My late father used to have terrible trouble balancing his checkbook, and he was no dumb bunny. My hope is that this simple spreadsheet will make it easier for other people to balance their checkbook. The instructions are on the second sheet, the first sheet has some dummy values already so that you can see how it works and get the feel of it. Feedback will be welcome, and may help to improve the design.
The spreadsheet opens in OpenOffice, freeware (which can do pretty much everything MS Office can) or Excel 95 (for forward compatibility).
I'm posting this because I don't want to forget / lose track of it, and here and now in 2012 it's still relevant:
SOCIALISM You have 2 cows. You give one to your neighbour.
COMMUNISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both and gives you some milk.
FASCISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both and sells you some milk.
NAZISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both and shoots you.
BUREAUCRATISM You have 2 cows. The State takes both, shoots one, milks the other, and then throws the milk away.
TRADITIONAL CAPITALISM You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull. Your herd multiplies, and the economy grows. You sell them and retire on the income.
RBS ( ROYAL BANK OF SCOTLAND ) - VENTURE CAPITALISM You have two cows. You sell three of them to your publicly listed company, using letters of credit opened by your brother-in-law at the bank, then execute a debt/equity swap with an associated general offer so that you get all four cows back, with a tax exemption for five cows. The milk rights of the six cows are transferred via an intermediary to a Cayman Island Company secretly owned by the majority shareholder who sells the rights to all seven cows back to your listed company. The annual report says the company owns eight cows, with an option on one more. You sell one cow to buy a new president of the United States , leaving you with nine cows. No balance sheet provided with the release. The public then buys your bull.
SURREALISM You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.
AN AMERICAN CORPORATION You have two cows. You sell one, and force the other to produce the milk of four cows. Later, you hire a consultant to analyse why the cow has dropped dead.
A GREEK CORPORATION You have two cows. You borrow lots of euros to build barns, milking sheds, hay stores, feed sheds, dairies, cold stores, abattoir, cheese unit and packing sheds. You still only have two cows.
A FRENCH CORPORATION You have two cows. You go on strike, organise a riot, and block the roads, because you want three cows.
A JAPANESE CORPORATION You have two cows. You redesign them so they are one-tenth the size of an ordinary cow and produce twenty times the milk. You then create a clever cow cartoon image called a Cowkimona and market it worldwide.
AN ITALIAN CORPORATION You have two cows, but you don't know where they are. You decide to have lunch.
A SWISS CORPORATION You have 5000 cows. None of them belong to you. You charge the owners for storing them.
A CHINESE CORPORATION You have two cows. You have 300 people milking them. You claim that you have full employment, and high bovine productivity. You arrest the newsman who reported the real situation.
AN INDIAN CORPORATION You have two cows. You worship them.
A BRITISH CORPORATION You have two cows. Both are mad.
AN IRAQI CORPORATION Everyone thinks you have lots of cows. You tell them that you have none. No-one believes you, so they bomb the ** out of you and invade your country. You still have no cows, but at least you are now a Democracy.
AN AUSTRALIAN CORPORATION You have two cows. Business seems pretty good. You close the office and go for a few beers to celebrate.
A NEW ZEALAND CORPORATION You have two cows. The one on the left looks very attractive...
I have no idea whether the following are true or not. But if they are ... well, draw your own conclusions.
There is no electricity bill in Libya; electricity is free for all its citizens.
There is no interest on loans, banks in Libya are state-owned and loans given to all its citizens at zero percent interest by law.
Having a home considered a human right in Libya.
All newlyweds in Libya receive $60,000 dinar (U.S.$50,000) by the government to buy their first apartment so to help start up the family.
Education and medical treatments are free in Libya. Before Gaddafi only 25 percent of Libyans were literate. Today, the figure is 83 percent.
Should Libyans want to take up farming career, they would receive farming land, a farming house, equipments, seeds and livestock to kickstart their farms are all for free.
If Libyans cannot find the education or medical facilities they need, the government funds them to go abroad, for it is not only paid for, but they get a U.S.$2,300/month for accommodation and car allowance.
If a Libyan buys a car, the government subsidizes 50 percent of the price.
The price of petrol in Libya is $0.14 per liter.
Libya has no external debt and its reserves amounting to $150 billion are now frozen globally.
If a Libyan is unable to get employment after graduation the state would pay the average salary of the profession, as if he or she is employed, until employment is found.
A portion of every Libyan oil sale is credited directly to the bank accounts of all Libyan citizens.
A mother who gives birth to a child receive U.S.$5,000.
Respectfully dedicated to the memory of Tom Castillo, no body, no paper trail. And Phil Schneider. And all the people who trod on the wrong toes.
Addendum, Nov. 5th, 2011
BREAKING NEWS: MAJOR DISCOVERY IN DULCE NEW MEXICO
October 21st, 2011 former Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura arrives to Dulce NM but is denied filming rights and access to the Jicarilla Apache Reservation. The truTV network crews are sent off the reservation and referred to a local Bigfoot expert; someone with little to no real knowledge of the Underground Dulce Facility.
October 24th, 2011 after meeting face-to-face with the Jicarilla Nation Tribal Council President and Public Relations Officer, researcher/author Anthony F. Sanchez is granted unprecedented access to film on the reservation. During the excursion up Archuleta Mesa, Sanchez becomes the first ever investigative researhcer to discover U.S. Government Property (Military Grade Material) atop the Mesa plateau during a recorded video and photo investigation. This fact is confirmed as a first ever occurrence by two ten-plus year veteran officers of the Jicarilla Tribal Law Enforcement Agency.
October 25th, 2011 equipped with High-Definition video and photo evidence, Anthony announces he intends to present this at the 2012 ASPE event in Taos just five days later to a live audience.
October 27th, 2011 Anthony succumbs to a severe headache during the morning hours. By the evening he suffers total facial paralysis and is barely able to speak.
November 2nd, 2011 upon arrival back to Northern California, Sanchez learns he is the victim of exposure to virulent Neurological Biotoxin, confirmed through multiple blood tests. His doctors cannot identify the chemical signature thus ruling out any known commercial grade pesticides or known military strains. The investigation into his health continues.
Earlier this summer on August 23rd, 2011 during a meeting with one of his sources an attempt on his life was attempted. And despite a year of personal assailment, lies, fabricated communication and physical attacks, none of this has managed to stop Sanchez in seeking the truth.
The sign outside (a black dog on a blue ground with a scalloped border) also bears the legend ‘The Sudbury Arms’ but the one or two people I’ve heard referring to it, just call it ‘The Dog’. The landlord has room for us here tonight, so no more breaking curfew and I think I see quite a few faces from the pit of the Rose here. The big, soldierly-looking fellow drinking alone at the board might appreciate some company to discuss the play, think you not?
Came you here from the Rose, sir?
I’deed I did. Good ale cannot mend a poor play, but it can banish it from my wits for an hour. Did you mark the fool whom it ha’ pleased nature t’ furnish wi’ more beard than brains, preening his mustaccio, lisping, and, wi’ some score of affected oaths, swearing down all that sat about him; that ‘the old Hieronimo, as it was first acted, was the only, best, and judiciously penned play in Europe.’ or the fellow who shook his bottle-head, and out o’ his corky brain squeezed a pitiful learned face, being for the most part silent?
How say you now, a poor play? Is it of the tragedy of Catiline that you speak? I thought it quite well played for a tragedy, with turns of fortune, and reverses again. I had hopes to see some action when the conspirators massed, but was cheered to see the chief of the traitors taken in bonds by the lictors.
Aye, Catiline I saw. And wish I ha’ not, t’ see th’ child of my pen so ‘bused. I wrote no ‘sides to the groundlings mark you! Think you that I would bid you grasp the wind? or call you to th’ embracing of a cloud? Th’ very ink with which I wrote was drawn from the well of Sallust, his Bellum Catilinae. Men come not to study at a playhouse, but love such expressions and passages which with ease insinuate themselves into their capacities. Lingua, that learned comedy of the contention betwixt the five senses for the superiority, is not to be prostituted to the common stage, but is only proper for an academy. Would that I had such to present my dramas.
By which token, I do recognize you now sir, and wish you good health. May your pen never lack for the company of good parchment. Say what you will of your Catiline, I and my friend liked it well enough, and some other plays of yours we have seen, better yet.
How’s this? you ha’ seen other plays o’ mine? Your speech marks you as strangers to th’ town; are you men o’ Lincoln shire?
From Suffolk, come lately to town about business and stayed to enjoy those pleasures not found abroad in the provinces.
From Suffolk e’en? I ha’ heard tell it is a flat county and much like Holland where I killed a Spaniard. A place mostly marshes and mires, good for trees and sheep.
Not altogether. Though I fancy you would no more know our Suffolk from our tales told, than we knew the city before we came to town. Thinking on your play, do but suffer me to ask, in writing of Catiline thought you of the Gunpowder Treason of a few years past?
I’ truth, it was not foremost in my mind, though a man should be a dull wit not to see th’ likeness o’ our present time i’ the threat against senator Cicero. And before Catiline was writ, I was called to answer before th’ Privy Council i’ the matter of my ‘Sejanus’ which treated also th’ matter of corruption in Rome.
Not having seen Sejanus played, I do not know, nor can imagine; what manner of offense might a play cause that their lordships should summon you so?
The gentlemen of the court fancied they saw darker shadows in my play than I had drawn. No matter, at one time I bore arms, now I have put off my armour for a pen. If any man take offence at my writing, it is his that takes it; I will not forbear to offer and tell my truth wi’out fear. Some little-minded Scotch man at court imagined he saw himself grotesqued i’ my ‘Eastward Hoe!’, I was imprisoned for my ‘Isle of Dogs’ and what manner of government have we let o’ertake us if a man should be locked up for writing?
Setting down his mug, there is an obvious scar at the base of his left thumb in the shape of a letter ‘M’.
Is that a wound you received in soldiering?
‘M’ for Mars? no! That brand I received at Newgate gaol, and am not ashamed of ’t either, for murdering a rogue who imagined his honour greater than mine, his wit sharper, and his sword more nimble.
Thinking of his ‘little-minded Scotch man’ I have to ask; Is the name of Lord Dacre known to you?
I ha’ no mind o’ his name. But today so many are dubbed, a man would need his own remembrancer to know every Lord Tom and Sir Harry.
He looks around to a hail from the door: Salve Silenus!
Rhadamanthus! Salve! Are you still prying pennies from wronged fingers?
Indeed I am. Have you found no better trade yet than telling tales?
The new arrival is the unmistakable gangling figure of John Donne.
Come, you sack o’ bones! Sup wi’ us and let us together try the quality of the ale. As for my trade, is it not plain that my plays are the most talked o’ in all London? Marlowe is altogether forgot and Spearshanks has but little latin and no greek. His plays are just that, toys for children and idiots.
Donne leans across to murmur to me: Ben here thinks to school the groundlings and imagines himself schoolmaster to all London. Yet if he ever set foot in a school, it was only to set new mortar in a crumbling wall.
You think t’ shame me by naming me t’n honest trade? You? Rhadamanthus! Why, if I should call t’ mind the tales o’ your youth you should be called Priapus!
When Ben is hailed from the doorway by two members of the cast whose names I can remember, Augustine Philips and Will Sly, it seems a perfect opportunity to ask John Donne if he knows anything about Lord Dacre that might help in our investigation.
Master Donne, a curious thing overtook me after I left your lodgings; I was called to visit with one Sir Francis, Lord Dacre, who claimed to be a friend of Sir Robert, your patron, and I should like to know to what degree the gentleman is known to you?
Donne’s face takes on a thoughtful expression before he answers me: Sir Robert has entertained him once or twice, and I was taught in a dispute concerning some estate in Scotland when I was a pupil of the Schola Lex at Lincoln’s Inn in 1592 or 1593. The matter was settled against him in my memory and he was choleric about it, claiming , in short, that the English courts had wronged him. ‘Called to visit’ you say? I find no surprise in that. The man I remember was of a dour sort and strong-willed in securing his own devices.
I hope my curiosity will not offend as I should very much like to know more about the case you mentioned.
Mr.Dacre had been abroad in Spain, Rome and at Bordeaux. As I remember, his brothers had done some service for King Philip and upon the death of his brothers, he laid claim to their lands but holding fast the catholic faith, was not well liked by Queen Elizabeth, nor her counsel, neither was he offered any encouragement by the common laws and justice of the realm. Mr.Whitfield deposed against him that he expressed to King Philip the hope that God might send a catholic prince over the English nation and that his lands might be restored to him. Mr.Dacre was persuaded of Father Creiton, a Scotch Jesuit, that he should be paid a pension of the Spanish King by bank, by Mr.Neper, a burgess of Edinburgh, for intelligence.
Under Lord Puckring, Francis Dacre was indicted as follows, for the imagining and compassing the death and destruction of the Queen’s majesty and the invasion of the realm. In Scotland he took upon himself the name and title of honour of Lord Dacre without her majesty’s licence, consent or knowledge. He conferred with Sir John Seton touching the compassing of his treacherous imaginations and procured Sir John to write letters to the king of Spain’s subjects.
In Spain, he conferred with Sir Francis Englefield, a traitor attainted concerning his treason and he left his allegiance to the queen, offering his service to the king of Spain. He set down in writing notes for the invading of England and received a pension from the king of Spain of sixty crowns for himself and twenty crowns for his son and heir. And in Rome he conferred with cardinal Allen touching his treasons.
Mr.Donne, I am very much indebted to you for your intelligence in this matter. I hope you will permit me to serve in any capacity that may please you, and for the meantime, may God save the King, and may the King save John Donne!
Raising his mug, I am happy to be of service, and to accept your service also. But alas! Ben here bids us drink to him only with our eyes., this with a wink in Ben’s direction before he quotes one of Ben’s own poems:
Pay no heed to John here Ben interjects, for he is the driest wit in all London.
Before going to sleep tonight, fix every detail of the events of today in your memory as completely as you can, because early tomorrow Dispatch is going to hike us out of here, and into the little Spanish village of Zatarán which is close enough to Valladolid that we can arrive in town as if we had come across country, but small enough, and quiet enough that we should be unnoticed.
Memorizing events here is going to be important, because if all goes well, we should be dropped back here no more than five minutes after our departure, but for us, days may have elapsed.
According to the sundial on the wall of the house it is about 3 p.m when Sir Robert thanks Master Dowland warmly for the entertainment we have all enjoyed and asks John Donne to accompany him within doors so that they may discuss final preparations for Sir Robert's trip to Paris, for which they will soon be embarking.
In bidding farewell to Sir Robert, John Donne and John Dowland I make a bow and express my thanks for the hospitality I have enjoyed, and the hope that the company will continue in good health until such time as fortune favours us to meet again. And then I am back on Drury Lane once more. My plan is to make my way down to Milford Lane, then take advantage of one of the many little ferries across the Thames to visit the Bankside and see if perhaps I might find the `Fortune', where The Alchemyst is playing. Not surprisingly there are quite a few people waiting to cross the river, and I find myself sharing a skiff with two well-muscled fellows in the simple dress of working men. At first, as we start out in the direction of Bankside, all seems well, but as we reach the midpoint of the river, the oarsman changes direction, taking us east towards the bridge once more I begin to feel the stirrings of anxiety as the boat pulls in towards Paul's Wharf on the north bank once more and one of my shipmates leans close.
My master wishes to speak with you in private. Give no sign of alarm. My fellow here has no need of a dagger, but he carries one to amuse himself, if you take my meaning. I shall lead up the stair and my friend will follow, and you shall stay quietly between us.
For all intents and purposes there is no law enforcement for me to call upon for help, and I am concerned that any attempt on my part to break free, or raise an alarm will be forcibly subdued so perhaps the best course of action is to calmly accept my lot and see what I may learn. If somebody wishes to interview me it may be important to know why, and without any fuss I allow my two companions to take me, one of them by a very uncomfortable shoulder grip, through a passageway to the garden of one of the houses fronting the river where an elderly gentleman in a rather ostentatious dark red suit trimmed with lace and ribbons sits smoking a pipe and reading a book in the shade of an elm tree.
Welcome Master Catling Please, make yourself comfortable. In a Scottish accent, he beckons me to join him on the bench beneath the tree. Accept my apologies for stealing your time in this manner, but I know you were today in company with Sir Robert Drury and some of his friends who have remained true to the apostolic faith. If I ask you some searching questions please be assured I mean you no harm; Sir Robert is a friend of mine also, though we have not spoken for a year or two now and I wish only to settle my mind concerning matters in his household.
Might I first know whose hospitality I now enjoy, sir?
Asking my own question buys me a few moments to consider the nature of any answers I might offer. The wording of his apology suggests that I am in the company of yet another recusant but it could equally be a trick to ease my mind, by one of Lord Cecil's spies hoping to trap me in recusancy myself. Until the picture becomes clearer I must be as unbiased as possible in formulating my answers.
I am Sir Francis Dacre In Scotland Lord Dacre. Now, if you will indulge my curiosity, I should like to know what business took you to Sir Robert's house?
To this question, a straightforward answer should suffice. After all, what harm should I look for in accepting an invitation to visit a poet whose work I admire greatly?
Hmm... So your meeting with Master Donne was but chance. Is it true that you were upon the bridge this morning, some hours after curfew?
Something about the way the question is asked gives me the feeling that this is the real reason I was brought here, and it seems to be common knowledge that we were flouting curfew.
And what of your companion? You were not alone, were you?
Please accept my apologies for implicating you in this wretched business at this point, but I reckoned that, since Sir Francis clearly had a spy on the bridge when we were there, any attempt to lie might bring an unpleasant retribution upon both of us.
My companion and I were but recently come from Suffolk, and having made good the first of our errands here we thought to find merriment among the taverns and cock-pits I am ashamed to say that we were so far gone in drink when the time came to seek lodgings, that we were obliged to seek such shelter as we could find for the night, and hope to sleep where the watch would not trouble us until our wits found us once more.
And it is for just such vagabonds that the curfew was called. I fancy you have seen for yourselves the hazards of going abroad by night Let me caution you, and your companion when you find him again; take care that you do not fall prey yourselves. The watchman has but one pair of eyes. I bid you good day, Master Catling.
Before I can frame any further questions, two firm hands from behind hoist me to my feet and I am frogmarched back to the waterside No persuasion is necessary to encourage me to find a waterman who will take me, alone, this time, to the bankside
I can't tell you how glad I am to see you It's adventures like this that taught me the value of having you along as a travelling companion. There are some things I would like to discuss with you once we get to the playhouse; we could leave matters until we get back to the inn but I put more faith in the anonymity of a crowd where the work of a spy becomes more complicated. You see, I have had quite an eventful afternoon already; abducted and interrogated by Sir Francis, or perhaps Lord Dacre I'm not quite certain which title is correct. And Sir Francis seems determined to remain a recusant. It might seem easy for us, knowing the course of events as we do, to see which path we would take. But it's important to remember, firstly, we are the product of our own histories, generations before us made choices that would affect us. And secondly, the last hundred years have seen so many changes of religious authority in England, it's no wonder they are eventually caricatured in the song, The Vicar of Bray (The monarchs listed in the song begin with the son of James I, Charles I of England.).
If it wasn't for the signs hanging above the doors to the various establishments we've already passed, I wouldn't know if we were passing the Bear Pit, the Cock Pit or the theatre. But I think it's fairly likely that the brilliant tudor rose across there is the trade sign of the Rose Theatre, and I'd bet money that the enterprising young man with the barrow-load of stools is renting them to the `groundlings'.
No matter that we don't look like noblemen or wealthy merchants, for a shilling (twelve pence) we could have comfortable seats in the Lord's Room above the rear of the stage, and below the roof over the stage, sheltered not only from the elements, but from the commoners occupying the rest of the building. Or for sixpence we can have a Gentlemen's Room, close by the stage, or even sit on the stage itself. But unless you object, I think a seat in the Gallery will suit us well, for a mere twopence.
Once the bell has stopped tolling, and the groundlings have settled to a sort of quiet, the prologue steps out to the front of the stage to announce the play, and set the scene in our imaginations.
Well, this is not the Fortune and we shall not hear The Alchemyst this afternoon. The Rose is presenting Catiline His Conspiracy, a tragedy newly writ by Ben Jonson. I don't have much patience for historical dramas which is just as well, as I want to tell you about my interview with Sir Francis and see what you think. I got the impression very strongly that he was involved in some way with events on the bridge this morning, and that he is concerned that we may be opposed to his machinations in some way, though he is not yet clear about how we fit into the overall picture. What he did make clear to me, in round-about terms, is that any further interference in his affairs will not be tolerated. At the same time, it must be obvious to you as it is to me by now, that a plot is being hatched and Sir Francis Dacre seems to be involved. I just don't have enough information yet to hazard a guess. Perhaps after the play, we could resort to one of the Bankside taverns and see if more intelligence concerning Lord Dacre of Scotland may be had?
To everyone who has been faithfully following my posts, Thank You for your encouragement. This week I offer for your consideration and comments (if you spot any howlers, please let me know!) the third Chapter 1 of the book. (The chapter numbering is different in the completed book, which isn't completed yet. Which I hope makes some sort of sense.)
To summarize, so far, we have gone from London Bridge, down Cheapside and out to the King's Printing House. On the way back we chanced upon John Donne who invited us to his lodgings in Drury Lane.
How could I pass up such an invitation. You may please yourself whether you come with me or make your own entertainment this afternoon, but I have a great deal to learn from John Donne. As we walk, there are many questions to which I would like answers;
Master Donne, you tell me you are not a doctor, but your poetry, indeed your tongue bespeaks your education. How then?
It was a hard time for a faithful catholic. Though Queen Elizabeth extended a much needed grace to followers of the Roman way after the merciless persecutions that went before, there were still penalties to be paid. You understand what is meant in law by ‘recusancy’? The term commonly used for those who refused to acknowledge the sovereign as prelate of the church in England following King Henry VIII’s schism with Rome.
Indeed. I know not whether I should call it a crime, but that any who refuse to attend Holy Church, acknowledging the crown as prelate in this realm are subject to the rigours of law. And does such refusal not border on treason?
My first schooling, and that of my brother, was finished at Oxford. and I later studied at Cambridge, and read law at Lincoln’s Inn but forasmuch as I could not, in good conscience,swear the Oath of Supremacy I was never awarded any degree. However, the Earl of Essex found use enough for me when he sailed against Cadiz, and to the Azores. It was during my naval career that I was befriended by Thomas Egerton, also in the service of my Lord Essex. And it was Master Egerton who commended me to his father, at that time Lord Keeper of the Great Seal.
I soon find that Drury Lane is further away than it looks on the map, but of course, as a native of this age and this city, the distance is nothing to John. The better roads are paved with cobblestones, but after a while the dirt surface was more comfortable in my recollection and by the time we reach the five storey house, I am more than ready to rest my legs for a while. We only have to climb to the third storey.
The house of his patron, in which his family is quartered is not the common half-timbered dwelling I was expecting, rubbing shoulders with its neighbours on either side, with overjets taking advantage of every available inch above the height of carriages passing beneath, but a much grander place, more mansion than house. Over the entrance to the courtyard behind the street a neo-classical faun’s head, the work of some skilled if anonymous carver, watches the traffic and beyond the arch I can see high boxwood hedges.
Inside the house the level of ostentation is just as great; the panels of the walls carved in the fashionable style of folded linen, and great pillars of white oak, darkened a little where hands have often rested, but otherwise light, have no doubt added their pungent scent to the fragrance that fills these halls.
The Donne family’s rooms lead off from the third floor landing of the great stair after we have climbed past a brilliant gallery of portraits of the five previous generations of the Drury patriarchs and here there are more personal touches displayed, no doubt items of more significance to John and his family; a crucifix between two candlesticks, a small terrestrial globe, an orrery, a child’s doll, a basket of apples and pears.
In John’s study I am finally able to make myself comfortable, resting my poor abused feet for a while. He has a whole shelf of books, and another of parchment rolls, and a turkish rug displays its oriental symmetry on one wall.
Permit me to ask, Master Donne, your counsel: is it better that a man should submit to the authority of the Holy Father in Rome? or to the prelate of England, our King?
Why would you ask me? You have this day, in your hand, the words of our sovereign creator: as Gods Scriptures are his will, so his actions are his will; both are Testaments, because they testify his mind to us. If God has set such a King over us to rule, we should accept his authority, God-given.
Just as sometimes we had rather believe a travellers lie than go to disprove him, so men rather cleave to old ways than seek new: yet because I have meditated therein, I will shortly acquaint you with what I think; for I would not be in danger of that law of Moses, That if a man dig a pit and cover it not, he must recompense those which are damnified by it.
I never fettered nor imprisoned the word Religion; not straightening it friarly, ad Religiones factitias as the Romans call well their orders of Religion, nor immuring it in a Rome, or a Wittemberg, or a Geneva; they are all virtual beams of one Sun. Religion is Christianity, which being too spiritual to be seen by us, does therefore take an apparent body of good life and works, so salvation requires an honest Christian. These are the two elements, and he which elemented from these, has the complexion of a good man, and a fit friend.
Well said, Master Donne. Indeed, I might wish I had pen and parchment that I might fix your words both for my own further consideration, and for those who might benefit thereby.
Nay! Do not so, for I know what dead carcasses things written are, in respect of things spoken. And at most, the greatest persons, are but great wens, and excrescences; men of wit and delightful conversation are nothing more than moles for ornament, except they be so incorporated into the body of the world that they contribute something to the sustentation of the whole.
You surprise me that you should have such a contempt for the nobility of the Royal Court! is it really such a shallow pool in which our Lords and Ladies swim?
I have ever seen in London and our Court, as some colours, and habits, and continuances, and motions, and phrases, and accents, and songs, so friends in fashion and in season: and I have seen them as suddenly abandoned altogether, though I see no change in them, nor know more why they were left, than why they were chosen. To do things by example, and upon confidence of anothers judgment may be some kind of a second wisdom; but it is but writing by a copy.
With these words John took in his hands some scattered pages on his desk, shuffled them into a neat pile and invited me to meet his wife and children. Passing the landing once more, I paused to admire a rather new and very striking portrait of a young woman.
You spoke kindly of my verses before. If it may be you have read my Anatomy of the World then she was Helen to my Paris.
Mistress Elizabeth Drury. The older daughter of Sir Robert Drury, her sister died aged three, and now death has robbed Sir Robert of his other child who departed this life a little more than a year past at just fifteen years old. No wonder John looks rather wistful.
Is it true as I heard that she was betrothed to the Prince of Wales?
True enough, though it was not betrothal as in former years. Prince Henry was very stricken with melancholy for many months after her death. And no doubt, Heaven is the richer for our loss. Come, let us to the garden.
Once we have descended to the back part of the house, we pass the stables, and through an arch in the great boxwood hedge, along weaving grassy paths between beds of flowering purple chives and tall, waving angelica, clumped sage and ground-hugging thyme to a small summer-house in the form of a doric temple where I am introduced to Anne Donne, interrupting what sounded like a delightful story of a beautiful princess and her wooing by a brave and handsome prince who wrote poems for her. The audience to this tale, until our arrival, consisted solely of three-year-old Lucy though it isn’t long before Constance appears, leading toddling Bridget. At eight years old, Constance is the senior of the children. The last to present themselves are John’s two sons; young John, astride a fine hobby-horse, and George, both brandishing very well-crafted wooden swords. Both boys bow with stiff formality and then young John salutes me with his sword.
I’m sure your father is proud and your mother and sisters take great comfort in knowing two such gallant and chivalrous young men!
Why do you not wear a sword Master Catling? Sir Robert says that a gentleman who wears no sword is either a fool or a rogue, and often both.
In truth, I have a sword left to me by my grandfather, but it is such a large and heavy weapon I find it too much an encumbrance when I am abroad about my business, so I wear it only when I am practicing at arms with the militia of my town. I do wear a poniard though.
At this point, our party is joined by two more gentlemen; one in his late forties or early fifties, his black hair cut short and his whiskers in the fashion of a sharp moustache and goatee, and the other, younger, perhaps in his early forties, and very richly dressed; the sleeves of his dark velvet doublet slashed to show a brilliant pink silk lining.
Good afternoon, Sir Robert. John is the first to address the newcomers, followed by Anne. In their turn each of the children with the exception of Bridget, either curtsey or bow. May I present to you a visitor from the country, Master Catling? Master Catling, my patron, Sir Robert Drury.
Sir Robert clearly has a great deal of affection for the children, picking up Bridget as if she was his own granddaughter.
Good day to you Master Catling and welcome to my house. As it seems you have already found, Master Donne has been both a good lawyer, and a good friend to me, to say nothing of his gift for writing poetry. And we are honoured today with the company of Master Dowland, lately departed from the Danish court. Since we are all foregathered here Master Dowland, might you play for us awhile?
I should be flattered to do so. Word reaches my ears that I am known in England these days as ‘Weeping John’ and I admit, many of my songs are of a melancholy humour. But I will try what might please you.
Anne Donne sends Constance to fetch a lute for Master Dowland while the discussion among the adults revolves around the matter of entertainment in the city. According to Master Dowland, a new play ‘The Alchemyst’ by Ben Jonson is being performed at the ‘Fortune’ Playhouse; a merry satire on the avarice and unscrupulous cunning of a quack doctor. And a new drink is being offered in one of the taverns, a tea made from leaves brought all the way from India, which he describes as tasting like ‘syrup of soot’.
Master Dowland takes the instrument from Constance and makes a brief examination of the frets, leather thongs tied around the neck of the instrument. It seems one of the frets is loose and needs to be retied. Then a few moments more to tune the courses before he takes a short quill plectrum from his scrip and begins his performance with ‘The Earl of Essex, His Galliard’.
Following on from last week's post, this is the second chapter (I haven't figured out yet how to tell the program I am using for typesetting, as opposed to comparatively simple word-processing, that this "book" starts on chapter two). In fact, posting chapters like this gives me a useful second look at what I am building, and the map at the end of this chapter really belongs at the end of Chapter 1 (for anyone interested in following our ramblings on the map, I recommend this link to John Norden's 1593 map and street guide). To set the scene for those who haven't yet read Chapter 1, a chance encounter with the poet and lawyer John Donne has led to an invitation to return with him to his lodgings ...
Lest anyone should think I have been idle all this while, I offer the preface and first chapter of The Book (this is still a work in progress, and feedback will be considered). If all goes well, more chapters will be added as they are written until the whole is ready for publication.
It looks as if we have a bit of walking to do; according to the map. To get to Aldersgate Street we have to continue down Cheapside, then make a right down St.Martin's Lane towards the city walls. The good part is that we have a nice day for walking provided we take care not to get in the way of the horses and avoid any chamberpots being emptied over our heads. The filthy state of the streets never fails to amaze me when I visit this era; before we reach the end of St.Martin's Lane we have already passed two very smelly middens, and as if the smell were not enough, every passer-by disturbs clouds of flies. Small wonder that the pomander is such a popular fashion accessory this season!
Even were it not boldly signed I think I could have identified the King's Printing House by the rattle of presses and the turpentine smell of ink. Once inside, we are met by a man who introduces himself as Henry Cooper, one of the readers and correctors, bearing an armful of loose papers as he invites us to come to the office of Master Barker.
It seems our timing is favoured, in that Robert Barker was planning to attend a play on the Bankside this afternoon but he sets aside his quill and closes the ledger before him when we enter, and after Henry's introduction, I enquire whether we might have one of the new bibles authorized by the King? Master Barker leads us downstairs once more to the public sales office and stockroom of the printing house to show off a very attractive bible, bound in a rich, soft brown leather. The verses are set in blackletter type, giving the whole object a very formal, religious feel, and bound into the spine is a black ribbon bookmark.
Having exchanged my silver for this beautiful volume, Master Barker invites us to wait in the room for a few minutes, returning with some unfinished stitched signatures, and asks us
Do either of you gentlemen enjoy Sir Walter's Weed?
It takes me a moment to realize that he is referring to tobacco. As popular as it is in this era, I have never smoked and do not see any need to do so in my capacity as a visitor. However, I am careful to express my distaste for tobacco smoke in terms that should not offend someone who may well have shares in a Virginian plantation. Barker's face takes on a new interest, and he asks me further if I would be interested in paying a few pennies more for an essay by the King himself, A Counterblaste to Tobacco?
Since the King is expressing an opinion, it is almost certain everyone else will have their own point of view, and it would not do us any harm to be aware of the royal thoughts on the matter if the subject should arise in conversation again. Besides, it will be nice to have something other than the bible to read when there is no other entertainment to be had.
By the time we are at the end of Aldersgate Street once more my feet are beginning to feel a little overused (the combined effect I think, of too little regular walking and shoes with natural leather soles which I notice have moulded themselves to my feet). It is while I am preoccupied with looking out for one of the recently-introduced two-seater carriages commonly called Hackney Carriages that a young man falls into step and strikes up conversation with us.
Good morning gentlemen. Have you perhaps been to the Printing House this morning? I hear tell that they are printing a new translation of the holy scriptures there, encouraged by our wise King.
We have indeed. And with whom have we the pleasure of sharing the road thus blessed by Phoebus this morning?
My name, gentlemen, is John Dunne. I have been surveying some land with the notion that it would be a fair place to build new houses that might then be rented, and by which I may profit.
For me, this is a marvellous coincidence:
John Dunne? are you the writer of whom I have heard much said in praise?
In truth, I have written a play and I thought it a fair thing though the players thought less of it. And the groundlings less still. But I am gratified to think that my scribblings are not altogether disregarded.
And what of poetry? are you sir, a poet?
Alas no. After my play was so ill-received I laid aside my pen and resolved to spend my energies building more profitable edifices.
Then you are not the author of those verses I know as `An Anatomie of the Worlde'?
Indeed I am not, though from the warmth with which you speak of him, I should like to be.
At the corner of the Shambles Master Dunne bids us good day, and I am of a mind to turn right, pass through the New Gate and see if we can find some lunch along Pie Corner. We have been comfortably settled in Richard's Pie House for perhaps fifteen minutes, I munching my Cornish Pasty and you with your rabbit pie when I am surprised to see the strange fish we hauled from the Thames this morning. He hasn't ordered anything since we've been here, but has instead been in hushed conversation with the older gentleman in black and as they both rise to leave, it seems he has noticed us also;
Well met, good fellows! My lord, this is Master Catling to whom I owe some small thanks since some ill-mannered lout thought to send me bathing in the river this morning.
In that case, I also owe you some measure of gratitude, Master Catling. Had my friend here not benefitted from your flouting of curfew we should all be the poorer for the loss now. Then addressing the Thames stranger again Good work, Simon, keep at it and we shall catch our fox yet.
Once the pair had left, a long lean fellow stepped across to make himself known to us.
Good day to you both, and would you forgive my curiosity in asking what is the book you carry? aha! one of the new bibles? I should be very interested to read a few scriptures in it if I may; I was, at one time, a student of divinity myself.
Indeed sir, I fear I should be guilty in the sight of the Lord were I to withhold from you his sacred commandments, in any translation. I hand the volume to the newcomer who turns to various passages, reading with a thoughtful expression.
I had thought we should have a new light shone upon God's word, but it seems our worthy scholars agree in large part with men like Knox, Coverdale and Calvin.
Forgive me sir, I am Master Christopher Catling, but lately come up from the county of Suffolk. Have I the honour of addressing a notable doctor?
He laughs. No doctor I, but a servant of my fellow man. In time past I have served in the parliament, and might have served in court had not my heart been my compass: I married against the wishes of a powerful man. As it were, John Donne took Anne Donne, and both were undone! he quips.
Another John Donne? We have this very morning kept company upon the road with a man of your name, yet not yourself I trow. How many John Donne's are there in London?
As to that I cannot say. London has a John for every street and one to spare.
A possibility occurs to me and I toss the following line into the conversation as a baited hook; Is not our Mistresse fair Religion?,
And the bait is taken!
As worthy of all our Soules devotion, As vertue was to the first blinded age?
This is a fair day indeed, Master John Donne! I have some little books of poetry, but none that please me more than yours.
You honour me greatly Master Catling, but tell me, how did you come by my poems, seeing that I have not yet entrusted the children of my pen to the printers?
This could be awkward! I keep a chap-book, in which I make fair copies of those writings which strike me as wise, or witty, as yours have, that were shown to me by friends.
Very well, since it is but a short way to my lodgings in Drury Lane, would you bear company to me and my family this afternoon?
Good to see you made it! I picked London Bridge for our point of arrival as it should be fairly quiet this early before dawn; the gates to the bridge are closed at curfew and if we see anyone, hopefully it will only be the watchmen.
``Yes, I heard that splash! Probably just crumbling stonework but it might be a good idea to take a look, just to be sure. You can see, over there, where part of the parapet has crumbled. Can you see anything in the water?
This little iron gate set into the parapet is at the top of a set of iron steps set into the bricks: be careful when you come down, I'm not sure how sturdy these bars are and they're probably rusty. It's lucky for us that there are actually people sheltering under the arch down here: these youngsters are known as `mudlarks'.
``Who's the eldest among you?
`` `at would be `Skinnypate'. Sleep frough anyfing, `e would!
The urchins don't wait for the help I had intended to offer, and by the time a bedraggled young man has hauled the pallid form of the unfortunate victim of the crumbling bridge to the pontoon where his fellows help in beaching them both `Skinnypate' has arrived; he is an ancient fellow, seemingly composed variously of filthy and ragged clothing, white beard, bald head and a strange and pervasive smell.
You ain't the watch. `Oo are yer?
While I do my best to explain how two strange newcomers to the city chanced to be wandering the bridge by night, the fellow rescued from the embrace of Old Father Thames begins to revive, much to the consternation of the mudlarks who have emptied the contents of his scrip and made a thorough inventory of his meagre jewelry.
Skinnypate seems, if not satisfied with my account of ourselves, at least not unduly concerned. But now there is the complication of the almost-drowned man who will not be in any fit state to ascend the pontoon for a while, and the watch, who should be notified at least of the events that have transpired here.
At least, such were my first thoughts, but a few moments of discussion with Skinnypate convinced me otherwise. Not only are the mudlarks \textit{not} supposed to be taking advantage of the shelter offered by the arches of the bridge in what is after all, a gated community inhabited by fairly well-to-do merchants, but we ourselves might be called to account for our presence abroad after curfew. And since we cannot claim kin nor residence in the city, and were instrumental in the discovery of a man possibly assaulted, and certainly in danger of his life it would be foolish to chance mercy in an age known for its rough justice. Perhaps the best thing to do would be to keep watch over our strange fish a little while longer until he shows signs of reviving enough to fend for himself, then make ourselves scarce, as you might note the mudlarks are already doing!
While the wet fellow is still groggy I'll keep an eye on him, but you get up on the bridge again and I'll meet you by St.Magnus Martyr. Perhaps you can arrange some breakfast at the same time.
God be thanked, the ruffler left my wits in my noddle. And right glad am I both to see you, and to know you Master Catling, for I was about an errand to secure the safety of the King's Majesty when that fiend sought to replace my brains with the bridge capstone!
The safety of the King, you say? but is it not seven years since Catesby and that scoundrel Faulkes were dispatched from this realm?
Seven years, aye. But in the King's garden, for every thorn uprooted, three will take its place. Aid me to the road if you would, for I must needs finish my errand.
This encounter poses something of a dilemma for me, since it seems that the victim of this intended murder has encountered me previously, although for me, the encounter remains a future event; always a possible complication when one travels in time and one of the reasons why it is safest always to say little and listen much.
By the time I have crossed the bridge to the church of St.Magnus Martyr the watchmen are calling Six O'Clock and the sun is rising as the first to wake set out into the streets; one or two apprentices, servants hasting about the business of their masters, and a hardy milkmaid greet me on my way across the bridge.
Breakfast of a warm apple pasty and a mug of small ale is most welcome in the chill of the churchyard, and as soon as we have both breakfasted, we should set off in the direction of The Poultry, which is more or less due north from here. Then we strike west up to Cheapside where most of the market activity happens.
We haven't gone far along Cheapside when I am drawn to one of the stalls like iron filings to a magnet; books! Magnificent, printed BOOKS! Look at this: de Macvlis in Sole Obseruatis, et Apparente Earvm cvm Sole Conuersione Narratio, Johannes Fabricius' text describing sunspots as seen through his telescope! A daring text to publish, since such things contradict the teaching of the Catholic church, perhaps that is why he is publishing his findings in England?
And Bartholin's Anatomicae Institvtiones Corporis Hvmani, one of the first printed books on human anatomy, and a foundation-stone of the scientific method which will one day unlock the secret of travel in time itself!
Aha! Now this is something I could really enjoy, not such a heavy read; Coryat's Crudites: hastily gobled up in Five Moneth's Trauels, like a Michelin guide for another century!
I could spend all day here, just browsing, but do you see what is wrong? No Authorized Version bibles. One of the key events of this year was the publication of the King James authorized version of the bible, but I don't see any copies on display here. Let me ask the bookseller.
The Holy Bible newly translated from the original tongues? no, alas I am not licensed to sell the new translation of the holy scriptures, though I have some very fine bibles imported from Switzerland, printed by Master Rouland Hall at Geneva and with extensive glosses in the margins to aid in understanding the divine commandments. Would you have one of those? If not, I must commend you to Master Barker, printer to his majesty at the King's Printing House.
Can you tell me where the King's Printing House is situated? my friend and I are but newly come to the city.
Aye, Master Barker's shop is at Northumberland House in Aldersgate Street.
Before we change direction my eye is drawn to the spine of one of the books, with the name of Thomas Ravenscroft; his Melismata. Yes, I know the rules say we aren't allowed to take any physical objects with us when we leave this era, but there's nothing to stop me stashing this somewhere safe for retrieval on another day, if you take my meaning. And it is from Melismata that I present Master Ravenscroft's round on the cries of London traders, Broomes for old shooes, both in the original mensural notation, and in a modern transcription for three voices.
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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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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
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!)
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.
When the 
