful base of operations in this time, but a very important source of much-needed income in local coin.

Before committing to a deal it seems sensible to ask the miller about the craft of milling. If there is one thing that I have learned in my travels (and my colleagues agree) it is that there are very few occupations in this age that don't involve some knowledge of specialized skills. The miller chuckles and tells me that when he started learning, all his master would tell him was that he needed to know how to "whistle up the wind" on a calm day! However, there are some things that are worth knowing and he doesn't mind teaching me. For example, whenever you have to make a part for machinery that will be exposed to water on a regular basis, use elm rather than oak, for elm will outlast oak when immersed in water and both are roughly equally hard for durability.

It is as we are descending to the exit door that I hear something scrabbling on the stairs behind us, and turn around just in time to see a very-well-fed mouse skitter down the wall and into a crevice. Despite being startled by the mouse, I am reminded of a favorite song from my own younger days: (also in Dutch)

X:73                          % number
T:A Mouse lived in a windmill
M:3/4
O:http://www.mudcat.org/thread.CFM?threadID=10434 Q:1/4=160 P:ABABABA K:G P:A VERSE ^A6 |"G" B2 d2 DD |"C" E2 G2 G2 |"F" A2c2C2 |"Bb" D4 D2 |"Eb" G2^A2^A,^A, | w:A mouse lived in a wind-mill in old Am-ster-dam, A wind-mill with a "Ab" C2 ^D2 ^D2 |"D" D2 F2 A2 |"G" G2 B3 ^A |B2 d2 D2 |"C" E2 G2 G2 |"F" A c3 C2 | w:mouse in and he was-n't grous-in'. He sang eve-ry morn-ing, "How luc-ky I "Bb" D6 |"Eb" G2 ^A2 ^A,^A, |"Ab" C2 ^D2 ^D2 |"D" D2 F2 A2| "G" G6 || w:am, Liv-ing in a wind-mill in old Am-ster-dam!" P:B CHORUS G6 |-G2 B2 d2| "C" e6 | c6 |"G" d2 B2 G2 | D6 |"D" c2 A2 F2 | D4 e2 |"G" d5 ^c | w:I_ saw a mouse! Where? There on the stair! Where on the stair? Right there! A d^c d2 ^d2 |"C" e6 | c6 |"G" d2 B2 G2 | D2 e2 d2 |"A" ^c2 ^cA ^c2 |"D" c2 A2 F2 | w:lit-tle mouse with clogs on. Well I de-clare! Go-ing clip-clip-pe-ty-clop on the "G" G2 DEGB | A2 G2 A2 | G6 |] w:stair! * * * * * * Oh yeah! W: W:This mouse, he got lonesome, he took him a wife W:A windmill with mice in, it’s hardly surprisin’ W:She sang every morning “How lucky I am W:Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam” W: W:(Chorus) W: W:First they had triplets and then they had quins W:A windmill with quins in, triplets and twins in W:They sang every morning “How lucky we are W:Living in a windmill in Amsterdam – ya” W: W:(Chorus) W: W:The daughters got married and so did the sons W:The windmill had christenings when no one was listening W:They all sang in chorus “How lucky we am W:Living in a windmill in old Amsterdam” W: W:(Chorus) W: W:A mouse lived in a windmill, so snug and so nice W:There’s nobody there now but a whole load of mice W: W:EEN MUIS IN EEN MOLEN IN MOOI AMSTERDAM W: W:Er was eens een muisje in mooi Amsterdam W:Dat zat in een molen heel stiekem verscholen W:Hij zong elke morgen: 'Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn' W: W:REFREIN: Ik zag een muis. Waar? W:Daar op de trap. Waar op de trap? W:Nou, daar! W:Een kleine muis op klompjes W:Nee, 't is geen grap W:'t Ging van klipklipperdieklap op de trap W:Oh ja! W: W:Het muisje was eenzaam en zocht naar een vrouw W:En 'Piep' zei de muis in het voorhuis, 'ik trouw' W:Dus zongen ze samen 'Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn'. REFREIN W: W:Ma Muis kreeg een vijfling, en allen gezond W:Dus aten de muisjes beschuitjes met muisjes W:En iedereen zong toen 'Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn'. REFREIN W: W:De muizenfamilie werd vreselijk groot W:De molenaar vluchtte, hij was als de dood W:Voor de muizen die zongen ' Wat is het toch fijn W:Een muis in een molen in Mokum te zijn. REFREIN W: W:De muizen die hebben het fijn naar hun zin W:De molen staat leeg want geen mens durft er in... W:Ieeeee!

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].

Of course, by the time we are on the ground outside the mill once more, two of the mill cats are snoozing in the sun. Blissfully ignorant of the juicy meal they might have had.

Stand and Deliver!

2008-05-22T10:06:00.000-07:00

I accept a certain amount of risk as an occupational hazard of travelling in time, so I suppose I have to accept the consequences when I find myself in the middle of a hazardous situation, although to be honest, it doesn't happen very often. One of the easiest ways I've found to infiltrate myself into a time and place is to join a travelling party early in the day as they prepare to set out. Of course, that also means I am accepting the same risk as my fellow-travellers, of being intercepted and robbed on the road, and in May of 1721 my complacency about the potential risk was confronted with the reality in the middle of Epping Forest, miles from the nearest village. It took me a few minutes to realize what was happening when we were ordered to disembark from the coach in which we were travelling. A number of possible causes for our unscheduled halt ran through my mind:

One of the horses had been lamed? (during the ride one of my companions told me how a couple of years ago, the Essex Gang, led by Mr.Turpin, sowed the road with caltrops, laming the horses of an express team in a most cruel manner).
A wheel had come off the coach? (unlikely, the coach would probably have tipped)
A fallen tree blocking the road?

When I saw the masked horseman pointing a flintlock pistol I got the shock of my adventurous life. One of the most notorious highwaymen of the period is "Dick" Turpin, originally an Essex lad, who served his apprenticeship as a butcher and has become notorious for his daring and violent robberies. He has already outlived the Essex Gang with whom he allied for a while; apparently his cavalier disregard for hazard was more than they felt their lives justified. But it seems my concerns were not altogether justified; our interrogator's manners were very much those of a gentleman, assisting myself and an older lady in dismounting from the coach (not the easiest maneuver in a hoopskirt), and while he would not spare any coin or jewelry, at least he apologized to us for inconveniencing us so rudely. X:1 T:Air XX, March in Rinaldo with Drums and Trumpets % title T:Adapted by John Gay for The Beggar's Opera C: % composer O:http://www.gutenberg.org/files/25063/25063-h/music/air_XX.pdf % origin. M:C % meter L:1/8 % length of shortest note Q: % tempo K:Bb % key V:1 % voice 1 z2 z2 DE | F4 F4 | F6 Bc | dcde d2 d2 | w:Let us take the Road. Hark! I hear the Sound of Coach-es! d4 f4 | dcde d2 d2 | d4 f3 e | e2 cd edcB | w:The Hou-r of At-tack ap-proach-es, To your Arms, bra-ve Boy-s an-d c6 || AB | c4 c4 | !trill! c6 f2 | FGAB c2 d2 | w:load. See the Ball I hold! Let the Chy-mists toil like Ass- e4 f3 e | d2 cd edcB | c2 F2 f3 e | dcBc !trill! c3 B | w:es, Our Fire their Fi-re sur--pas--ses And turns all our Lead__ to_ B6 |] w:Gold.Our assailant did, however, unhitch one of the team of horses, which he took with him. While the animal might not be broken to saddle, and difficult to ride, it still represents a considerable loss to the coaching company. The shortfall in the team means that any further progress will be painfully slow, and some of us will have to continue on foot, alongside the coach. And I will probably have to explain to my director the loss of a couple of items of antique jewelry, which cannot be replaced. The music, which I thought would be appropriate to this little adventure, is from the Beggar's Opera by John Gay, produced by John Rich, which as one wag put it,

made Gay rich, and Rich gay

After I got back here a little research suggested that the most likely identity for our assailant would be "Captain" King, so called because of his delightfully gallant manners! 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].