In the House of the Lord

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leyden en verdraghen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

References:

The West Gallery Music Association

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

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We're all jolly fellows that follow the plough!

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

References

BBC Radio 4's Making History programme about Plough Monday

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

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Fun, Games and a Spider

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

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

Reference

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

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