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An extract from Praying with Icons
The Vladimir Mother of God
One of the most frequently painted of all icons reminds us of the love that binds Mary and Jesus to each other, and also of the connection between Mary and ourselves, for we too are her children. There are numerous variations, but all of them show Christ in his mother's arms with their faces pressed together. One of her hands holds him, the other draws our attention to him, a motion reinforced by the gentle tilt of her head. There is a subdued sense of apprehension in Mary's face, as if she can already see her son bearing the cross, while Christ seems to be silently reassuring his mother of the resurrection.
This is one of the icons attributed to the Gospel author Luke. While we know of no surviving icon painted by his hand with certainty, according to tradition the original of this icon was his.
The most famous version of the icon, the Vladimir Mother of God, was given by the Church in Constantinople to the Russian Church in 1131. Every movement and use of the Vladimir icon has been chronicled ever since. It was in Kiev until that city was destroyed by the Golden Horde. From there, in 1155, it went to the city of Vladimir in the north. In 1395 the icon moved once again, this time to Moscow, a river town that had grown to be the chief city of Russia.
At present the icon is in a church adjacent to Moscow's Tretyakov Gallery, where it was housed through the Soviet period. On one occasion, during an attempted coup in 1993, it was taken out of the museum by the head of the Russian Orthodox Church, Patriarch Alexei, and used to bless the city -- the kind of action long associated with this icon. Even when it was housed in the museum, it was not unusual to see people in fervent prayer as they stand before this battered image. (There are many good printed reproductions of the Vladimir icon, but nothing I have seen does justice to the original. Partly this is because the surface of the icon, having suffered much damage, reveals level upon level of the overpainting of those who restored the icon over the centuries. We see portions of earlier painting in one area, later retouching in others. The rough terrain of the icon's surface is lost in prints.)
In some versions of the icon -- the Vladimir prototype is one -- Mary appears to be looking toward the person praying before the icon, in others her gaze is slightly off to the side, but in either case her eyes have an inward, contemplative quality. "The Virgin's eyes," Henri Nouwen comments, "are not curious, investigating or even understanding, but eyes which reveal to us our true selves." [Henri Nouwen, Behold the Beauty of the Lord: Praying with Icons (Notre Dame, IN: Ave Maria Press, 1987), p 36.]
Invariably, Christ's attention is directed to his mother. Always there is the detail of Christ's bare feet, a vivid symbol of his physical reality: he walked among us, leaving his footprints on the earth.
In some versions of the icon there is an additional detail of love, the arm of Christ around his mother's neck. This too is in the Vladimir prototype.
In contrast to Renaissance religious paintings with a similar subject, we notice in the icon that while Christ is an infant in size, his body's proportions are those of a man; a baby's head would be much larger. This is intentional. The noble face we see pressed against Mary's cheek is the Lord of Creation and the Glory of God. He wears adult clothing, a tunic and coat woven from gold, the color iconography uses for the imperishable and all that is associated with the Kingdom of God. In these details the icon reveals the real identity of the son of Mary.
Over her dress, Mary wears a dark shawl which circles her head, has a golden border, and is ornamented with three stars (one is hidden by Christ's body) symbolizing her virginity before and after her son's birth. At the same time they suggest that heaven has found a place in her.
The icon's triangular composition not only emphasizes the stillness of the two figures and gives the icon an immovable solidity but is a reminder of the presence of the Holy Trinity in all things.
The center of the composition is at the level of Mary's heart. A much used Orthodox prayer declares, "Beneath your tenderness of heart do we take refuge, O Mother of God." As anyone discovers in coming to know the Mother of God, her heart is as spacious as heaven.
In any version of the icon of the Mother of God of Tenderness, the Vladimir icon being only the most famous example, we see Mary's perfect devotion, a devotion so absolute that God finds in her the person who can both give birth to himself and who will ever after serve as the primary model of Christ-centered wholeness -- the woman whom all generations will regard as blessed. In her assent to the angelic invitation, Mary said not only on behalf of herself and all her righteous ancestors but for all generations, "Yes, Lord, come!" Through her all humanity gives birth to Jesus Christ, and through Christ she becomes our mother.
Because the icon portrays the profound oneness uniting Mary and Jesus, it is a eucharistic icon: in receiving the Body of Christ, we too hold Christ, and are held by Christ.
In the Gospel, we hear Mary praised for having given birth to Jesus and having nursed him. Christ responds by remarking on what is still more important about his mother and all who follow him wholeheartedly: "Rather blessed are they who hear the word of God and keep it." [Luke 11:28] She who gave birth to the Word of God also keeps it eternally.
It was at Mary's appeal that Christ performed his first miracle, changing water into wine at the marriage feast at Cana, and at Cana that we hear her simple appeal to each person who would follow her son: "Do whatever he tells you." [John 2:5] These few words would serve well as another name for this icon.
Praying with Icons web page: jimandnancyforest.com/2005/01/praying-with-icons/
Cartoixa (Carthusian monastery) Escala Dei, Priorat, Tarragona.
ENGLISH: (Picture uploded on All Souls' Day)
In the arts, vanitas is an art type of symbolic work of art especially associated with still life painting in Flanders and the Netherlands in the 16th and 17th centuries, though also common in other places and periods. Damien Hirst’s FOR THE LOVE OF GOD mean that “vanitas” is PUBLIC CONTEMPORARY ART. The Latin word means "vanity" and loosely translated corresponds to the meaninglessness of earthly life and the transient nature of all earthly goods and pursuits. As applied to vanitas art, the word is drawn from the biblical book of Ecclesiastes 1:2;12:8: Vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas.
In English: Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.
Vanity is used here in its older (especially pre-14th century) sense of “futility”.
Vanitas themes were common in medieval funerary art, with most surviving examples in sculpture. By the 15th century these could be extremely morbid and explicit, reflecting an increased obsession with death and decay also seen in the Ars moriendi, the Danse Macabre, and the overlapping motif of the Memento mori. Common vanitas symbols include skulls, which are a reminder of the certainty of death; rotten fruit (decay); bubbles (the brevity of life and suddenness of death); smoke, watches, and hourglasses, (the brevity of life); and musical instruments (brevity and the ephemeral nature of life). Fruit, flowers and butterflies can be interpreted in the same way, and a peeled lemon was, like life, attractive to look at but bitter to taste. Art historians debate how much, and how seriously, the vanitas theme is implied in still-life paintings without explicit imagery such as a skull.
CATALÀ: (Fotografia pujada el Dia dels Difunts)
Vanitas és un terme llatí que vol dir vanitat. En art designa una categoria particular de natura morta, d'alt valor simbòlic i religiós, molt practicat en la pintura barroca, particularment en la flamenca. Val a dir que la “vanitas”· en art no ha desaparegut i encara avui hi ha exemple que la fan ART CONTEMPORANI, com és el cas de l’escultura de Damien Hirst FOR THE LOVE OF GOD.
El seu nom i concepció es relacionen amb el políptot famós de l'Eclesiastès: vanitas vanitatum, et omnia vanitas
En català: Vanitat de vanitats, i tot és vanitat.
El missatge vol transmetre la inutilitat dels plaers mundans enfront a la certesa de la mort, animant a l'adopció d'un ombriu punt de vista sobre el món. És, tanmateix, un element essencial en el sorgiment de la natura morta com a gènere individual.
Entre tots aquests objectes simbòlics, el crani humà, símbol de la mort, és un dels més corrents. Es troba aquest memento mori (recorda't que vas a morir) entre els símbols de les activitats humanes: saber, ciència, riquesa, plaers, bellesa... Les "vanitas" denuncien la relativitat del coneixement i la vanitat del gènere humà subjecte al pas del temps, a la mort. Altres símbols que solen trobar-se a les "vanitas" són: fruita passada, que simbolitza la decadència com a envelliment; les bombolles, que simbolitzen la brevetat de la vida i el sobtat de la mort; fum, rellotges (mecànics i de sorra) i instruments musicals, símbols de la brevetat i la naturalesa efímera de la vida. (Viquipèdia)
Title.
That's my wife at the register. :) www.zabars.com/
( LUMIX G3 shot )
Manhattan. New York. USA. 2017. … 1 / 7
(Photo of the day. Unreleased.)
Images:
Linda Sikhakhane … Closer to the Heart
youtu.be/BshCm2zi0KQ?si=DIk0HgPilkJLQ8xo
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My new novel
B♭ (B Flat)
Volume 15 😄
The following is still in its draft stage and will be revised further.
Key parts are not disclosed.
The order of the content shown here is mixed.
(Of course, this is not the final version.)
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My new novel
B♭ (B Flat)
The summer light of Manhattan afternoons flared against the glass facades of the high-rises, and each time the heat of the asphalt wavered through the alleys, the massive building of the FBI’s New York Field Office seemed to draw in the clamor of the city, holding a grave and immovable stillness, while within its walls a taut tension and vigilance seeped forth. Beyond the thick iron doors set into its corner, the countless eyes of surveillance cameras interlaced with the motions of guards, proclaiming an order unshaken by the heat waves or the murmur of the crowd outside.
Special Agent Veronica Reeves, carrying the weight of long years of experience yet with a gaze still honed to an unerring edge, sat at the long desk by the window, quietly deciphering the thick bundle of reports spread before her—accounts of what had unfolded thus far. The shafts of heat-laden sunlight pressed through the glass, warping the air, and against that trembling her thoughts held fast, focusing upon the minutiae, drawing out, in three dimensions, the possibilities of the case and the breadth of its consequences.
The figures and map symbols inscribed upon the documents she reassembled in her mind, as though enfolding the arteries of the overheated city itself—the courses of traffic, the currents of people, the compression of the skyline—ordering the incident’s first movements with a hand imbued with a quiet, frigid certainty. The sterile white light of the ceiling LEDs cast swaying shadows upon the papers, and even those faint tremors at the edges of her sight seemed to enter her calculus, like unknown variables absorbed into the mesh of her analysis.
Her fingertip traced a single point upon the map, and in that gesture she drew together the city’s flows, the density of its crowds, the thicket of its structures, conjuring within her mind a three-dimensional rendering of the ground. The clash of red and blue signals at intersections, the exhaust drifting at corners, the tempo of footsteps, the shadows of cars idling at the curb—all converged upon the figures and symbols of the page, lifting before her the living geometry of New York.
Fragments of reports crackled from radios and telephones, slipping into her net of thought and fixed into the coordinates of time and place. At what moment, in what place, had the current of the crowd shifted? Who might have slipped within which building? The jam of traffic, the swell of onlookers, the frameworks of the structures—these she aligned, reducing error to its smallest margin, until the hidden contours of the scene emerged.
Her eyes remained calm, but the faint tightening of the muscles around them betrayed the sense of danger running beneath. With her finger pressing upon a point on the map, she drew upon the memory of old cases, of the city’s blueprints, calculating risk along each imagined path. The city’s shape, the crowd’s density, the placing of exits—all she set upon a grid of logic, hypothesizing every possible turn the future might take.
Her gaze halted upon a photograph in the file, parsing the expressions of the crowd, the disposition of guards, the position of obstacles. Cold though her eyes remained, they missed no dissonance, no trace of the unnatural, intent upon catching every variable within the net of reason, undistracted by the fever of the summer city.
In the office, where the cool of the air conditioning crossed with the heat outside, her thoughts gathered speed—silent, assured, relentless. What would unfold next? Which routes were safe, which led into peril? Each decision, measured in the span of a heartbeat, bore upon the safety of the crowd, upon the life of the candidate. Her logic did not waver, its threads weaving together in her hand like cords unraveling the complexity of the city.
Before her stood not only the files, but also the glow of monitors, the static of radios. Each was but a source of fragments, meaningless until passed through the filter of her thought. To bind data to the streets, images to reality, was the task at hand, advancing cold and quiet even as the heat of summer pressed against the glass.
The sweltering air outside rattled the windows; the distant sirens and the rumble of the city did not shatter her focus, but rather deepened her mental simulation, lending depth to the field she constructed within. Figures on the page fused with the living breath of the streets, reason drawing them together into clarity, and she readied herself to strike upon the next move.
Each sweep of her fingertip across the map made the city’s avenues rise in relief within her mind: the density of buildings, the movement of passersby, the gaze of cameras, the stations of guards. All chained together, cold and inexorable, suggesting the next action. Veronica drew a long breath, and with her exhale, wove the scattered variables into a single fabric, fixing her gaze upon the heart of the incident. In that moment, the distant sirens, the horns, the shuffling of feet at a crosswalk—all dissolved into her reasoning, each sound settling into place like a piece of a puzzle within the flow of logic. The city shimmered in heat, light and shadow in feverish scatter, but her mind cut through the glare, quietly tracing the full outline of the unfolding event.
At last, Veronica lifted the receiver of the internal line, feeling the cold resin beneath her fingers, and summoned Deputy Special Agent Elliot.
“Put me through to Jack Vance, Secret Service.”
“Understood.”
The black Ford SUV cut through the summer heat, racing down the streets. At the wheel, Jack’s profile was set with strain, while in the backseat Ana leaned forward, arms stretched protectively over the children, shouting in desperation.
“Keep your eyes ahead, Jack!”
The children, jolted by the car’s violent tremors, cried out with voices that wavered between cheers and screams, unable to discern the line between fear and thrill. Beside them, Mika bit her lip, struck dumb, staring in mute shock.
Behind them, the pursuing car roared, bullets sparking off the asphalt and leaving the acrid tang of gunpowder in the air. Jack twisted the wheel, his Ford scraping sparks along a wall of concrete, gunfire rattling through the city’s very skin. Ignoring lights and crowds alike, he veered the SUV up onto the sidewalk, plunging forward as screams scattered into the air, driving on as if to outpace the terror that pursued them.
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My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
There’s still more to come. 😃
(This is not the final draft.)
Set in New York City.
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Soundtrack.
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
Note: I gave a brief explanation of this novel in the following video:
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
iTunes Playlist Link::
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b/pl.u-47DJGhopxMD
My new novel:
B♭ (B-flat)
Notes
1. "Bombay Blood Type (hh type)"
•Characteristics: A rare blood type that lacks the usual ABO antigens — cannot be classified as A, B, or O.
•Discovery: First identified in 1952 in Mumbai, India (formerly Bombay).
•Prevalence: Roughly 1 in 10,000 people in India; globally, about 1 in 2.5 million.
•Transfusion Compatibility: Only compatible with blood from other Bombay type donors.
2. 2024 Harvard University Valedictorian Speech – The Power of Not Knowing
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
3. Shots Fired at Trump Rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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Title.
レジの最中は、僕の妻です。:) www.zabars.com/
( LUMIX G3 shot )
マンハッタン。ニューヨーク。アメリカ。2017. … 1 / 7
(今日の写真。それは未発表です。）
Images:
Linda Sikhakhane … Closer to the Heart
youtu.be/BshCm2zi0KQ?si=DIk0HgPilkJLQ8xo
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
第15弾。 😄
以下は、まだ初稿の段階です。まだ推敲します。
重要な部分は公開していません。
公開している内容の順番はバラバラです。
(もちろん最終稿ではありません。)
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
マンハッタンの夏の午後の光が高層ビル群のガラスにぎらつき、アスファルトの熱気が路地を揺らすたびに、FBIニューヨーク支局の巨大な建物は都市の喧騒を吸い込み、どっしりと静けさを保ちながらも、その内部に張り詰めた警戒と緊張をにじませていた。その角に設えられた厚い鉄の扉の向こうでは、監視カメラの無数の視線と警備員の動きが絡み合い、外界の熱波や人々のざわめきにも揺るがぬ秩序を守っていることを告げていた。
ヴェロニカ・リーヴス特別捜査官は、豊富な経験を背負いながらもなお研ぎ澄まされた眼差しで、窓際の長机に広げられた、これまでに起こった報告がまとめられた資料の束を静かに読み解いていた。差し込んだ外光の熱の束が窓ガラスを透かし、空気を歪ませ、彼女の思考はそれに抗うように細部まで集中され、事件の可能性や影響範囲を論理の中に立体的に描き出していった。
書類に記された数字や地図の記号を、熱せられた街の動線や人々の流れ、ビルの密集度までを含めるかのように頭の中で再構築し、事件の初動を論理的に整理していく手つきには、冷たくも静かな確信が宿っていた。
天井のLEDの白い光が、紙面に落ちる影を揺らし、視界の隅で振れるその影さえも、未知の変数として分析に取り込まれているかのようであった。
ヴェロニカは指先で地図上の一点をなぞり、都市の動線、人の密度、建築の密集度を瞬時に組み合わせ、頭の中で現場の立体的な状況を描き出していた。信号の赤や青が交錯する交差点、街角に漂う排気ガスの匂い、通行人の歩行速度、路上に停められた車の影――それらすべてが、紙面の数字や地図上の印と結びつき、ニューヨークという巨大な都市の立体的な動線を彼女の思考に浮かび上がらせた。
無線や電話からの断片的な報告も、彼女の分析の網に吸い込まれ、時間と空間に配置される。どの瞬間に、どの場所で、人々の流れが変化したか。誰がどの建物に潜入した可能性があるか。交通の混雑状況と、観衆の動き、建築物の構造を組み合わせ、最小の推測誤差で現場の全貌を描く。
彼女の瞳は冷静そのもので、しかし微細な筋肉の緊張が、その奥に潜む危機意識を示していた。手元の地図の一点を指でなぞり、過去の事件や都市計画のデータを呼び出しながら、シナリオごとにリスクを計算する。都市の構造、観衆の密度、出口の配置――あらゆる要素を論理のグリッドに沿って並べ、想像されるすべての事態を仮定する。
ヴェロニカは資料の中の写真に目を留め、観衆の表情や警備員の配置、障害物の位置を詳細に分析した。その視線は冷徹でありながらも、微細な違和感や不自然さを見逃さず、都市の熱気に流されることなく、論理の網の中に全ての変数を捕らえようとしていた。
冷房の空気と夏の熱気が交錯するオフィス内で、彼女の思考は静かに、しかし確実に速度を上げていく。次に何が起こりうるか、どのルートが安全で、どのルートが危険か。瞬間ごとの判断が、観衆の安全と候補者の命を左右する。論理は揺るぎなく、都市の複雑さを紐解く糸のように彼女の手の中で絡まり合った。
彼女の前には資料だけでなく、コンピュータの画面や無線のディスプレイも並ぶ。それらは断片的な情報の源にすぎず、ヴェロニカの思考というフィルターを通すことで初めて意味を持つ。データと現実の光景を繋ぎ、事件の全体像を構築する作業は、夏の街の熱気の中でも冷たく静かに進行した。
外の熱気は窓ガラスを揺らし、街のざわめきや遠くで響くサイレンは、彼女の集中をかき乱すどころか、逆に現場の臨場感を補強し、頭の中のシミュレーションに奥行きを与えた。紙面の数字と街の実像が、冷たい理性の中で重なり合い、彼女は次の一手を論理的に導き出す準備を整えていった。
彼女の指先が地図をなぞるたび、都市の街路が脳内で立体的に浮かび上がり、建物の密度、通行人の流れ、監視カメラの視野、警備員の位置が、冷徹な論理の中で連鎖し、次の行動を示唆する。ヴェロニカは深く息を吸い、吐き出すと同時に、無言のうちに全ての変数を繋ぎ合わせ、事件の核心へと視線を固定した。その瞬間、遠くの街路から聞こえるサイレンの音や車のクラクション、交差点で立ち止まる人々の足音が、彼女の頭の中ではパズルのピースとなり、論理的な流れの中に溶け込んでいった。都市は暑さに揺れ、光と影が乱反射するが、ヴェロニカの思考は静かに、その熱気を透過して事件の全体像を描き出していった。
ヴェロニカは、静かに内線電話の受話器を手に取り、その冷たい樹脂の感触を指先で確かめながら、エリオット副特別捜査官を呼び出し、いった。
「シークレットサービスのジャックバンスにつないで」
「了解」
ーーーーーー
黒のSUVフォードは、夏の熱気を押し裂くように街路を駆け抜けた。ハンドルを握るジャックの横顔には焦燥が張りつき、後部座席に身を寄せたアナは、子供たちを庇うように腕を伸ばしながら、それでも必死に声を張り上げた。
「前を見て、ジャック！」
車体の振動に身を揺らしながら、子供たちは歓声とも悲鳴ともつかぬ声をあげ、恐怖と興奮の境を知らぬままに叫んでいる。その隣でミカは唇を噛み、言葉を失ったまま呆然としている。
背後では追撃の車が唸りを上げ、硝煙の匂いを残して弾丸がアスファルトを跳ねた。ハンドルを切ったジャックの車体がコンクリート壁面に火花が散らせた。都市の皮膚を削るようにして銃声が響く。ジャックのフォードは信号も人波も無視し、歩道へと飛び込み、群衆の悲鳴を振り払うように疾走した。
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僕の新しい小説。
B♭ （ビーフラット）
舞台はニューヨークです。
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www.flickr.com/photos/stealaway/54599616429/in/dateposted...
Soundtrack.
music.apple.com/jp/playlist/b-my-novel-soundtrack/pl.u-47...
追記 この小説を多少説明しました。
youtu.be/3w65lqUF-YI?si=yG7qy6TPeCL9xRJV
メモ
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「Bombay型（ボンベイ型、hh型）」
•特徴：通常のABO血液型を持たない（A、B、Oに分類されない）特殊な型。
•発見地：1952年、インド・ムンバイ（旧ボンベイ）で初めて確認。
•発生頻度：インドでは1万人に1人程度だが、世界的には約250万人に1人とも。
•輸血制限：同じBombay型しか輸血できない。
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2024年ハーバード大学首席の卒業式スピーチ『知らないことの力』
youtu.be/SOUH8iVqSOI?si=Ju-Y728irtcWR71K
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Shots fired at Trump rally
youtu.be/1ejfAkzjEhk?si=ASqJwEmkY-2rW_hT
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With the rain falling harder, it was a bit of a route march to Holborn and my next church, the stunning St Sepulchre, which was also open.
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St Sepulchre-without-Newgate, also known as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Holborn), is an Anglican church in the City of London. It is located on Holborn Viaduct, almost opposite the Old Bailey. In medieval times it stood just outside ("without") the now-demolished old city wall, near the Newgate. It has been a living of St John's College, Oxford, since 1622.
The original Saxon church on the site was dedicated to St Edmund the King and Martyr. During the Crusades in the 12th century the church was renamed St Edmund and the Holy Sepulchre, in reference to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The name eventually became contracted to St Sepulchre.
The church is today the largest parish church in the City. It was completely rebuilt in the 15th century but was gutted by the Great Fire of London in 1666,[1] which left only the outer walls, the tower and the porch standing[2] -. Modified in the 18th century, the church underwent extensive restoration in 1878. It narrowly avoided destruction in the Second World War, although the 18th-century watch-house in its churchyard (erected to deter grave-robbers) was completely destroyed and had to be rebuilt.
The interior of the church is a wide, roomy space with a coffered ceiling[3] installed in 1834. The Vicars' old residence has recently been renovated into a modern living quarter.
During the reign of Mary I in 1555, St Sepulchre's vicar, John Rogers, was burned as a heretic.
St Sepulchre is named in the nursery rhyme Oranges and Lemons as the "bells of Old Bailey". Traditionally, the great bell would be rung to mark the execution of a prisoner at the nearby gallows at Newgate. The clerk of St Sepulchre's was also responsible for ringing a handbell outside the condemned man's cell in Newgate Prison to inform him of his impending execution. This handbell, known as the Execution Bell, now resides in a glass case to the south of the nave.
The church has been the official musicians' church for many years and is associated with many famous musicians. Its north aisle (formerly a chapel dedicated to Stephen Harding) is dedicated as the Musicians' Chapel, with four windows commemorating John Ireland, the singer Dame Nellie Melba, Walter Carroll and the conductor Sir Henry Wood respectively.[4] Wood, who "at the age of fourteen, learned to play the organ" at this church [1] and later became its organist, also has his ashes buried in this church.
The south aisle of the church holds the regimental chapel of the Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment), and its gardens are a memorial garden to that regiment.[5] The west end of the north aisle has various memorials connected with the City of London Rifles (the 6th Battalion London Regiment). The church was designated a Grade I listed building on 4 January 1950.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Sepulchre-without-Newgate
The Early History of St. Sepulchre's—Its Destruction in 1666—The Exterior and Interior—The Early Popularity of the Church—Interments here—Roger Ascham, the Author of the "Schoolmaster"—Captain John Smith, and his Romantic Adventures—Saved by an Indian Girl— St. Sepulchre's Churchyard—Accommodation for a Murderess—The Martyr Rogers—An Odd Circumstance—Good Company for the Dead—A Leap from the Tower—A Warning Bell and a Last Admonition—Nosegays for the Condemned—The Route to the Gallows-tree— The Deeds of the Charitable—The "Saracen's Head"—Description by Dickens—Giltspur Street—Giltspur Street Compter—A Disreputable Condition—Pie Corner—Hosier Lane—A Spurious Relic—The Conduit on Snow Hill—A Ladies' Charity School—Turnagain Lane—Poor Betty!—A Schoolmistress Censured—Skinner Street—Unpropitious Fortune—William Godwin—An Original Married Life.
Many interesting associations—Principally, however, connected with the annals of crime and the execution of the laws of England—belong to the Church of St. Sepulchre, or St. 'Pulchre. This sacred edifice—anciently known as St. Sepulchre's in the Bailey, or by Chamberlain Gate (now Newgate)—stands at the eastern end of the slight acclivity of Snow Hill, and between Smithfield and the Old Bailey. The genuine materials for its early history are scanty enough. It was probably founded about the commencement of the twelfth century, but of the exact date and circumstances of its origin there is no record whatever. Its name is derived from the Holy Sepulchre of our Saviour at Jerusalem, to the memory of which it was first dedicated.
The earliest authentic notice of the church, according to Maitland, is of the year 1178, at which date it was given by Roger, Bishop of Sarum, to the Prior and Canons of St. Bartholomew. These held the right of advowson until the dissolution of monasteries by Henry VIII., and from that time until 1610 it remained in the hands of the Crown. James I., however, then granted "the rectory and its appurtenances, with the advowson of the vicarage," to Francis Phillips and others. The next stage in its history is that the rectory was purchased by the parishioners, to be held in fee-farm of the Crown, and the advowson was obtained by the President and Fellows of St. John the Baptist College, at Oxford.
The church was rebuilt about the middle of the fifteenth century, when one of the Popham family, who had been Chancellor of Normandy and Treasurer of the King's Household, with distinguished liberality erected a handsome chapel on the south side of the choir, and the very beautiful porch still remaining at the south-west corner of the building. "His image," Stow says, "fair graven in stone, was fixed over the said porch."
The dreadful fire of 1666 almost destroyed St. Sepulchre's, but the parishioners set energetically to work, and it was "rebuilt and beautified both within and without." The general reparation was under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren, and nothing but the walls of the old building, and these not entirely, were suffered to remain. The work was done rapidly, and the whole was completed within four years.
"The tower," says Mr. Godwin, "retained its original aspect, and the body of the church, after its restoration, presented a series of windows between buttresses, with pointed heads filled with tracery, crowned by a string-course and battlements. In this form it remained till the year 1790, when it appears the whole fabric was found to be in a state of great decay, and it was resolved to repair it throughout. Accordingly the walls of the church were cased with Portland stone, and all the windows were taken out and replaced by others with plain semi-circular heads, as now seen—certainly agreeing but badly with the tower and porch of the building, but according with the then prevailing spirit of economy. The battlements, too, were taken down, and a plain stone parapet was substituted, so that at this time (with the exception of the roof, which was wagon-headed, and presented on the outside an unsightly swell, visible above the parapet) the church assumed its present appearance." The ungainly roof was removed, and an entirely new one erected, about 1836.
At each corner of the tower—"one of the most ancient," says the author of "Londinium Redivivum," "in the outline of the circuit of London" —there are spires, and on the spires there are weathercocks. These have been made use of by Howell to point a moral: "Unreasonable people," says he, "are as hard to reconcile as the vanes of St. Sepulchre's tower, which never look all four upon one point of the heavens." Nothing can be said with certainty as to the date of the tower, but it is not without the bounds of probability that it formed part of the original building. The belfry is reached by a small winding staircase in the south-west angle, and a similar staircase in an opposite angle leads to the summit. The spires at the corners, and some of the tower windows, have very recently undergone several alterations, which have added much to the picturesqueness and beauty of the church.
The chief entrance to St. Sepulchre's is by a porch of singular beauty, projecting from the south side of the tower, at the western end of the church. The groining of the ceiling of this porch, it has been pointed out, takes an almost unique form; the ribs are carved in bold relief, and the bosses at the intersections represent angels' heads, shields, roses, &c., in great variety.
Coming now to the interior of the church, we find it divided into three aisles, by two ranges of Tuscan columns. The aisles are of unequal widths, that in the centre being the widest, that to the south the narrowest. Semi-circular arches connect the columns on either side, springing directly from their capitals, without the interposition of an entablature, and support a large dental cornice, extending round the church. The ceiling of the middle aisle is divided into seven compartments, by horizontal bands, the middle compartment being formed into a small dome.
The aisles have groined ceilings, ornamented at the angles with doves, &c., and beneath every division of the groining are small windows, to admit light to the galleries. Over each of the aisles there is a gallery, very clumsily introduced, which dates from the time when the church was built by Wren, and extends the whole length, excepting at the chancel. The front of the gallery, which is of oak, is described by Mr. Godwin as carved into scrolls, branches, &c., in the centre panel, on either side, with the initials "C. R.," enriched with carvings of laurel, which have, however, he says, "but little merit."
At the east end of the church there are three semicircular-headed windows. Beneath the centre one is a large Corinthian altar-piece of oak, displaying columns, entablatures, &c., elaborately carved and gilded.
The length of the church, exclusive of the ambulatory, is said to be 126 feet, the breadth 68 feet, and the height of the tower 140 feet.
A singularly ugly sounding-board, extending over the preacher, used to stand at the back of the pulpit, at the east end of the church. It was in the shape of a large parabolic reflector, about twelve feet in diameter, and was composed of ribs of mahogany.
At the west end of the church there is a large organ, said to be the oldest and one of the finest in London. It was built in 1677, and has been greatly enlarged. Its reed-stops (hautboy, clarinet, &c.) are supposed to be unrivalled. In Newcourt's time the church was taken notice of as "remarkable for possessing an exceedingly fine organ, and the playing is thought so beautiful, that large congregations are attracted, though some of the parishioners object to the mode of performing divine service."
On the north side of the church, Mr. Godwin mentions, is a large apartment known as "St. Stephen's Chapel." This building evidently formed a somewhat important part of the old church, and was probably appropriated to the votaries of the saint whose name it bears.
Between the exterior and the interior of the church there is little harmony. "For example," says Mr. Godwin, "the columns which form the south aisle face, in some instances, the centre of the large windows which occur in the external wall of the church, and in others the centre of the piers, indifferently." This discordance may likely enough have arisen from the fact that when the church was rebuilt, or rather restored, after the Great Fire, the works were done without much attention from Sir Christopher Wren.
St. Sepulchre's appears to have enjoyed considerable popularity from the earliest period of its history, if one is to judge from the various sums left by well-disposed persons for the support of certain fraternities founded in the church—namely, those of St. Katherine, St. Michael, St. Anne, and Our Lady—and by others, for the maintenance of chantry priests to celebrate masses at stated intervals for the good of their souls. One of the fraternities just named—that of St. Katherine— originated, according to Stow, in the devotion of some poor persons in the parish, and was in honour of the conception of the Virgin Mary. They met in the church on the day of the Conception, and there had the mass of the day, and offered to the same, and provided a certain chaplain daily to celebrate divine service, and to set up wax lights before the image belonging to the fraternity, on all festival days.
The most famous of all who have been interred in St. Sepulchre's is Roger Ascham, the author of the "Schoolmaster," and the instructor of Queen Elizabeth in Greek and Latin. This learned old worthy was born in 1515, near Northallerton, in Yorkshire. He was educated at Cambridge University, and in time rose to be the university orator, being notably zealous in promoting what was then a novelty in England—the study of the Greek language. To divert himself after the fatigue of severe study, he used to devote himself to archery. This drew down upon him the censure of the all-work-and-no-play school; and in defence of himself, Ascham, in 1545, published "Toxophilus," a treatise on his favourite sport. This book is even yet well worthy of perusal, for its enthusiasm, and for its curious descriptions of the personal appearance and manners of the principal persons whom the author had seen and conversed with. Henry VIII. rewarded him with a pension of £10 per annum, a considerable sum in those days. In 1548, Ascham, on the death of William Grindall, who had been his pupil, was appointed instructor in the learned languages to Lady Elizabeth, afterwards the good Queen Bess. At the end of two years he had some dispute with, or took a disgust at, Lady Elizabeth's attendants, resigned his situation, and returned to his college. Soon after this he was employed as secretary to the English ambassador at the court of Charles V. of Germany, and remained abroad till the death of Edward VI. During his absence he had been appointed Latin secretary to King Edward. Strangely enough, though Queen Mary and her ministers were Papists, and Ascham a Protestant, he was retained in his office of Latin secretary, his pension was increased to £20, and he was allowed to retain his fellowship and his situation as university orator. In 1554 he married a lady of good family, by whom he had a considerable fortune, and of whom, in writing to a friend, he gives, as might perhaps be expected, an excellent character. On the accession of Queen Elizabeth, in 1558, she not only required his services as Latin secretary, but as her instructor in Greek, and he resided at Court during the remainder of his life. He died in consequence of his endeavours to complete a Latin poem which he intended to present to the queen on the New Year's Day of 1569. He breathed his last two days before 1568 ran out, and was interred, according to his own directions, in the most private manner, in St. Sepulchre's Church, his funeral sermon being preached by Dr. Andrew Nowell, Dean of St. Paul's. He was universally lamented; and even the queen herself not only showed great concern, but was pleased to say that she would rather have lost ten thousand pounds than her tutor Ascham, which, from that somewhat closehanded sovereign, was truly an expression of high regard.
Ascham, like most men, had his little weaknesses. He had too great a propensity to dice and cock-fighting. Bishop Nicholson would try to convince us that this is an unfounded calumny, but, as it is mentioned by Camden, and other contemporary writers, it seems impossible to deny it. He died, from all accounts, in indifferent circumstances. "Whether," says Dr. Johnson, referring to this, "Ascham was poor by his own fault, or the fault of others, cannot now be decided; but it is certain that many have been rich with less merit. His philological learning would have gained him honour in any country; and among us it may justly call for that reverence which all nations owe to those who first rouse them from ignorance, and kindle among them the light of literature." His most valuable work, "The Schoolmaster," was published by his widow. The nature of this celebrated performance may be gathered from the title: "The Schoolmaster; or a plain and perfite way of teaching children to understand, write, and speak the Latin tongue. … And commodious also for all such as have forgot the Latin tongue, and would by themselves, without a schoolmaster, in short time, and with small pains, recover a sufficient habilitie to understand, write, and speak Latin: by Roger Ascham, ann. 1570. At London, printed by John Daye, dwelling over Aldersgate," a printer, by the way, already mentioned by us a few chapters back (see page 208), as having printed several noted works of the sixteenth century.
Dr. Johnson remarks that the instruction recommended in "The Schoolmaster" is perhaps the best ever given for the study of languages.
Here also lies buried Captain John Smith, a conspicuous soldier of fortune, whose romantic adventures and daring exploits have rarely been surpassed. He died on the 21st of June, 1631. This valiant captain was born at Willoughby, in the county of Lincoln, and helped by his doings to enliven the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. He had a share in the wars of Hungary in 1602, and in three single combats overcame three Turks, and cut off their heads. For this, and other equally brave deeds, Sigismund, Duke of Transylvania, gave him his picture set in gold, with a pension of three hundred ducats; and allowed him to bear three Turks' heads proper as his shield of arms. He afterwards went to America, where he had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the Indians. He escaped from them, however, at last, and resumed his brilliant career by hazarding his life in naval engagements with pirates and Spanish men-of-war. The most important act of his life was the share he had in civilising the natives of New England, and reducing that province to obedience to Great Britain. In connection with his tomb in St. Sepulchre's, he is mentioned by Stow, in his "Survey," as "some time Governor of Virginia and Admiral of New England."
Certainly the most interesting events of his chequered career were his capture by the Indians, and the saving of his life by the Indian girl Pocahontas, a story of adventure that charms as often as it is told. Bancroft, the historian of the United States, relates how, during the early settlement of Virginia, Smith left the infant colony on an exploring expedition, and not only ascended the river Chickahominy, but struck into the interior. His companions disobeyed his instructions, and being surprised by the Indians, were put to death. Smith preserved his own life by calmness and self-possession. Displaying a pocket-compass, he amused the savages by an explanation of its power, and increased their admiration of his superior genius by imparting to them some vague conceptions of the form of the earth, and the nature of the planetary system. To the Indians, who retained him as their prisoner, his captivity was a more strange event than anything of which the traditions of their tribes preserved the memory. He was allowed to send a letter to the fort at Jamestown, and the savage wonder was increased, for he seemed by some magic to endow the paper with the gift of intelligence. It was evident that their captive was a being of a high order, and then the question arose, Was his nature beneficent, or was he to be dreaded as a dangerous enemy? Their minds were bewildered, and the decision of his fate was referred to the chief Powhatan, and before Powhatan Smith was brought. "The fears of the feeble aborigines," says Bancroft, "were about to prevail, and his immediate death, already repeatedly threatened and repeatedly delayed, would have been inevitable, but for the timely intercession of Pocahontas, a girl twelve years old, the daughter of Powhatan, whose confiding fondness Smith had easily won, and who firmly clung to his neck, as his head was bowed down to receive the stroke of the tomahawks. His fearlessness, and her entreaties, persuaded the council to spare the agreeable stranger, who could make hatchets for her father, and rattles and strings of beads for herself, the favourite child. The barbarians, whose decision had long been held in suspense by the mysterious awe which Smith had inspired, now resolved to receive him as a friend, and to make him a partner of their councils. They tempted him to join their bands, and lend assistance in an attack upon the white men at Jamestown; and when his decision of character succeeded in changing the current of their thoughts, they dismissed him with mutual promises of friendship and benevolence. Thus the captivity of Smith did itself become a benefit to the colony; for he had not only observed with care the country between the James and the Potomac, and had gained some knowledge of the language and manners of the natives, but he now established a peaceful intercourse between the English and the tribes of Powhatan."
On the monument erected to Smith in St. Sepulchre's Church, the following quaint lines were formerly inscribed:—
"Here lies one conquered that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honour of his God, and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?—
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear
These conquered heads, got by his sword and spear.
Or shall I tell of his adventures since
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being so large a station,
An habitation for our Christian nation,
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the Keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense."
Sir Robert Peake, the engraver, also found a last resting-place here. He is known as the master of William Faithorne—the famous English engraver of the seventeenth century—and governor of Basing House for the king during the Civil War under Charles I. He died in 1667. Here also was interred the body of Dr. Bell, grandfather of the originator of a well-known system of education.
"The churchyard of St. Sepulchre's," we learn from Maitland, "at one time extended so far into the street on the south side of the church, as to render the passage-way dangerously narrow. In 1760 the churchyard was, in consequence, levelled, and thrown open to the public. But this led to much inconvenience, and it was re-enclosed in 1802."
Sarah Malcolm, the murderess, was buried in the churchyard of St. Sepulchre's in 1733. This coldhearted and keen-eyed monster in human form has had her story told by us already. The parishioners seem, on this occasion, to have had no such scruples as had been exhibited by their predecessors a hundred and fifty years previous at the burial of Awfield, a traitor. We shall see presently that in those more remote days they were desirous of having at least respectable company for their deceased relatives and friends in the churchyard.
"For a long period," says Mr. Godwin (1838), "the church was surrounded by low mean buildings, by which its general appearance was hidden; but these having been cleared away, and the neighbourhood made considerably more open, St. Sepulchre's now forms a somewhat pleasing object, notwithstanding that the tower and a part of the porch are so entirely dissimilar in style to the remainder of the building." And since Godwin's writing the surroundings of the church have been so improved that perhaps few buildings in the metropolis stand more prominently before the public eye.
In the glorious roll of martyrs who have suffered at the stake for their religious principles, a vicar of St. Sepulchre's, the Reverend John Rogers, occupies a conspicuous place. He was the first who was burned in the reign of the Bloody Mary. This eminent person had at one time been chaplain to the English merchants at Antwerp, and while residing in that city had aided Tindal and Coverdale in their great work of translating the Bible. He married a German lady of good position, by whom he had a large family, and was enabled, by means of her relations, to reside in peace and safety in Germany. It appeared to be his duty, however, to return to England, and there publicly profess and advocate his religious convictions, even at the risk of death. He crossed the sea; he took his place in the pulpit at St. Paul's Cross; he preached a fearless and animated sermon, reminding his astonished audience of the pure and wholesome doctrine which had been promulgated from that pulpit in the days of the good King Edward, and solemnly warning them against the pestilent idolatry and superstition of these new times. It was his last sermon. He was apprehended, tried, condemned, and burned at Smithfield. We described, when speaking of Smithfield, the manner in which he met his fate.
Connected with the martyrdom of Rogers an odd circumstance is quoted in the "Churches of London." It is stated that when the bishops had resolved to put to death Joan Bocher, a friend came to Rogers and earnestly entreated his influence that the poor woman's life might be spared, and other means taken to prevent the spread of her heterodox doctrines. Rogers, however, contended that she should be executed; and his friend then begged him to choose some other kind of death, which should be more agreeable to the gentleness and mercy prescribed in the gospel. "No," replied Rogers, "burning alive is not a cruel death, but easy enough." His friend hearing these words, expressive of so little regard for the sufferings of a fellow-creature, answered him with great vehemence, at the same time striking Rogers' hand, "Well, it may perhaps so happen that you yourself shall have your hands full of this mild burning." There is no record of Rogers among the papers belonging to St. Sepulchre's, but this may easily be accounted for by the fact that at the Great Fire of 1666 nearly all the registers and archives were destroyed.
A noteworthy incident in the history of St. Sepulchre's was connected with the execution, in 1585, of Awfield, for "sparcinge abrood certen lewed, sedicious, and traytorous bookes." "When he was executed," says Fleetwood, the Recorder, in a letter to Lord Burleigh, July 7th of that year, "his body was brought unto St. Pulcher's to be buryed, but the parishioners would not suffer a traytor's corpse to be laid in the earth where their parents, wives, children, kindred, masters, and old neighbours did rest; and so his carcass was returned to the burial-ground near Tyburn, and there I leave it."
Another event in the history of the church is a tale of suicide. On the 10th of April, 1600, a man named William Dorrington threw himself from the roof of the tower, leaving there a prayer for forgiveness.
We come now to speak of the connection of St. Sepulchre's with the neighbouring prison of Newgate. Being the nearest church to the prison, that connection naturally was intimate. Its clock served to give the time to the hangman when there was an execution in the Old Bailey, and many a poor wretch's last moments must it have regulated.
On the right-hand side of the altar a board with a list of charitable donations and gifts used to contain the following item:—"1605. Mr. Robert Dowe gave, for ringing the greatest bell in this church on the day the condemned prisoners are executed, and for other services, for ever, concerning such condemned prisoners, for which services the sexton is paid £16s. 8d.—£50.
It was formerly the practice for the clerk or bellman of St. Sepulchre's to go under Newgate, on the night preceding the execution of a criminal, ring his bell, and repeat the following wholesome advice:—
"All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near
That you before the Almighty must appear;
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent.
And when St. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls.
Past twelve o'clock!"
This practice is explained by a passage in Munday's edition of Stow, in which it is told that a Mr. John Dowe, citizen and merchant taylor of London, gave £50 to the parish church of St. Sepulchre's, under the following conditions:—After the several sessions of London, on the night before the execution of such as were condemned to death, the clerk of the church was to go in the night-time, and also early in the morning, to the window of the prison in which they were lying. He was there to ring "certain tolls with a hand-bell" appointed for the purpose, and was afterwards, in a most Christian manner, to put them in mind of their present condition and approaching end, and to exhort them to be prepared, as they ought to be, to die. When they were in the cart, and brought before the walls of the church, the clerk was to stand there ready with the same bell, and, after certain tolls, rehearse a prayer, desiring all the people there present to pray for the unfortunate criminals. The beadle, also, of Merchant Taylors' Hall was allowed an "honest stipend" to see that this ceremony was regularly performed.
The affecting admonition—"affectingly good," Pennant calls it—addressed to the prisoners in Newgate, on the night before execution, ran as follows:—
"You prisoners that are within,
Who, for wickedness and sin,
after many mercies shown you, are now appointed to die to-morrow in the forenoon; give ear and understand that, to-morrow morning, the greatest bell of St. Sepulchre's shall toll for you, in form and manner of a passing-bell, as used to be tolled for those that are at the point of death; to the end that all godly people, hearing that bell, and knowing it is for your going to your deaths, may be stirred up heartily to pray to God to bestow his grace and mercy upon you, whilst you live. I beseech you, for Jesus Christ's sake, to keep this night in watching and prayer, to the salvation of your own souls while there is yet time and place for mercy; as knowing to-morrow you must appear before the judgment-seat of your Creator, there to give an account of all things done in this life, and to suffer eternal torments for your sins committed against Him, unless, upon your hearty and unfeigned repentance, you find mercy through the merits, death, and passion of your only Mediator and Advocate, Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return to Him."
And the following was the admonition to condemned criminals, as they were passing by St. Sepulchre's Church wall to execution:—" All good people, pray heartily unto God for these poor sinners, who are now going to their death, for whom this great bell doth toll.
"You that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears; ask mercy of the Lord, for the salvation of your own souls, through the [merits, death, and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return unto Him.
"Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you.
Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you."
The charitable Mr. Dowe, who took such interest in the last moments of the occupants of the condemned cell, was buried in the church of St. Botolph, Aldgate.
Another curious custom observed at St. Sepulchre's was the presentation of a nosegay to every criminal on his way to execution at Tyburn. No doubt the practice had its origin in some kindly feeling for the poor unfortunates who were so soon to bid farewell to all the beauties of earth. One of the last who received a nosegay from the steps of St. Sepulchre's was "Sixteen-string Jack," alias John Rann, who was hanged, in 1774, for robbing the Rev. Dr. Bell of his watch and eighteen pence in money, in Gunnersbury Lane, on the road to Brentford. Sixteen-string Jack wore the flowers in his button-hole as he rode dolefully to the gallows. This was witnessed by John Thomas Smith, who thus describes the scene in his admirable anecdotebook, "Nollekens and his Times:"—" I remember well, when I was in my eighth year, Mr. Nollekens calling at my father's house, in Great Portland Street, and taking us to Oxford Street, to see the notorious Jack Rann, commonly called Sixteenstring Jack, go to Tyburn to be hanged. … The criminal was dressed in a pea-green coat, with an immense nosegay in the button-hole, which had been presented to him at St. Sepulchre's steps; and his nankeen small-clothes, we were told, were tied at each knee with sixteen strings. After he had passed, and Mr. Nollekens was leading me home by the hand, I recollect his stooping down to me and observing, in a low tone of voice, 'Tom, now, my little man, if my father-in-law, Mr. Justice Welch, had been high constable, we could have walked by the side of the cart all the way to Tyburn.'"
When criminals were conveyed from Newgate to Tyburn, the cart passed up Giltspur Street, and through Smithfield, to Cow Lane. Skinner Street had not then been built, and the Crooked Lane which turned down by St. Sepulchre's, as well as Ozier Lane, did not afford sufficient width to admit of the cavalcade passing by either of them, with convenience, to Holborn Hill, or "the Heavy Hill," as it used to be called. The procession seems at no time to have had much of the solemn element about it. "The heroes of the day were often," says a popular writer, "on good terms with the mob, and jokes were exchanged between the men who were going to be hanged and the men who deserved to be."
"On St. Paul's Day," says Mr. Timbs (1868), "service is performed in St. Sepulchre's, in accordance with the will of Mr. Paul Jervis, who, in 1717, devised certain land in trust that a sermon should be preached in the church upon every Paul's Day upon the excellence of the liturgy o the Church of England; the preacher to receive 40s. for such sermon. Various sums are also bequeathed to the curate, the clerk, the treasurer, and masters of the parochial schools. To the poor of the parish he bequeathed 20s. a-piece to ten of the poorest householders within that part of the parish of St. Sepulchre commonly called Smithfield quarter, £4 to the treasurer of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and 6s. 8d. yearly to the clerk, who shall attend to receive the same. The residue of the yearly rents and profits is to be distributed unto and amongst such poor people of the parish of St. Sepulchre's, London, who shall attend the service and sermon. At the close of the service the vestry-clerk reads aloud an extract from the will, and then proceeds to the distribution of the money. In the evening the vicar, churchwardens, and common councilmen of the precinct dine together."
In 1749, a Mr. Drinkwater made a praiseworthy bequest. He left the parish of St. Sepulchre £500 to be lent in sums of £25 to industrious young tradesmen. No interest was to be charged, and the money was to be lent for four years.
Next to St. Sepulchre's, on Snow Hill, used to stand the famous old inn of the "Saracen's Head." It was only swept away within the last few years by the ruthless army of City improvers: a view of it in course of demolition was given on page 439. It was one of the oldest of the London inns which bore the "Saracen's Head" for a sign. One of Dick Tarlton's jests makes mention of the "Saracen's Head" without Newgate, and Stow, describing this neighbourhood, speaks particularly of "a fair large inn for receipt of travellers" that "hath to sign the 'Saracen's Head.'" The courtyard had, to the last, many of the characteristics of an old English inn; there were galleries all round leading to the bedrooms, and a spacious gateway through which the dusty mail-coaches used to rumble, the tired passengers creeping forth "thanking their stars in having escaped the highwaymen and the holes and sloughs of the road." Into that courtyard how many have come on their first arrival in London with hearts beating high with hope, some of whom have risen to be aldermen and sit in state as lord mayor, whilst others have gone the way of the idle apprentice and come to a sad end at Tyburn! It was at this inn that Nicholas Nickleby and his uncle waited upon the Yorkshire schoolmaster Squeers, of Dotheboys Hall. Mr. Dickens describes the tavern as it existed in the last days of mail-coaching, when it was a most important place for arrivals and departures in London:—
"Next to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and the Compter and the bustle and noise of the City, and just on that particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going eastwards seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney cabriolets going westwards not unfrequently fall by accident, is the coach-yard of the 'Saracen's Head' inn, its portals guarded by two Saracen's heads and shoulders, which it was once the pride and glory of the choice spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night, but which have for some time remained in undisturbed tranquillity, possibly because this species of humour is now confined to St. James's parish, where doorknockers are preferred as being more portable, and bell-wires esteemed as convenient tooth-picks. Whether this be the reason or not, there they are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway; and the inn itself, garnished with another Saracen's head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard; while from the door of the hind-boot of all the red coaches that are standing therein, there glares a small Saracen's head with a twin expression to the large Saracen's head below, so that the general appearance of the pile is of the Saracenic order."
To explain the use of the Saracen's head as an inn sign various reasons have been given. "When our countrymen," says Selden, "came home from fighting with the Saracens and were beaten by them, they pictured them with huge, big, terrible faces (as you still see the 'Saracen's Head' is), when in truth they were like other men. But this they did to save their own credit." Or the sign may have been adopted by those who had visited the Holy Land either as pilgrims or to fight the Saracens. Others, again, hold that it was first set up in compliment to the mother of Thomas à Becket, who was the daughter of a Saracen. However this may be, it is certain that the use of the sign in former days was very general.
Running past the east end of St. Sepulchre's, from Newgate into West Smithfield, is Giltspur Street, anciently called Knightriders Street. This interesting thoroughfare derives its name from the knights with their gilt spurs having been accustomed to ride this way to the jousts and tournaments which in days of old were held in Smithfield.
In this street was Giltspur Street Compter, a debtors' prison and house of correction appertaining to the sheriffs of London and Middlesex. It stood over against St. Sepulchre's Church, and was removed hither from the east side of Wood Street, Cheapside, in 1791. At the time of its removal it was used as a place of imprisonment for debtors, but the yearly increasing demands upon the contracted space caused that department to be given up, and City debtors were sent to Whitecross Street. The architect was Dance, to whom we are also indebted for the grim pile of Newgate. The Compter was a dirty and appropriately convictlooking edifice. It was pulled down in 1855. Mr. Hepworth Dixon gave an interesting account of this City House of Correction, not long before its demolition, in his "London Prisons" (1850). "Entering," he says, "at the door facing St. Sepulchre's, the visitor suddenly finds himself in a low dark passage, leading into the offices of the gaol, and branching off into other passages, darker, closer, more replete with noxious smells, than even those of Newgate. This is the fitting prelude to what follows. The prison, it must be noticed, is divided into two principal divisions, the House of Correction and the Compter. The front in Giltspur Street, and the side nearest to Newgate Street, is called the Compter. In its wards are placed detenues of various kinds—remands, committals from the police-courts, and generally persons waiting for trial, and consequently still unconvicted. The other department, the House of Correction, occupies the back portion of the premises, abutting on Christ's Hospital. Curious it is to consider how thin a wall divides these widely-separate worlds! And sorrowful it is to think what a difference of destiny awaits the children—destiny inexorable, though often unearned in either case—who, on the one side of it or the other, receive an eleemosynary education! The collegian and the criminal! Who shall say how much mere accident— circumstances over which the child has little power —determines to a life of usefulness or mischief? From the yards of Giltspur Street prison almost the only objects visible, outside of the gaol itself, are the towers of Christ's Hospital; the only sounds audible, the shouts of the scholars at their play. The balls of the hospital boys often fall within the yards of the prison. Whether these sights and sounds ever cause the criminal to pause and reflect upon the courses of his life, we will not say, but the stranger visiting the place will be very apt to think for him. …
"In the department of the prison called the House of Correction, minor offenders within the City of London are imprisoned. No transports are sent hither, nor is any person whose sentence is above three years in length." This able writer then goes on to tell of the many crying evils connected with the institution—the want of air, the over-crowded state of the rooms, the absence of proper cellular accommodation, and the vicious intercourse carried on amongst the prisoners. The entire gaol, when he wrote, only contained thirty-six separate sleeping-rooms. Now by the highest prison calculation—and this, be it noted, proceeds on the assumption that three persons can sleep in small, miserable, unventilated cells, which are built for only one, and are too confined for that, being only about one-half the size of the model cell for one at Pentonville—it was only capable of accommodating 203 prisoners, yet by the returns issued at Michaelmas, 1850, it contained 246!
A large section of the prison used to be devoted to female delinquents, but lately it was almost entirely given up to male offenders.
"The House of Correction, and the Compter portion of the establishment," says Mr. Dixon, "are kept quite distinct, but it would be difficult to award the palm of empire in their respective facilities for demoralisation. We think the Compter rather the worse of the two. You are shown into a room, about the size of an apartment in an ordinary dwelling-house, which will be found crowded with from thirty to forty persons, young and old, and in their ordinary costume; the low thief in his filth and rags, and the member of the swell-mob with his bright buttons, flash finery, and false jewels. Here you notice the boy who has just been guilty of his first offence, and committed for trial, learning with a greedy mind a thousand criminal arts, and listening with the precocious instinct of guilty passions to stories and conversations the most depraved and disgusting. You regard him with a mixture of pity and loathing, for he knows that the eyes of his peers are upon him, and he stares at you with a familiar impudence, and exhibits a devil-may-care countenance, such as is only to be met with in the juvenile offender. Here, too, may be seen the young clerk, taken up on suspicion—perhaps innocent—who avoids you with a shy look of pain and uneasiness: what a hell must this prison be to him! How frightful it is to think of a person really untainted with crime, compelled to herd for ten or twenty days with these abandoned wretches!
"On the other, the House of Correction side of the gaol, similar rooms will be found, full of prisoners communicating with each other, laughing and shouting without hindrance. All this is so little in accordance with existing notions of prison discipline, that one is continually fancying these disgraceful scenes cannot be in the capital of England, and in the year of grace 1850. Very few of the prisoners attend school or receive any instruction; neither is any kind of employment afforded them, except oakum-picking, and the still more disgusting labour of the treadmill. When at work, an officer is in attendance to prevent disorderly conduct; but his presence is of no avail as a protection to the less depraved. Conversation still goes on; and every facility is afforded for making acquaintances, and for mutual contamination."
After having long been branded by intelligent inspectors as a disgrace to the metropolis, Giltspur Street Compter was condemned, closed in 1854, and subsequently taken down.
Nearly opposite what used to be the site of the Compter, and adjoining Cock Lane, is the spot called Pie Corner, near which terminated the Great Fire of 1666. The fire commenced at Pudding Lane, it will be remembered, so it was singularly appropriate that it should terminate at Pie Corner. Under the date of 4th September, 1666, Pepys, in his "Diary," records that "W. Hewer this day went to see how his mother did, and comes home late, telling us how he hath been forced to remove her to Islington, her house in Pye Corner being burned; so that the fire is got so far that way." The figure of a fat naked boy stands over a public house at the corner of the lane; it used to have the following warning inscription attached:— "This boy is in memory put up of the late fire of London, occasioned by the sin of gluttony, 1666." According to Stow, Pie Corner derived its name from the sign of a well-frequented hostelry, which anciently stood on the spot. Strype makes honourable mention of Pie Corner, as "noted chiefly for cooks' shops and pigs dressed there during Bartholomew Fair." Our old writers have many references—and not all, by the way, in the best taste—to its cookstalls and dressed pork. Shadwell, for instance, in the Woman Captain (1680) speaks of "meat dressed at Pie Corner by greasy scullions;" and Ben Jonson writes in the Alchemist (1612)—
"I shall put you in mind, sir, at Pie Corner,
Taking your meal of steam in from cooks' stalls."
And in "The Great Boobee" ("Roxburgh Ballads"):
"Next day I through Pie Corner passed;
The roast meat on the stall
Invited me to take a taste;
My money was but small."
But Pie Corner seems to have been noted for more than eatables. A ballad from Tom D'Urfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy," describing Bartholomew Fair, eleven years before the Fire of London, says:—
"At Pie-Corner end, mark well my good friend,
'Tis a very fine dirty place;
Where there's more arrows and bows. …
Than was handled at Chivy Chase."
We have already given a view of Pie Corner in our chapter on Smithfield, page 361.
Hosier Lane, running from Cow Lane to Smithfield, and almost parallel to Cock Lane, is described by "R. B.," in Strype, as a place not over-well built or inhabited. The houses were all old timber erections. Some of these—those standing at the south corner of the lane—were in the beginning of this century depicted by Mr. J. T. Smith, in his "Ancient Topography of London." He describes them as probably of the reign of James I. The rooms were small, with low, unornamented ceilings; the timber, oak, profusely used; the gables were plain, and the walls lath and plaster. They were taken down in 1809.
In the corner house, in Mr. Smith's time, there was a barber whose name was Catchpole; at least, so it was written over the door. He was rather an odd fellow, and possessed, according to his own account, a famous relic of antiquity. He would gravely show his customers a short-bladed instrument, as the identical dagger with which Walworth killed Wat Tyler.
Hosier Lane, like Pie Corner, used to be a great resort during the time of Bartholomew Fair, "all the houses," it is said in Strype, "generally being made public for tippling."
We return now from our excursion to the north of St. Sepulchre's, and continue our rambles to the west, and before speaking of what is, let us refer to what has been.
Turnagain Lane is not far from this. "Near unto this Seacoal Lane," remarks Stow, "in the turning towards Holborn Conduit, is Turnagain Lane, or rather, as in a record of the 5th of Edward III., Windagain Lane, for that it goeth down west to Fleet Dyke, from whence men must turn again the same way they came, but there it stopped." There used to be a proverb, "He must take him a house in Turnagain Lane."
A conduit formerly stood on Snow Hill, a little below the church. It is described as a building with four equal sides, ornamented with four columns and pediment, surmounted by a pyramid, on which stood a lamb—a rebus on the name of Lamb, from whose conduit in Red Lion Street the water came. There had been a conduit there, however, before Lamb's day, which was towards the close of the sixteenth century.
At No. 37, King Street, Snow Hill, there used to be a ladies' charity school, which was established in 1702, and remained in the parish 145 years. Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale were subscribers to this school, and Johnson drew from it his story of Betty Broom, in "The Idler." The world of domestic service, in Betty's days, seems to have been pretty much as now. Betty was a poor girl, bred in the country at a charity-school, maintained by the contributions of wealthy neighbours. The patronesses visited the school from time to time, to see how the pupils got on, and everything went well, till "at last, the chief of the subscribers having passed a winter in London, came down full of an opinion new and strange to the whole country. She held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls to read and write. They who are born to poverty, she said, are born to ignorance, and will work the harder the less they know. She told her friends that London was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a girl could be got for all-work, since education had made such numbers of fine ladies, that nobody would now accept a lower title than that of a waiting-maid, or something that might qualify her to wear laced shoes and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour window. But she was resolved, for her part, to spoil no more girls. Those who were to live by their hands should neither read nor write out of her pocket. The world was bad enough already, and she would have no part in making it worse.
"She was for a long time warmly opposed; but she persevered in her notions, and withdrew her subscription. Few listen, without a desire of conviction, to those who advise them to spare their money. Her example and her arguments gained ground daily; and in less than a year the whole parish was convinced that the nation would be ruined if the children of the poor were taught to read and write." So the school was dissolved, and Betty with the rest was turned adrift into the wide and cold world; and her adventures there any one may read in "The Idler" for himself.
There is an entry in the school minutes of 1763, to the effect that the ladies of the committee censured the schoolmistress for listening to the story of the Cock Lane ghost, and "desired her to keep her belief in the article to herself."
Skinner Street—now one of the names of the past—which ran by the south side of St. Sepulchre's, and formed the connecting link between Newgate Street and Holborn, received its name from Alderman Skinner, through whose exertions, about 1802, it was principally built. The following account of Skinner Street is from the picturesque pen of Mr. William Harvey ("Aleph"), whose long familiarity with the places he describes renders doubly valuable his many contributions to the history of London scenes and people:—"As a building speculation," he says, writing in 1863, "it was a failure. When the buildings were ready for occupation, tall and substantial as they really were, the high rents frightened intending shopkeepers. Tenants were not to be had; and in order to get over the money difficulty, a lottery, sanctioned by Parliament, was commenced. Lotteries were then common tricks of finance, and nobody wondered at the new venture; but even the most desperate fortune-hunters were slow to invest their capital, and the tickets hung sadly on hand. The day for the drawing was postponed several times, and when it came, there was little or no excitement on the subject, and whoever rejoiced in becoming a house-owner on such easy terms, the original projectors and builders were understood to have suffered considerably. The winners found the property in a very unfinished condition. Few of the dwellings were habitable, and as funds were often wanting, a majority of the houses remained empty, and the shops unopened. After two or three years things began to improve; the vast many-storeyed house which then covered the site of Commercial Place was converted into a warehousing depôt; a capital house opposite the 'Saracen's Head' was taken by a hosier of the name of Theobald, who, opening his shop with the determination of selling the best hosiery, and nothing else, was able to convince the citizens that his hose was first-rate, and, desiring only a living profit, succeeded, after thirty years of unwearied industry, in accumulating a large fortune. Theobald was possessed of literary tastes, and at the sale of Sir Walter Scott's manuscripts was a liberal purchaser. He also collected a library of exceedingly choice books, and when aristocratic customers purchased stockings of him, was soon able to interest them in matters of far higher interest…
"The most remarkable shop—but it was on the left-hand side, at a corner house—was that established for the sale of children's books. It boasted an immense extent of window-front, extending from the entrance into Snow Hill, and towards Fleet Market. Many a time have I lingered with loving eyes over those fascinating story-books, so rich in gaily-coloured prints; such careful editions of the marvellous old histories, 'Puss in Boots,' 'Cock Robin,' 'Cinderella,' and the like. Fortunately the front was kept low, so as exactly to suit the capacity of a childish admirer. . . . . But Skinner Street did not prosper much, and never could compete with even the dullest portions of Holborn. I have spoken of some reputable shops; but you know the proverb, 'One swallow will not make a summer,' and it was a declining neighbourhood almost before it could be called new. In 1810 the commercial depôt, which had been erected at a cost of £25,000, and was the chief prize in the lottery, was destroyed by fire, never to be rebuilt—a heavy blow and discouragement to Skinner Street, from which it never rallied. Perhaps the periodical hanging-days exercised an unfavourable influence, collecting, as they frequently did, all the thieves and vagabonds of London. I never sympathised with Pepys or Charles Fox in their passion for public executions, and made it a point to avoid those ghastly sights; but early of a Monday morning, when I had just reached the end of Giltspur Street, a miserable wretch had just been turned off from the platform of the debtors' door, and I was made the unwilling witness of his last struggles. That scene haunted me for months, and I often used to ask myself, 'Who that could help it would live in Skinner Street?' The next unpropitious event in these parts was the unexpected closing of the child's library. What could it mean? Such a well-to-do establishment shut up? Yes, the whole army of shutters looked blankly on the inquirer, and forbade even a single glance at 'Sinbad' or 'Robinson Crusoe.' It would soon be re-opened, we naturally thought; but the shutters never came down again. The whole house was deserted; not even a messenger in bankruptcy, or an ancient Charley, was found to regard the playful double knocks of the neighbouring juveniles. Gradually the glass of all the windows got broken in, a heavy cloud of black dust, solidifying into inches thick, gathered on sills and doors and brickwork, till the whole frontage grew as gloomy as Giant Despair's Castle. Not long after, the adjoining houses shared the same fate, and they remained from year to year without the slightest sign of life—absolute scarecrows, darkening with their uncomfortable shadows the busy streets. Within half a mile, in Stamford Street, Blackfriars, there are (1863) seven houses in a similar predicament— window-glass demolished, doors cracked from top to bottom, spiders' webs hanging from every projecting sill or parapet. What can it mean? The loss in the article of rents alone must be over £1,000 annually. If the real owners are at feud with imaginary owners, surely the property might be rendered valuable, and the proceeds invested. Even the lawyers can derive no profit from such hopeless abandonment. I am told the whole mischief arose out of a Chancery suit. Can it be the famous 'Jarndyce v. Jarndyce' case? And have all the heirs starved each other out? If so, what hinders our lady the Queen from taking possession? Any change would be an improvement, for these dead houses make the streets they cumber as dispiriting and comfortless as graveyards. Busy fancy will sometimes people them, and fill the dreary rooms with strange guests. Do the victims of guilt congregate in these dark dens? Do wretches 'unfriended by the world or the world's law,' seek refuge in these deserted nooks, mourning in the silence of despair over their former lives, and anticipating the future in unappeasable agony? Such things have been—the silence and desolation of these doomed dwellings make them the more suitable for such tenants."
A street is nothing without a mystery, so a mystery let these old tumble-down houses remain, whilst we go on to tell that, in front of No. 58, the sailor Cashman was hung in 1817, as we have already mentioned, for plundering a gunsmith's shop there. William Godwin, the author of "Caleb Williams," kept a bookseller's shop for several years in Skinner Street, at No. 41, and published school-books in the name of Edward Baldwin. On the wall there was a stone carving of Æsop reciting one of his fables to children.
The most noteworthy event of the life of Godwin was his marriage with the celebrated Mary Wollstonecraft, authoress of a "Vindication of the Rights of Women," whose congenial mind, in politics and morals, he ardently admired. Godwin's account of the way in which they got on together is worth reading:—"Ours," he writes, "was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory pleasures. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to mention, that influenced by ideas I had long entertained, I engaged an apartment about twenty doors from our house, in the Polygon, Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of my study and literary occupations. Trifles, however, will be interesting to some readers, when they relate to the last period of the life of such a person as Mary. I will add, therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other's society. Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the apartment I have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently not to make my appearance in the Polygon till the hour of dinner. We agreed in condemning the notion, prevalent in many situations in life, that a man and his wife cannot visit in mixed society but in company with each other, and we rather sought occasions of deviating from than of complying with this rule. By this means, though, for the most part, we spent the latter half of each day in one another's society, yet we were in no danger of satiety. We seemed to combine, in a considerable degree, the novelty and lively sensation of a visit with the more delicious and heartfelt pleasure of a domestic life."
This philosophic union, to Godwin's inexpressible affliction, did not last more than eighteen months, at the end of which time Mrs. Godwin died, leaving an only daughter, who in the course of time became the second wife of the poet Shelley, and was the author of the wild and extraordinary tale of "Frankenstein."
With the rain falling harder, it was a bit of a route march to Holborn and my next church, the stunning St Sepulchre, which was also open.
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St Sepulchre-without-Newgate, also known as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Holborn), is an Anglican church in the City of London. It is located on Holborn Viaduct, almost opposite the Old Bailey. In medieval times it stood just outside ("without") the now-demolished old city wall, near the Newgate. It has been a living of St John's College, Oxford, since 1622.
The original Saxon church on the site was dedicated to St Edmund the King and Martyr. During the Crusades in the 12th century the church was renamed St Edmund and the Holy Sepulchre, in reference to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The name eventually became contracted to St Sepulchre.
The church is today the largest parish church in the City. It was completely rebuilt in the 15th century but was gutted by the Great Fire of London in 1666,[1] which left only the outer walls, the tower and the porch standing[2] -. Modified in the 18th century, the church underwent extensive restoration in 1878. It narrowly avoided destruction in the Second World War, although the 18th-century watch-house in its churchyard (erected to deter grave-robbers) was completely destroyed and had to be rebuilt.
The interior of the church is a wide, roomy space with a coffered ceiling[3] installed in 1834. The Vicars' old residence has recently been renovated into a modern living quarter.
During the reign of Mary I in 1555, St Sepulchre's vicar, John Rogers, was burned as a heretic.
St Sepulchre is named in the nursery rhyme Oranges and Lemons as the "bells of Old Bailey". Traditionally, the great bell would be rung to mark the execution of a prisoner at the nearby gallows at Newgate. The clerk of St Sepulchre's was also responsible for ringing a handbell outside the condemned man's cell in Newgate Prison to inform him of his impending execution. This handbell, known as the Execution Bell, now resides in a glass case to the south of the nave.
The church has been the official musicians' church for many years and is associated with many famous musicians. Its north aisle (formerly a chapel dedicated to Stephen Harding) is dedicated as the Musicians' Chapel, with four windows commemorating John Ireland, the singer Dame Nellie Melba, Walter Carroll and the conductor Sir Henry Wood respectively.[4] Wood, who "at the age of fourteen, learned to play the organ" at this church [1] and later became its organist, also has his ashes buried in this church.
The south aisle of the church holds the regimental chapel of the Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment), and its gardens are a memorial garden to that regiment.[5] The west end of the north aisle has various memorials connected with the City of London Rifles (the 6th Battalion London Regiment). The church was designated a Grade I listed building on 4 January 1950.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Sepulchre-without-Newgate
The Early History of St. Sepulchre's—Its Destruction in 1666—The Exterior and Interior—The Early Popularity of the Church—Interments here—Roger Ascham, the Author of the "Schoolmaster"—Captain John Smith, and his Romantic Adventures—Saved by an Indian Girl— St. Sepulchre's Churchyard—Accommodation for a Murderess—The Martyr Rogers—An Odd Circumstance—Good Company for the Dead—A Leap from the Tower—A Warning Bell and a Last Admonition—Nosegays for the Condemned—The Route to the Gallows-tree— The Deeds of the Charitable—The "Saracen's Head"—Description by Dickens—Giltspur Street—Giltspur Street Compter—A Disreputable Condition—Pie Corner—Hosier Lane—A Spurious Relic—The Conduit on Snow Hill—A Ladies' Charity School—Turnagain Lane—Poor Betty!—A Schoolmistress Censured—Skinner Street—Unpropitious Fortune—William Godwin—An Original Married Life.
Many interesting associations—Principally, however, connected with the annals of crime and the execution of the laws of England—belong to the Church of St. Sepulchre, or St. 'Pulchre. This sacred edifice—anciently known as St. Sepulchre's in the Bailey, or by Chamberlain Gate (now Newgate)—stands at the eastern end of the slight acclivity of Snow Hill, and between Smithfield and the Old Bailey. The genuine materials for its early history are scanty enough. It was probably founded about the commencement of the twelfth century, but of the exact date and circumstances of its origin there is no record whatever. Its name is derived from the Holy Sepulchre of our Saviour at Jerusalem, to the memory of which it was first dedicated.
The earliest authentic notice of the church, according to Maitland, is of the year 1178, at which date it was given by Roger, Bishop of Sarum, to the Prior and Canons of St. Bartholomew. These held the right of advowson until the dissolution of monasteries by Henry VIII., and from that time until 1610 it remained in the hands of the Crown. James I., however, then granted "the rectory and its appurtenances, with the advowson of the vicarage," to Francis Phillips and others. The next stage in its history is that the rectory was purchased by the parishioners, to be held in fee-farm of the Crown, and the advowson was obtained by the President and Fellows of St. John the Baptist College, at Oxford.
The church was rebuilt about the middle of the fifteenth century, when one of the Popham family, who had been Chancellor of Normandy and Treasurer of the King's Household, with distinguished liberality erected a handsome chapel on the south side of the choir, and the very beautiful porch still remaining at the south-west corner of the building. "His image," Stow says, "fair graven in stone, was fixed over the said porch."
The dreadful fire of 1666 almost destroyed St. Sepulchre's, but the parishioners set energetically to work, and it was "rebuilt and beautified both within and without." The general reparation was under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren, and nothing but the walls of the old building, and these not entirely, were suffered to remain. The work was done rapidly, and the whole was completed within four years.
"The tower," says Mr. Godwin, "retained its original aspect, and the body of the church, after its restoration, presented a series of windows between buttresses, with pointed heads filled with tracery, crowned by a string-course and battlements. In this form it remained till the year 1790, when it appears the whole fabric was found to be in a state of great decay, and it was resolved to repair it throughout. Accordingly the walls of the church were cased with Portland stone, and all the windows were taken out and replaced by others with plain semi-circular heads, as now seen—certainly agreeing but badly with the tower and porch of the building, but according with the then prevailing spirit of economy. The battlements, too, were taken down, and a plain stone parapet was substituted, so that at this time (with the exception of the roof, which was wagon-headed, and presented on the outside an unsightly swell, visible above the parapet) the church assumed its present appearance." The ungainly roof was removed, and an entirely new one erected, about 1836.
At each corner of the tower—"one of the most ancient," says the author of "Londinium Redivivum," "in the outline of the circuit of London" —there are spires, and on the spires there are weathercocks. These have been made use of by Howell to point a moral: "Unreasonable people," says he, "are as hard to reconcile as the vanes of St. Sepulchre's tower, which never look all four upon one point of the heavens." Nothing can be said with certainty as to the date of the tower, but it is not without the bounds of probability that it formed part of the original building. The belfry is reached by a small winding staircase in the south-west angle, and a similar staircase in an opposite angle leads to the summit. The spires at the corners, and some of the tower windows, have very recently undergone several alterations, which have added much to the picturesqueness and beauty of the church.
The chief entrance to St. Sepulchre's is by a porch of singular beauty, projecting from the south side of the tower, at the western end of the church. The groining of the ceiling of this porch, it has been pointed out, takes an almost unique form; the ribs are carved in bold relief, and the bosses at the intersections represent angels' heads, shields, roses, &c., in great variety.
Coming now to the interior of the church, we find it divided into three aisles, by two ranges of Tuscan columns. The aisles are of unequal widths, that in the centre being the widest, that to the south the narrowest. Semi-circular arches connect the columns on either side, springing directly from their capitals, without the interposition of an entablature, and support a large dental cornice, extending round the church. The ceiling of the middle aisle is divided into seven compartments, by horizontal bands, the middle compartment being formed into a small dome.
The aisles have groined ceilings, ornamented at the angles with doves, &c., and beneath every division of the groining are small windows, to admit light to the galleries. Over each of the aisles there is a gallery, very clumsily introduced, which dates from the time when the church was built by Wren, and extends the whole length, excepting at the chancel. The front of the gallery, which is of oak, is described by Mr. Godwin as carved into scrolls, branches, &c., in the centre panel, on either side, with the initials "C. R.," enriched with carvings of laurel, which have, however, he says, "but little merit."
At the east end of the church there are three semicircular-headed windows. Beneath the centre one is a large Corinthian altar-piece of oak, displaying columns, entablatures, &c., elaborately carved and gilded.
The length of the church, exclusive of the ambulatory, is said to be 126 feet, the breadth 68 feet, and the height of the tower 140 feet.
A singularly ugly sounding-board, extending over the preacher, used to stand at the back of the pulpit, at the east end of the church. It was in the shape of a large parabolic reflector, about twelve feet in diameter, and was composed of ribs of mahogany.
At the west end of the church there is a large organ, said to be the oldest and one of the finest in London. It was built in 1677, and has been greatly enlarged. Its reed-stops (hautboy, clarinet, &c.) are supposed to be unrivalled. In Newcourt's time the church was taken notice of as "remarkable for possessing an exceedingly fine organ, and the playing is thought so beautiful, that large congregations are attracted, though some of the parishioners object to the mode of performing divine service."
On the north side of the church, Mr. Godwin mentions, is a large apartment known as "St. Stephen's Chapel." This building evidently formed a somewhat important part of the old church, and was probably appropriated to the votaries of the saint whose name it bears.
Between the exterior and the interior of the church there is little harmony. "For example," says Mr. Godwin, "the columns which form the south aisle face, in some instances, the centre of the large windows which occur in the external wall of the church, and in others the centre of the piers, indifferently." This discordance may likely enough have arisen from the fact that when the church was rebuilt, or rather restored, after the Great Fire, the works were done without much attention from Sir Christopher Wren.
St. Sepulchre's appears to have enjoyed considerable popularity from the earliest period of its history, if one is to judge from the various sums left by well-disposed persons for the support of certain fraternities founded in the church—namely, those of St. Katherine, St. Michael, St. Anne, and Our Lady—and by others, for the maintenance of chantry priests to celebrate masses at stated intervals for the good of their souls. One of the fraternities just named—that of St. Katherine— originated, according to Stow, in the devotion of some poor persons in the parish, and was in honour of the conception of the Virgin Mary. They met in the church on the day of the Conception, and there had the mass of the day, and offered to the same, and provided a certain chaplain daily to celebrate divine service, and to set up wax lights before the image belonging to the fraternity, on all festival days.
The most famous of all who have been interred in St. Sepulchre's is Roger Ascham, the author of the "Schoolmaster," and the instructor of Queen Elizabeth in Greek and Latin. This learned old worthy was born in 1515, near Northallerton, in Yorkshire. He was educated at Cambridge University, and in time rose to be the university orator, being notably zealous in promoting what was then a novelty in England—the study of the Greek language. To divert himself after the fatigue of severe study, he used to devote himself to archery. This drew down upon him the censure of the all-work-and-no-play school; and in defence of himself, Ascham, in 1545, published "Toxophilus," a treatise on his favourite sport. This book is even yet well worthy of perusal, for its enthusiasm, and for its curious descriptions of the personal appearance and manners of the principal persons whom the author had seen and conversed with. Henry VIII. rewarded him with a pension of £10 per annum, a considerable sum in those days. In 1548, Ascham, on the death of William Grindall, who had been his pupil, was appointed instructor in the learned languages to Lady Elizabeth, afterwards the good Queen Bess. At the end of two years he had some dispute with, or took a disgust at, Lady Elizabeth's attendants, resigned his situation, and returned to his college. Soon after this he was employed as secretary to the English ambassador at the court of Charles V. of Germany, and remained abroad till the death of Edward VI. During his absence he had been appointed Latin secretary to King Edward. Strangely enough, though Queen Mary and her ministers were Papists, and Ascham a Protestant, he was retained in his office of Latin secretary, his pension was increased to £20, and he was allowed to retain his fellowship and his situation as university orator. In 1554 he married a lady of good family, by whom he had a considerable fortune, and of whom, in writing to a friend, he gives, as might perhaps be expected, an excellent character. On the accession of Queen Elizabeth, in 1558, she not only required his services as Latin secretary, but as her instructor in Greek, and he resided at Court during the remainder of his life. He died in consequence of his endeavours to complete a Latin poem which he intended to present to the queen on the New Year's Day of 1569. He breathed his last two days before 1568 ran out, and was interred, according to his own directions, in the most private manner, in St. Sepulchre's Church, his funeral sermon being preached by Dr. Andrew Nowell, Dean of St. Paul's. He was universally lamented; and even the queen herself not only showed great concern, but was pleased to say that she would rather have lost ten thousand pounds than her tutor Ascham, which, from that somewhat closehanded sovereign, was truly an expression of high regard.
Ascham, like most men, had his little weaknesses. He had too great a propensity to dice and cock-fighting. Bishop Nicholson would try to convince us that this is an unfounded calumny, but, as it is mentioned by Camden, and other contemporary writers, it seems impossible to deny it. He died, from all accounts, in indifferent circumstances. "Whether," says Dr. Johnson, referring to this, "Ascham was poor by his own fault, or the fault of others, cannot now be decided; but it is certain that many have been rich with less merit. His philological learning would have gained him honour in any country; and among us it may justly call for that reverence which all nations owe to those who first rouse them from ignorance, and kindle among them the light of literature." His most valuable work, "The Schoolmaster," was published by his widow. The nature of this celebrated performance may be gathered from the title: "The Schoolmaster; or a plain and perfite way of teaching children to understand, write, and speak the Latin tongue. … And commodious also for all such as have forgot the Latin tongue, and would by themselves, without a schoolmaster, in short time, and with small pains, recover a sufficient habilitie to understand, write, and speak Latin: by Roger Ascham, ann. 1570. At London, printed by John Daye, dwelling over Aldersgate," a printer, by the way, already mentioned by us a few chapters back (see page 208), as having printed several noted works of the sixteenth century.
Dr. Johnson remarks that the instruction recommended in "The Schoolmaster" is perhaps the best ever given for the study of languages.
Here also lies buried Captain John Smith, a conspicuous soldier of fortune, whose romantic adventures and daring exploits have rarely been surpassed. He died on the 21st of June, 1631. This valiant captain was born at Willoughby, in the county of Lincoln, and helped by his doings to enliven the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. He had a share in the wars of Hungary in 1602, and in three single combats overcame three Turks, and cut off their heads. For this, and other equally brave deeds, Sigismund, Duke of Transylvania, gave him his picture set in gold, with a pension of three hundred ducats; and allowed him to bear three Turks' heads proper as his shield of arms. He afterwards went to America, where he had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the Indians. He escaped from them, however, at last, and resumed his brilliant career by hazarding his life in naval engagements with pirates and Spanish men-of-war. The most important act of his life was the share he had in civilising the natives of New England, and reducing that province to obedience to Great Britain. In connection with his tomb in St. Sepulchre's, he is mentioned by Stow, in his "Survey," as "some time Governor of Virginia and Admiral of New England."
Certainly the most interesting events of his chequered career were his capture by the Indians, and the saving of his life by the Indian girl Pocahontas, a story of adventure that charms as often as it is told. Bancroft, the historian of the United States, relates how, during the early settlement of Virginia, Smith left the infant colony on an exploring expedition, and not only ascended the river Chickahominy, but struck into the interior. His companions disobeyed his instructions, and being surprised by the Indians, were put to death. Smith preserved his own life by calmness and self-possession. Displaying a pocket-compass, he amused the savages by an explanation of its power, and increased their admiration of his superior genius by imparting to them some vague conceptions of the form of the earth, and the nature of the planetary system. To the Indians, who retained him as their prisoner, his captivity was a more strange event than anything of which the traditions of their tribes preserved the memory. He was allowed to send a letter to the fort at Jamestown, and the savage wonder was increased, for he seemed by some magic to endow the paper with the gift of intelligence. It was evident that their captive was a being of a high order, and then the question arose, Was his nature beneficent, or was he to be dreaded as a dangerous enemy? Their minds were bewildered, and the decision of his fate was referred to the chief Powhatan, and before Powhatan Smith was brought. "The fears of the feeble aborigines," says Bancroft, "were about to prevail, and his immediate death, already repeatedly threatened and repeatedly delayed, would have been inevitable, but for the timely intercession of Pocahontas, a girl twelve years old, the daughter of Powhatan, whose confiding fondness Smith had easily won, and who firmly clung to his neck, as his head was bowed down to receive the stroke of the tomahawks. His fearlessness, and her entreaties, persuaded the council to spare the agreeable stranger, who could make hatchets for her father, and rattles and strings of beads for herself, the favourite child. The barbarians, whose decision had long been held in suspense by the mysterious awe which Smith had inspired, now resolved to receive him as a friend, and to make him a partner of their councils. They tempted him to join their bands, and lend assistance in an attack upon the white men at Jamestown; and when his decision of character succeeded in changing the current of their thoughts, they dismissed him with mutual promises of friendship and benevolence. Thus the captivity of Smith did itself become a benefit to the colony; for he had not only observed with care the country between the James and the Potomac, and had gained some knowledge of the language and manners of the natives, but he now established a peaceful intercourse between the English and the tribes of Powhatan."
On the monument erected to Smith in St. Sepulchre's Church, the following quaint lines were formerly inscribed:—
"Here lies one conquered that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honour of his God, and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?—
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear
These conquered heads, got by his sword and spear.
Or shall I tell of his adventures since
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being so large a station,
An habitation for our Christian nation,
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the Keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense."
Sir Robert Peake, the engraver, also found a last resting-place here. He is known as the master of William Faithorne—the famous English engraver of the seventeenth century—and governor of Basing House for the king during the Civil War under Charles I. He died in 1667. Here also was interred the body of Dr. Bell, grandfather of the originator of a well-known system of education.
"The churchyard of St. Sepulchre's," we learn from Maitland, "at one time extended so far into the street on the south side of the church, as to render the passage-way dangerously narrow. In 1760 the churchyard was, in consequence, levelled, and thrown open to the public. But this led to much inconvenience, and it was re-enclosed in 1802."
Sarah Malcolm, the murderess, was buried in the churchyard of St. Sepulchre's in 1733. This coldhearted and keen-eyed monster in human form has had her story told by us already. The parishioners seem, on this occasion, to have had no such scruples as had been exhibited by their predecessors a hundred and fifty years previous at the burial of Awfield, a traitor. We shall see presently that in those more remote days they were desirous of having at least respectable company for their deceased relatives and friends in the churchyard.
"For a long period," says Mr. Godwin (1838), "the church was surrounded by low mean buildings, by which its general appearance was hidden; but these having been cleared away, and the neighbourhood made considerably more open, St. Sepulchre's now forms a somewhat pleasing object, notwithstanding that the tower and a part of the porch are so entirely dissimilar in style to the remainder of the building." And since Godwin's writing the surroundings of the church have been so improved that perhaps few buildings in the metropolis stand more prominently before the public eye.
In the glorious roll of martyrs who have suffered at the stake for their religious principles, a vicar of St. Sepulchre's, the Reverend John Rogers, occupies a conspicuous place. He was the first who was burned in the reign of the Bloody Mary. This eminent person had at one time been chaplain to the English merchants at Antwerp, and while residing in that city had aided Tindal and Coverdale in their great work of translating the Bible. He married a German lady of good position, by whom he had a large family, and was enabled, by means of her relations, to reside in peace and safety in Germany. It appeared to be his duty, however, to return to England, and there publicly profess and advocate his religious convictions, even at the risk of death. He crossed the sea; he took his place in the pulpit at St. Paul's Cross; he preached a fearless and animated sermon, reminding his astonished audience of the pure and wholesome doctrine which had been promulgated from that pulpit in the days of the good King Edward, and solemnly warning them against the pestilent idolatry and superstition of these new times. It was his last sermon. He was apprehended, tried, condemned, and burned at Smithfield. We described, when speaking of Smithfield, the manner in which he met his fate.
Connected with the martyrdom of Rogers an odd circumstance is quoted in the "Churches of London." It is stated that when the bishops had resolved to put to death Joan Bocher, a friend came to Rogers and earnestly entreated his influence that the poor woman's life might be spared, and other means taken to prevent the spread of her heterodox doctrines. Rogers, however, contended that she should be executed; and his friend then begged him to choose some other kind of death, which should be more agreeable to the gentleness and mercy prescribed in the gospel. "No," replied Rogers, "burning alive is not a cruel death, but easy enough." His friend hearing these words, expressive of so little regard for the sufferings of a fellow-creature, answered him with great vehemence, at the same time striking Rogers' hand, "Well, it may perhaps so happen that you yourself shall have your hands full of this mild burning." There is no record of Rogers among the papers belonging to St. Sepulchre's, but this may easily be accounted for by the fact that at the Great Fire of 1666 nearly all the registers and archives were destroyed.
A noteworthy incident in the history of St. Sepulchre's was connected with the execution, in 1585, of Awfield, for "sparcinge abrood certen lewed, sedicious, and traytorous bookes." "When he was executed," says Fleetwood, the Recorder, in a letter to Lord Burleigh, July 7th of that year, "his body was brought unto St. Pulcher's to be buryed, but the parishioners would not suffer a traytor's corpse to be laid in the earth where their parents, wives, children, kindred, masters, and old neighbours did rest; and so his carcass was returned to the burial-ground near Tyburn, and there I leave it."
Another event in the history of the church is a tale of suicide. On the 10th of April, 1600, a man named William Dorrington threw himself from the roof of the tower, leaving there a prayer for forgiveness.
We come now to speak of the connection of St. Sepulchre's with the neighbouring prison of Newgate. Being the nearest church to the prison, that connection naturally was intimate. Its clock served to give the time to the hangman when there was an execution in the Old Bailey, and many a poor wretch's last moments must it have regulated.
On the right-hand side of the altar a board with a list of charitable donations and gifts used to contain the following item:—"1605. Mr. Robert Dowe gave, for ringing the greatest bell in this church on the day the condemned prisoners are executed, and for other services, for ever, concerning such condemned prisoners, for which services the sexton is paid £16s. 8d.—£50.
It was formerly the practice for the clerk or bellman of St. Sepulchre's to go under Newgate, on the night preceding the execution of a criminal, ring his bell, and repeat the following wholesome advice:—
"All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near
That you before the Almighty must appear;
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent.
And when St. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls.
Past twelve o'clock!"
This practice is explained by a passage in Munday's edition of Stow, in which it is told that a Mr. John Dowe, citizen and merchant taylor of London, gave £50 to the parish church of St. Sepulchre's, under the following conditions:—After the several sessions of London, on the night before the execution of such as were condemned to death, the clerk of the church was to go in the night-time, and also early in the morning, to the window of the prison in which they were lying. He was there to ring "certain tolls with a hand-bell" appointed for the purpose, and was afterwards, in a most Christian manner, to put them in mind of their present condition and approaching end, and to exhort them to be prepared, as they ought to be, to die. When they were in the cart, and brought before the walls of the church, the clerk was to stand there ready with the same bell, and, after certain tolls, rehearse a prayer, desiring all the people there present to pray for the unfortunate criminals. The beadle, also, of Merchant Taylors' Hall was allowed an "honest stipend" to see that this ceremony was regularly performed.
The affecting admonition—"affectingly good," Pennant calls it—addressed to the prisoners in Newgate, on the night before execution, ran as follows:—
"You prisoners that are within,
Who, for wickedness and sin,
after many mercies shown you, are now appointed to die to-morrow in the forenoon; give ear and understand that, to-morrow morning, the greatest bell of St. Sepulchre's shall toll for you, in form and manner of a passing-bell, as used to be tolled for those that are at the point of death; to the end that all godly people, hearing that bell, and knowing it is for your going to your deaths, may be stirred up heartily to pray to God to bestow his grace and mercy upon you, whilst you live. I beseech you, for Jesus Christ's sake, to keep this night in watching and prayer, to the salvation of your own souls while there is yet time and place for mercy; as knowing to-morrow you must appear before the judgment-seat of your Creator, there to give an account of all things done in this life, and to suffer eternal torments for your sins committed against Him, unless, upon your hearty and unfeigned repentance, you find mercy through the merits, death, and passion of your only Mediator and Advocate, Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return to Him."
And the following was the admonition to condemned criminals, as they were passing by St. Sepulchre's Church wall to execution:—" All good people, pray heartily unto God for these poor sinners, who are now going to their death, for whom this great bell doth toll.
"You that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears; ask mercy of the Lord, for the salvation of your own souls, through the [merits, death, and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return unto Him.
"Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you.
Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you."
The charitable Mr. Dowe, who took such interest in the last moments of the occupants of the condemned cell, was buried in the church of St. Botolph, Aldgate.
Another curious custom observed at St. Sepulchre's was the presentation of a nosegay to every criminal on his way to execution at Tyburn. No doubt the practice had its origin in some kindly feeling for the poor unfortunates who were so soon to bid farewell to all the beauties of earth. One of the last who received a nosegay from the steps of St. Sepulchre's was "Sixteen-string Jack," alias John Rann, who was hanged, in 1774, for robbing the Rev. Dr. Bell of his watch and eighteen pence in money, in Gunnersbury Lane, on the road to Brentford. Sixteen-string Jack wore the flowers in his button-hole as he rode dolefully to the gallows. This was witnessed by John Thomas Smith, who thus describes the scene in his admirable anecdotebook, "Nollekens and his Times:"—" I remember well, when I was in my eighth year, Mr. Nollekens calling at my father's house, in Great Portland Street, and taking us to Oxford Street, to see the notorious Jack Rann, commonly called Sixteenstring Jack, go to Tyburn to be hanged. … The criminal was dressed in a pea-green coat, with an immense nosegay in the button-hole, which had been presented to him at St. Sepulchre's steps; and his nankeen small-clothes, we were told, were tied at each knee with sixteen strings. After he had passed, and Mr. Nollekens was leading me home by the hand, I recollect his stooping down to me and observing, in a low tone of voice, 'Tom, now, my little man, if my father-in-law, Mr. Justice Welch, had been high constable, we could have walked by the side of the cart all the way to Tyburn.'"
When criminals were conveyed from Newgate to Tyburn, the cart passed up Giltspur Street, and through Smithfield, to Cow Lane. Skinner Street had not then been built, and the Crooked Lane which turned down by St. Sepulchre's, as well as Ozier Lane, did not afford sufficient width to admit of the cavalcade passing by either of them, with convenience, to Holborn Hill, or "the Heavy Hill," as it used to be called. The procession seems at no time to have had much of the solemn element about it. "The heroes of the day were often," says a popular writer, "on good terms with the mob, and jokes were exchanged between the men who were going to be hanged and the men who deserved to be."
"On St. Paul's Day," says Mr. Timbs (1868), "service is performed in St. Sepulchre's, in accordance with the will of Mr. Paul Jervis, who, in 1717, devised certain land in trust that a sermon should be preached in the church upon every Paul's Day upon the excellence of the liturgy o the Church of England; the preacher to receive 40s. for such sermon. Various sums are also bequeathed to the curate, the clerk, the treasurer, and masters of the parochial schools. To the poor of the parish he bequeathed 20s. a-piece to ten of the poorest householders within that part of the parish of St. Sepulchre commonly called Smithfield quarter, £4 to the treasurer of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and 6s. 8d. yearly to the clerk, who shall attend to receive the same. The residue of the yearly rents and profits is to be distributed unto and amongst such poor people of the parish of St. Sepulchre's, London, who shall attend the service and sermon. At the close of the service the vestry-clerk reads aloud an extract from the will, and then proceeds to the distribution of the money. In the evening the vicar, churchwardens, and common councilmen of the precinct dine together."
In 1749, a Mr. Drinkwater made a praiseworthy bequest. He left the parish of St. Sepulchre £500 to be lent in sums of £25 to industrious young tradesmen. No interest was to be charged, and the money was to be lent for four years.
Next to St. Sepulchre's, on Snow Hill, used to stand the famous old inn of the "Saracen's Head." It was only swept away within the last few years by the ruthless army of City improvers: a view of it in course of demolition was given on page 439. It was one of the oldest of the London inns which bore the "Saracen's Head" for a sign. One of Dick Tarlton's jests makes mention of the "Saracen's Head" without Newgate, and Stow, describing this neighbourhood, speaks particularly of "a fair large inn for receipt of travellers" that "hath to sign the 'Saracen's Head.'" The courtyard had, to the last, many of the characteristics of an old English inn; there were galleries all round leading to the bedrooms, and a spacious gateway through which the dusty mail-coaches used to rumble, the tired passengers creeping forth "thanking their stars in having escaped the highwaymen and the holes and sloughs of the road." Into that courtyard how many have come on their first arrival in London with hearts beating high with hope, some of whom have risen to be aldermen and sit in state as lord mayor, whilst others have gone the way of the idle apprentice and come to a sad end at Tyburn! It was at this inn that Nicholas Nickleby and his uncle waited upon the Yorkshire schoolmaster Squeers, of Dotheboys Hall. Mr. Dickens describes the tavern as it existed in the last days of mail-coaching, when it was a most important place for arrivals and departures in London:—
"Next to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and the Compter and the bustle and noise of the City, and just on that particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going eastwards seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney cabriolets going westwards not unfrequently fall by accident, is the coach-yard of the 'Saracen's Head' inn, its portals guarded by two Saracen's heads and shoulders, which it was once the pride and glory of the choice spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night, but which have for some time remained in undisturbed tranquillity, possibly because this species of humour is now confined to St. James's parish, where doorknockers are preferred as being more portable, and bell-wires esteemed as convenient tooth-picks. Whether this be the reason or not, there they are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway; and the inn itself, garnished with another Saracen's head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard; while from the door of the hind-boot of all the red coaches that are standing therein, there glares a small Saracen's head with a twin expression to the large Saracen's head below, so that the general appearance of the pile is of the Saracenic order."
To explain the use of the Saracen's head as an inn sign various reasons have been given. "When our countrymen," says Selden, "came home from fighting with the Saracens and were beaten by them, they pictured them with huge, big, terrible faces (as you still see the 'Saracen's Head' is), when in truth they were like other men. But this they did to save their own credit." Or the sign may have been adopted by those who had visited the Holy Land either as pilgrims or to fight the Saracens. Others, again, hold that it was first set up in compliment to the mother of Thomas à Becket, who was the daughter of a Saracen. However this may be, it is certain that the use of the sign in former days was very general.
Running past the east end of St. Sepulchre's, from Newgate into West Smithfield, is Giltspur Street, anciently called Knightriders Street. This interesting thoroughfare derives its name from the knights with their gilt spurs having been accustomed to ride this way to the jousts and tournaments which in days of old were held in Smithfield.
In this street was Giltspur Street Compter, a debtors' prison and house of correction appertaining to the sheriffs of London and Middlesex. It stood over against St. Sepulchre's Church, and was removed hither from the east side of Wood Street, Cheapside, in 1791. At the time of its removal it was used as a place of imprisonment for debtors, but the yearly increasing demands upon the contracted space caused that department to be given up, and City debtors were sent to Whitecross Street. The architect was Dance, to whom we are also indebted for the grim pile of Newgate. The Compter was a dirty and appropriately convictlooking edifice. It was pulled down in 1855. Mr. Hepworth Dixon gave an interesting account of this City House of Correction, not long before its demolition, in his "London Prisons" (1850). "Entering," he says, "at the door facing St. Sepulchre's, the visitor suddenly finds himself in a low dark passage, leading into the offices of the gaol, and branching off into other passages, darker, closer, more replete with noxious smells, than even those of Newgate. This is the fitting prelude to what follows. The prison, it must be noticed, is divided into two principal divisions, the House of Correction and the Compter. The front in Giltspur Street, and the side nearest to Newgate Street, is called the Compter. In its wards are placed detenues of various kinds—remands, committals from the police-courts, and generally persons waiting for trial, and consequently still unconvicted. The other department, the House of Correction, occupies the back portion of the premises, abutting on Christ's Hospital. Curious it is to consider how thin a wall divides these widely-separate worlds! And sorrowful it is to think what a difference of destiny awaits the children—destiny inexorable, though often unearned in either case—who, on the one side of it or the other, receive an eleemosynary education! The collegian and the criminal! Who shall say how much mere accident— circumstances over which the child has little power —determines to a life of usefulness or mischief? From the yards of Giltspur Street prison almost the only objects visible, outside of the gaol itself, are the towers of Christ's Hospital; the only sounds audible, the shouts of the scholars at their play. The balls of the hospital boys often fall within the yards of the prison. Whether these sights and sounds ever cause the criminal to pause and reflect upon the courses of his life, we will not say, but the stranger visiting the place will be very apt to think for him. …
"In the department of the prison called the House of Correction, minor offenders within the City of London are imprisoned. No transports are sent hither, nor is any person whose sentence is above three years in length." This able writer then goes on to tell of the many crying evils connected with the institution—the want of air, the over-crowded state of the rooms, the absence of proper cellular accommodation, and the vicious intercourse carried on amongst the prisoners. The entire gaol, when he wrote, only contained thirty-six separate sleeping-rooms. Now by the highest prison calculation—and this, be it noted, proceeds on the assumption that three persons can sleep in small, miserable, unventilated cells, which are built for only one, and are too confined for that, being only about one-half the size of the model cell for one at Pentonville—it was only capable of accommodating 203 prisoners, yet by the returns issued at Michaelmas, 1850, it contained 246!
A large section of the prison used to be devoted to female delinquents, but lately it was almost entirely given up to male offenders.
"The House of Correction, and the Compter portion of the establishment," says Mr. Dixon, "are kept quite distinct, but it would be difficult to award the palm of empire in their respective facilities for demoralisation. We think the Compter rather the worse of the two. You are shown into a room, about the size of an apartment in an ordinary dwelling-house, which will be found crowded with from thirty to forty persons, young and old, and in their ordinary costume; the low thief in his filth and rags, and the member of the swell-mob with his bright buttons, flash finery, and false jewels. Here you notice the boy who has just been guilty of his first offence, and committed for trial, learning with a greedy mind a thousand criminal arts, and listening with the precocious instinct of guilty passions to stories and conversations the most depraved and disgusting. You regard him with a mixture of pity and loathing, for he knows that the eyes of his peers are upon him, and he stares at you with a familiar impudence, and exhibits a devil-may-care countenance, such as is only to be met with in the juvenile offender. Here, too, may be seen the young clerk, taken up on suspicion—perhaps innocent—who avoids you with a shy look of pain and uneasiness: what a hell must this prison be to him! How frightful it is to think of a person really untainted with crime, compelled to herd for ten or twenty days with these abandoned wretches!
"On the other, the House of Correction side of the gaol, similar rooms will be found, full of prisoners communicating with each other, laughing and shouting without hindrance. All this is so little in accordance with existing notions of prison discipline, that one is continually fancying these disgraceful scenes cannot be in the capital of England, and in the year of grace 1850. Very few of the prisoners attend school or receive any instruction; neither is any kind of employment afforded them, except oakum-picking, and the still more disgusting labour of the treadmill. When at work, an officer is in attendance to prevent disorderly conduct; but his presence is of no avail as a protection to the less depraved. Conversation still goes on; and every facility is afforded for making acquaintances, and for mutual contamination."
After having long been branded by intelligent inspectors as a disgrace to the metropolis, Giltspur Street Compter was condemned, closed in 1854, and subsequently taken down.
Nearly opposite what used to be the site of the Compter, and adjoining Cock Lane, is the spot called Pie Corner, near which terminated the Great Fire of 1666. The fire commenced at Pudding Lane, it will be remembered, so it was singularly appropriate that it should terminate at Pie Corner. Under the date of 4th September, 1666, Pepys, in his "Diary," records that "W. Hewer this day went to see how his mother did, and comes home late, telling us how he hath been forced to remove her to Islington, her house in Pye Corner being burned; so that the fire is got so far that way." The figure of a fat naked boy stands over a public house at the corner of the lane; it used to have the following warning inscription attached:— "This boy is in memory put up of the late fire of London, occasioned by the sin of gluttony, 1666." According to Stow, Pie Corner derived its name from the sign of a well-frequented hostelry, which anciently stood on the spot. Strype makes honourable mention of Pie Corner, as "noted chiefly for cooks' shops and pigs dressed there during Bartholomew Fair." Our old writers have many references—and not all, by the way, in the best taste—to its cookstalls and dressed pork. Shadwell, for instance, in the Woman Captain (1680) speaks of "meat dressed at Pie Corner by greasy scullions;" and Ben Jonson writes in the Alchemist (1612)—
"I shall put you in mind, sir, at Pie Corner,
Taking your meal of steam in from cooks' stalls."
And in "The Great Boobee" ("Roxburgh Ballads"):
"Next day I through Pie Corner passed;
The roast meat on the stall
Invited me to take a taste;
My money was but small."
But Pie Corner seems to have been noted for more than eatables. A ballad from Tom D'Urfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy," describing Bartholomew Fair, eleven years before the Fire of London, says:—
"At Pie-Corner end, mark well my good friend,
'Tis a very fine dirty place;
Where there's more arrows and bows. …
Than was handled at Chivy Chase."
We have already given a view of Pie Corner in our chapter on Smithfield, page 361.
Hosier Lane, running from Cow Lane to Smithfield, and almost parallel to Cock Lane, is described by "R. B.," in Strype, as a place not over-well built or inhabited. The houses were all old timber erections. Some of these—those standing at the south corner of the lane—were in the beginning of this century depicted by Mr. J. T. Smith, in his "Ancient Topography of London." He describes them as probably of the reign of James I. The rooms were small, with low, unornamented ceilings; the timber, oak, profusely used; the gables were plain, and the walls lath and plaster. They were taken down in 1809.
In the corner house, in Mr. Smith's time, there was a barber whose name was Catchpole; at least, so it was written over the door. He was rather an odd fellow, and possessed, according to his own account, a famous relic of antiquity. He would gravely show his customers a short-bladed instrument, as the identical dagger with which Walworth killed Wat Tyler.
Hosier Lane, like Pie Corner, used to be a great resort during the time of Bartholomew Fair, "all the houses," it is said in Strype, "generally being made public for tippling."
We return now from our excursion to the north of St. Sepulchre's, and continue our rambles to the west, and before speaking of what is, let us refer to what has been.
Turnagain Lane is not far from this. "Near unto this Seacoal Lane," remarks Stow, "in the turning towards Holborn Conduit, is Turnagain Lane, or rather, as in a record of the 5th of Edward III., Windagain Lane, for that it goeth down west to Fleet Dyke, from whence men must turn again the same way they came, but there it stopped." There used to be a proverb, "He must take him a house in Turnagain Lane."
A conduit formerly stood on Snow Hill, a little below the church. It is described as a building with four equal sides, ornamented with four columns and pediment, surmounted by a pyramid, on which stood a lamb—a rebus on the name of Lamb, from whose conduit in Red Lion Street the water came. There had been a conduit there, however, before Lamb's day, which was towards the close of the sixteenth century.
At No. 37, King Street, Snow Hill, there used to be a ladies' charity school, which was established in 1702, and remained in the parish 145 years. Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale were subscribers to this school, and Johnson drew from it his story of Betty Broom, in "The Idler." The world of domestic service, in Betty's days, seems to have been pretty much as now. Betty was a poor girl, bred in the country at a charity-school, maintained by the contributions of wealthy neighbours. The patronesses visited the school from time to time, to see how the pupils got on, and everything went well, till "at last, the chief of the subscribers having passed a winter in London, came down full of an opinion new and strange to the whole country. She held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls to read and write. They who are born to poverty, she said, are born to ignorance, and will work the harder the less they know. She told her friends that London was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a girl could be got for all-work, since education had made such numbers of fine ladies, that nobody would now accept a lower title than that of a waiting-maid, or something that might qualify her to wear laced shoes and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour window. But she was resolved, for her part, to spoil no more girls. Those who were to live by their hands should neither read nor write out of her pocket. The world was bad enough already, and she would have no part in making it worse.
"She was for a long time warmly opposed; but she persevered in her notions, and withdrew her subscription. Few listen, without a desire of conviction, to those who advise them to spare their money. Her example and her arguments gained ground daily; and in less than a year the whole parish was convinced that the nation would be ruined if the children of the poor were taught to read and write." So the school was dissolved, and Betty with the rest was turned adrift into the wide and cold world; and her adventures there any one may read in "The Idler" for himself.
There is an entry in the school minutes of 1763, to the effect that the ladies of the committee censured the schoolmistress for listening to the story of the Cock Lane ghost, and "desired her to keep her belief in the article to herself."
Skinner Street—now one of the names of the past—which ran by the south side of St. Sepulchre's, and formed the connecting link between Newgate Street and Holborn, received its name from Alderman Skinner, through whose exertions, about 1802, it was principally built. The following account of Skinner Street is from the picturesque pen of Mr. William Harvey ("Aleph"), whose long familiarity with the places he describes renders doubly valuable his many contributions to the history of London scenes and people:—"As a building speculation," he says, writing in 1863, "it was a failure. When the buildings were ready for occupation, tall and substantial as they really were, the high rents frightened intending shopkeepers. Tenants were not to be had; and in order to get over the money difficulty, a lottery, sanctioned by Parliament, was commenced. Lotteries were then common tricks of finance, and nobody wondered at the new venture; but even the most desperate fortune-hunters were slow to invest their capital, and the tickets hung sadly on hand. The day for the drawing was postponed several times, and when it came, there was little or no excitement on the subject, and whoever rejoiced in becoming a house-owner on such easy terms, the original projectors and builders were understood to have suffered considerably. The winners found the property in a very unfinished condition. Few of the dwellings were habitable, and as funds were often wanting, a majority of the houses remained empty, and the shops unopened. After two or three years things began to improve; the vast many-storeyed house which then covered the site of Commercial Place was converted into a warehousing depôt; a capital house opposite the 'Saracen's Head' was taken by a hosier of the name of Theobald, who, opening his shop with the determination of selling the best hosiery, and nothing else, was able to convince the citizens that his hose was first-rate, and, desiring only a living profit, succeeded, after thirty years of unwearied industry, in accumulating a large fortune. Theobald was possessed of literary tastes, and at the sale of Sir Walter Scott's manuscripts was a liberal purchaser. He also collected a library of exceedingly choice books, and when aristocratic customers purchased stockings of him, was soon able to interest them in matters of far higher interest…
"The most remarkable shop—but it was on the left-hand side, at a corner house—was that established for the sale of children's books. It boasted an immense extent of window-front, extending from the entrance into Snow Hill, and towards Fleet Market. Many a time have I lingered with loving eyes over those fascinating story-books, so rich in gaily-coloured prints; such careful editions of the marvellous old histories, 'Puss in Boots,' 'Cock Robin,' 'Cinderella,' and the like. Fortunately the front was kept low, so as exactly to suit the capacity of a childish admirer. . . . . But Skinner Street did not prosper much, and never could compete with even the dullest portions of Holborn. I have spoken of some reputable shops; but you know the proverb, 'One swallow will not make a summer,' and it was a declining neighbourhood almost before it could be called new. In 1810 the commercial depôt, which had been erected at a cost of £25,000, and was the chief prize in the lottery, was destroyed by fire, never to be rebuilt—a heavy blow and discouragement to Skinner Street, from which it never rallied. Perhaps the periodical hanging-days exercised an unfavourable influence, collecting, as they frequently did, all the thieves and vagabonds of London. I never sympathised with Pepys or Charles Fox in their passion for public executions, and made it a point to avoid those ghastly sights; but early of a Monday morning, when I had just reached the end of Giltspur Street, a miserable wretch had just been turned off from the platform of the debtors' door, and I was made the unwilling witness of his last struggles. That scene haunted me for months, and I often used to ask myself, 'Who that could help it would live in Skinner Street?' The next unpropitious event in these parts was the unexpected closing of the child's library. What could it mean? Such a well-to-do establishment shut up? Yes, the whole army of shutters looked blankly on the inquirer, and forbade even a single glance at 'Sinbad' or 'Robinson Crusoe.' It would soon be re-opened, we naturally thought; but the shutters never came down again. The whole house was deserted; not even a messenger in bankruptcy, or an ancient Charley, was found to regard the playful double knocks of the neighbouring juveniles. Gradually the glass of all the windows got broken in, a heavy cloud of black dust, solidifying into inches thick, gathered on sills and doors and brickwork, till the whole frontage grew as gloomy as Giant Despair's Castle. Not long after, the adjoining houses shared the same fate, and they remained from year to year without the slightest sign of life—absolute scarecrows, darkening with their uncomfortable shadows the busy streets. Within half a mile, in Stamford Street, Blackfriars, there are (1863) seven houses in a similar predicament— window-glass demolished, doors cracked from top to bottom, spiders' webs hanging from every projecting sill or parapet. What can it mean? The loss in the article of rents alone must be over £1,000 annually. If the real owners are at feud with imaginary owners, surely the property might be rendered valuable, and the proceeds invested. Even the lawyers can derive no profit from such hopeless abandonment. I am told the whole mischief arose out of a Chancery suit. Can it be the famous 'Jarndyce v. Jarndyce' case? And have all the heirs starved each other out? If so, what hinders our lady the Queen from taking possession? Any change would be an improvement, for these dead houses make the streets they cumber as dispiriting and comfortless as graveyards. Busy fancy will sometimes people them, and fill the dreary rooms with strange guests. Do the victims of guilt congregate in these dark dens? Do wretches 'unfriended by the world or the world's law,' seek refuge in these deserted nooks, mourning in the silence of despair over their former lives, and anticipating the future in unappeasable agony? Such things have been—the silence and desolation of these doomed dwellings make them the more suitable for such tenants."
A street is nothing without a mystery, so a mystery let these old tumble-down houses remain, whilst we go on to tell that, in front of No. 58, the sailor Cashman was hung in 1817, as we have already mentioned, for plundering a gunsmith's shop there. William Godwin, the author of "Caleb Williams," kept a bookseller's shop for several years in Skinner Street, at No. 41, and published school-books in the name of Edward Baldwin. On the wall there was a stone carving of Æsop reciting one of his fables to children.
The most noteworthy event of the life of Godwin was his marriage with the celebrated Mary Wollstonecraft, authoress of a "Vindication of the Rights of Women," whose congenial mind, in politics and morals, he ardently admired. Godwin's account of the way in which they got on together is worth reading:—"Ours," he writes, "was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory pleasures. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to mention, that influenced by ideas I had long entertained, I engaged an apartment about twenty doors from our house, in the Polygon, Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of my study and literary occupations. Trifles, however, will be interesting to some readers, when they relate to the last period of the life of such a person as Mary. I will add, therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other's society. Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the apartment I have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently not to make my appearance in the Polygon till the hour of dinner. We agreed in condemning the notion, prevalent in many situations in life, that a man and his wife cannot visit in mixed society but in company with each other, and we rather sought occasions of deviating from than of complying with this rule. By this means, though, for the most part, we spent the latter half of each day in one another's society, yet we were in no danger of satiety. We seemed to combine, in a considerable degree, the novelty and lively sensation of a visit with the more delicious and heartfelt pleasure of a domestic life."
This philosophic union, to Godwin's inexpressible affliction, did not last more than eighteen months, at the end of which time Mrs. Godwin died, leaving an only daughter, who in the course of time became the second wife of the poet Shelley, and was the author of the wild and extraordinary tale of "Frankenstein."
Thank you very much once again my dear flickr friends for all your kind comments, invites and awards. They are much appreciated. I wish you a very Happy Sunday and week ahead: )) xo
Here is the last of my experiment in this area. I hope you like it. And by the way, I have no idea what that interesting tripod like object is. For lighting perhaps or a giant compass to study mass human behaviour? lol.
I am always open to a bit of enlightenment if anyone else knows .
Thought I would add this song and video by the wonderfully creative Bjork just for the fun of it. No obvious logical connection to the image : D
www.youtube.com/watch?v=5_jH_JO4Bd8
"Human Behaviour" By Bjork
Lyrics
If you ever get close to a human
and human behaviour
be ready to get confused
there's definitely defintely defintely no logic
to human behaviour
but yet so yet so yet so irresistible
there is no map or certainty
to human behaviour
they're terribly terribly terribly moody
then all of a sudden turn happy
but, oh, to get involved in the exchange
of human emotions is ever so satisfying
there's no map and
a compass
wouldn't help at all
Just uncertainty
human behaviour
“No pessimist ever discovered the secret of the stars, or sailed to an uncharted land, or opened a new doorway for the human spirit.” ~Helen Keller~
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“Were you sure of your end once?”
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Pictures taken on:
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Thank you very much for your visit! ☺
// It seems as if just yesterday she felt stuck // Unsure // Uncertain // But she has learned that through uncertainty // Comes wisdom // Bravery // And never again will she the pull of certainty // Because floating without fear // Is the most secure she's ever felt //
// Model // Gabrielle Arrowsmith //
Outlining a Theory of General Creativity .. on a 'Pataphysical way
Entropy ≥ Memory . Creativity ²
Entropy ≥ Mimesis . Catharsis ²
Study of the day:
What's the differAnce between ambivalence and ambiguity ?
Is this a dialogical pleat of the median vacuum ?
How to dis-ambiguate ambivalences ?
How to dis-ambivaluate ambiguities ?
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(discussing the Plato's allegory of the cavern)
"THE ALLEGORY OF CAMERA & OBSCURA".
Once upon a time there was two small dark boxes, illuminated with certainties, two small empty heads, full of hope, and whose sensitive soul was waiting until the external light penetrates them to dazzle them with an image of the "True Reality”. At the proper time, they finally opened.
Camera in pursuit of the Absolute, wanted all to see without any reflection. All, absolutely All ! Then, at the proper time, it decided to be totally overcome by the "True Entropic Reality", all its sensitivity offered to intensely feel everything, without any prejudice, without thinking one second with all these words which darkens the mind more than they enlighten it. It installed a hypersensitive film which it will push in spite of its coarse grain. It tuned her diaphragm to the maximum aperture, a long time, and gave up itself to ecstatically feel the whole true light of the whole True Entropic Reality.
Obscura in quest of the Universal Knowledge, wanted all to know precisely, it wanted all to understand and memorize with a maximum of details and discernment. Then at the proper time, it decided to focuse a depth of field as deep as possible, to choose a pause time as short as possible, to be sure to get the highest neatness of the True Real Universal Memory. It installed a hyperfine grain film which it will develop energetically to compensate its low sensitivity. It tuned the aperture at less than anything, and adjusted the pause time at an infinitesimal fraction of nothing.
The moral of the story ? All the photographers will say it to you !
Camera obtained the most luminous image which is at ounce the fuzziest one, an immaculate uniform Absolute Entropic white 100%blank.
Obscura obtained the finest image which is at ounce the darkest one, an immaculate uniform Universal black 100%blank.
From now on, when it chooses an aperture and a time of pause suitable to create less blind images, Camera finally formed in itself several suspicions of True Reality. They are images as poor of Absolute Sensitivity as weak of Universal Knowledge, but they are marvellous and magic images, illuminated by unexpected shapes and colors.
In the neighbourhood of the Absolute Entropy, each cell of Camera opens like a white sapphire prism dispersing and breaking up the Entropic light in colored iridescences. From her cells juxtaposition are emerging lines and shapes, metamorphosing the dazzling Entropic light in simple but unknowable .. shapes, only lacking some .. words to name them.
From now on, when it chooses an aperture and a time of pause suitable to create less blind images, Obscura finally formed in itself several suspicions of True Reality. They are images as poor of Universal Knowledge as weak of Absolute Sensitivity, but they are marvellous and magic images, rich of ambiguous signs and senses.
In the neighbourhood of the Universal Memory, each cell of Obscura opens like a black sapphire crystal dispersing and breaking up the universal darkness in colored enlightening sparks. From her cells juxtapositions are emerging now vowels, consonants and others signs, metamorphosing the gloomy universal darkness in simple but unknowable .. words, only lacking some .. shapes to imagine them.
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| . . cOmplete rectO-persO . . | . . bigHuge Flickr DNA . . | . . Darkr . . |
With the rain falling harder, it was a bit of a route march to Holborn and my next church, the stunning St Sepulchre, which was also open.
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St Sepulchre-without-Newgate, also known as the Church of the Holy Sepulchre (Holborn), is an Anglican church in the City of London. It is located on Holborn Viaduct, almost opposite the Old Bailey. In medieval times it stood just outside ("without") the now-demolished old city wall, near the Newgate. It has been a living of St John's College, Oxford, since 1622.
The original Saxon church on the site was dedicated to St Edmund the King and Martyr. During the Crusades in the 12th century the church was renamed St Edmund and the Holy Sepulchre, in reference to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The name eventually became contracted to St Sepulchre.
The church is today the largest parish church in the City. It was completely rebuilt in the 15th century but was gutted by the Great Fire of London in 1666,[1] which left only the outer walls, the tower and the porch standing[2] -. Modified in the 18th century, the church underwent extensive restoration in 1878. It narrowly avoided destruction in the Second World War, although the 18th-century watch-house in its churchyard (erected to deter grave-robbers) was completely destroyed and had to be rebuilt.
The interior of the church is a wide, roomy space with a coffered ceiling[3] installed in 1834. The Vicars' old residence has recently been renovated into a modern living quarter.
During the reign of Mary I in 1555, St Sepulchre's vicar, John Rogers, was burned as a heretic.
St Sepulchre is named in the nursery rhyme Oranges and Lemons as the "bells of Old Bailey". Traditionally, the great bell would be rung to mark the execution of a prisoner at the nearby gallows at Newgate. The clerk of St Sepulchre's was also responsible for ringing a handbell outside the condemned man's cell in Newgate Prison to inform him of his impending execution. This handbell, known as the Execution Bell, now resides in a glass case to the south of the nave.
The church has been the official musicians' church for many years and is associated with many famous musicians. Its north aisle (formerly a chapel dedicated to Stephen Harding) is dedicated as the Musicians' Chapel, with four windows commemorating John Ireland, the singer Dame Nellie Melba, Walter Carroll and the conductor Sir Henry Wood respectively.[4] Wood, who "at the age of fourteen, learned to play the organ" at this church [1] and later became its organist, also has his ashes buried in this church.
The south aisle of the church holds the regimental chapel of the Royal Fusiliers (City of London Regiment), and its gardens are a memorial garden to that regiment.[5] The west end of the north aisle has various memorials connected with the City of London Rifles (the 6th Battalion London Regiment). The church was designated a Grade I listed building on 4 January 1950.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St_Sepulchre-without-Newgate
The Early History of St. Sepulchre's—Its Destruction in 1666—The Exterior and Interior—The Early Popularity of the Church—Interments here—Roger Ascham, the Author of the "Schoolmaster"—Captain John Smith, and his Romantic Adventures—Saved by an Indian Girl— St. Sepulchre's Churchyard—Accommodation for a Murderess—The Martyr Rogers—An Odd Circumstance—Good Company for the Dead—A Leap from the Tower—A Warning Bell and a Last Admonition—Nosegays for the Condemned—The Route to the Gallows-tree— The Deeds of the Charitable—The "Saracen's Head"—Description by Dickens—Giltspur Street—Giltspur Street Compter—A Disreputable Condition—Pie Corner—Hosier Lane—A Spurious Relic—The Conduit on Snow Hill—A Ladies' Charity School—Turnagain Lane—Poor Betty!—A Schoolmistress Censured—Skinner Street—Unpropitious Fortune—William Godwin—An Original Married Life.
Many interesting associations—Principally, however, connected with the annals of crime and the execution of the laws of England—belong to the Church of St. Sepulchre, or St. 'Pulchre. This sacred edifice—anciently known as St. Sepulchre's in the Bailey, or by Chamberlain Gate (now Newgate)—stands at the eastern end of the slight acclivity of Snow Hill, and between Smithfield and the Old Bailey. The genuine materials for its early history are scanty enough. It was probably founded about the commencement of the twelfth century, but of the exact date and circumstances of its origin there is no record whatever. Its name is derived from the Holy Sepulchre of our Saviour at Jerusalem, to the memory of which it was first dedicated.
The earliest authentic notice of the church, according to Maitland, is of the year 1178, at which date it was given by Roger, Bishop of Sarum, to the Prior and Canons of St. Bartholomew. These held the right of advowson until the dissolution of monasteries by Henry VIII., and from that time until 1610 it remained in the hands of the Crown. James I., however, then granted "the rectory and its appurtenances, with the advowson of the vicarage," to Francis Phillips and others. The next stage in its history is that the rectory was purchased by the parishioners, to be held in fee-farm of the Crown, and the advowson was obtained by the President and Fellows of St. John the Baptist College, at Oxford.
The church was rebuilt about the middle of the fifteenth century, when one of the Popham family, who had been Chancellor of Normandy and Treasurer of the King's Household, with distinguished liberality erected a handsome chapel on the south side of the choir, and the very beautiful porch still remaining at the south-west corner of the building. "His image," Stow says, "fair graven in stone, was fixed over the said porch."
The dreadful fire of 1666 almost destroyed St. Sepulchre's, but the parishioners set energetically to work, and it was "rebuilt and beautified both within and without." The general reparation was under the direction of Sir Christopher Wren, and nothing but the walls of the old building, and these not entirely, were suffered to remain. The work was done rapidly, and the whole was completed within four years.
"The tower," says Mr. Godwin, "retained its original aspect, and the body of the church, after its restoration, presented a series of windows between buttresses, with pointed heads filled with tracery, crowned by a string-course and battlements. In this form it remained till the year 1790, when it appears the whole fabric was found to be in a state of great decay, and it was resolved to repair it throughout. Accordingly the walls of the church were cased with Portland stone, and all the windows were taken out and replaced by others with plain semi-circular heads, as now seen—certainly agreeing but badly with the tower and porch of the building, but according with the then prevailing spirit of economy. The battlements, too, were taken down, and a plain stone parapet was substituted, so that at this time (with the exception of the roof, which was wagon-headed, and presented on the outside an unsightly swell, visible above the parapet) the church assumed its present appearance." The ungainly roof was removed, and an entirely new one erected, about 1836.
At each corner of the tower—"one of the most ancient," says the author of "Londinium Redivivum," "in the outline of the circuit of London" —there are spires, and on the spires there are weathercocks. These have been made use of by Howell to point a moral: "Unreasonable people," says he, "are as hard to reconcile as the vanes of St. Sepulchre's tower, which never look all four upon one point of the heavens." Nothing can be said with certainty as to the date of the tower, but it is not without the bounds of probability that it formed part of the original building. The belfry is reached by a small winding staircase in the south-west angle, and a similar staircase in an opposite angle leads to the summit. The spires at the corners, and some of the tower windows, have very recently undergone several alterations, which have added much to the picturesqueness and beauty of the church.
The chief entrance to St. Sepulchre's is by a porch of singular beauty, projecting from the south side of the tower, at the western end of the church. The groining of the ceiling of this porch, it has been pointed out, takes an almost unique form; the ribs are carved in bold relief, and the bosses at the intersections represent angels' heads, shields, roses, &c., in great variety.
Coming now to the interior of the church, we find it divided into three aisles, by two ranges of Tuscan columns. The aisles are of unequal widths, that in the centre being the widest, that to the south the narrowest. Semi-circular arches connect the columns on either side, springing directly from their capitals, without the interposition of an entablature, and support a large dental cornice, extending round the church. The ceiling of the middle aisle is divided into seven compartments, by horizontal bands, the middle compartment being formed into a small dome.
The aisles have groined ceilings, ornamented at the angles with doves, &c., and beneath every division of the groining are small windows, to admit light to the galleries. Over each of the aisles there is a gallery, very clumsily introduced, which dates from the time when the church was built by Wren, and extends the whole length, excepting at the chancel. The front of the gallery, which is of oak, is described by Mr. Godwin as carved into scrolls, branches, &c., in the centre panel, on either side, with the initials "C. R.," enriched with carvings of laurel, which have, however, he says, "but little merit."
At the east end of the church there are three semicircular-headed windows. Beneath the centre one is a large Corinthian altar-piece of oak, displaying columns, entablatures, &c., elaborately carved and gilded.
The length of the church, exclusive of the ambulatory, is said to be 126 feet, the breadth 68 feet, and the height of the tower 140 feet.
A singularly ugly sounding-board, extending over the preacher, used to stand at the back of the pulpit, at the east end of the church. It was in the shape of a large parabolic reflector, about twelve feet in diameter, and was composed of ribs of mahogany.
At the west end of the church there is a large organ, said to be the oldest and one of the finest in London. It was built in 1677, and has been greatly enlarged. Its reed-stops (hautboy, clarinet, &c.) are supposed to be unrivalled. In Newcourt's time the church was taken notice of as "remarkable for possessing an exceedingly fine organ, and the playing is thought so beautiful, that large congregations are attracted, though some of the parishioners object to the mode of performing divine service."
On the north side of the church, Mr. Godwin mentions, is a large apartment known as "St. Stephen's Chapel." This building evidently formed a somewhat important part of the old church, and was probably appropriated to the votaries of the saint whose name it bears.
Between the exterior and the interior of the church there is little harmony. "For example," says Mr. Godwin, "the columns which form the south aisle face, in some instances, the centre of the large windows which occur in the external wall of the church, and in others the centre of the piers, indifferently." This discordance may likely enough have arisen from the fact that when the church was rebuilt, or rather restored, after the Great Fire, the works were done without much attention from Sir Christopher Wren.
St. Sepulchre's appears to have enjoyed considerable popularity from the earliest period of its history, if one is to judge from the various sums left by well-disposed persons for the support of certain fraternities founded in the church—namely, those of St. Katherine, St. Michael, St. Anne, and Our Lady—and by others, for the maintenance of chantry priests to celebrate masses at stated intervals for the good of their souls. One of the fraternities just named—that of St. Katherine— originated, according to Stow, in the devotion of some poor persons in the parish, and was in honour of the conception of the Virgin Mary. They met in the church on the day of the Conception, and there had the mass of the day, and offered to the same, and provided a certain chaplain daily to celebrate divine service, and to set up wax lights before the image belonging to the fraternity, on all festival days.
The most famous of all who have been interred in St. Sepulchre's is Roger Ascham, the author of the "Schoolmaster," and the instructor of Queen Elizabeth in Greek and Latin. This learned old worthy was born in 1515, near Northallerton, in Yorkshire. He was educated at Cambridge University, and in time rose to be the university orator, being notably zealous in promoting what was then a novelty in England—the study of the Greek language. To divert himself after the fatigue of severe study, he used to devote himself to archery. This drew down upon him the censure of the all-work-and-no-play school; and in defence of himself, Ascham, in 1545, published "Toxophilus," a treatise on his favourite sport. This book is even yet well worthy of perusal, for its enthusiasm, and for its curious descriptions of the personal appearance and manners of the principal persons whom the author had seen and conversed with. Henry VIII. rewarded him with a pension of £10 per annum, a considerable sum in those days. In 1548, Ascham, on the death of William Grindall, who had been his pupil, was appointed instructor in the learned languages to Lady Elizabeth, afterwards the good Queen Bess. At the end of two years he had some dispute with, or took a disgust at, Lady Elizabeth's attendants, resigned his situation, and returned to his college. Soon after this he was employed as secretary to the English ambassador at the court of Charles V. of Germany, and remained abroad till the death of Edward VI. During his absence he had been appointed Latin secretary to King Edward. Strangely enough, though Queen Mary and her ministers were Papists, and Ascham a Protestant, he was retained in his office of Latin secretary, his pension was increased to £20, and he was allowed to retain his fellowship and his situation as university orator. In 1554 he married a lady of good family, by whom he had a considerable fortune, and of whom, in writing to a friend, he gives, as might perhaps be expected, an excellent character. On the accession of Queen Elizabeth, in 1558, she not only required his services as Latin secretary, but as her instructor in Greek, and he resided at Court during the remainder of his life. He died in consequence of his endeavours to complete a Latin poem which he intended to present to the queen on the New Year's Day of 1569. He breathed his last two days before 1568 ran out, and was interred, according to his own directions, in the most private manner, in St. Sepulchre's Church, his funeral sermon being preached by Dr. Andrew Nowell, Dean of St. Paul's. He was universally lamented; and even the queen herself not only showed great concern, but was pleased to say that she would rather have lost ten thousand pounds than her tutor Ascham, which, from that somewhat closehanded sovereign, was truly an expression of high regard.
Ascham, like most men, had his little weaknesses. He had too great a propensity to dice and cock-fighting. Bishop Nicholson would try to convince us that this is an unfounded calumny, but, as it is mentioned by Camden, and other contemporary writers, it seems impossible to deny it. He died, from all accounts, in indifferent circumstances. "Whether," says Dr. Johnson, referring to this, "Ascham was poor by his own fault, or the fault of others, cannot now be decided; but it is certain that many have been rich with less merit. His philological learning would have gained him honour in any country; and among us it may justly call for that reverence which all nations owe to those who first rouse them from ignorance, and kindle among them the light of literature." His most valuable work, "The Schoolmaster," was published by his widow. The nature of this celebrated performance may be gathered from the title: "The Schoolmaster; or a plain and perfite way of teaching children to understand, write, and speak the Latin tongue. … And commodious also for all such as have forgot the Latin tongue, and would by themselves, without a schoolmaster, in short time, and with small pains, recover a sufficient habilitie to understand, write, and speak Latin: by Roger Ascham, ann. 1570. At London, printed by John Daye, dwelling over Aldersgate," a printer, by the way, already mentioned by us a few chapters back (see page 208), as having printed several noted works of the sixteenth century.
Dr. Johnson remarks that the instruction recommended in "The Schoolmaster" is perhaps the best ever given for the study of languages.
Here also lies buried Captain John Smith, a conspicuous soldier of fortune, whose romantic adventures and daring exploits have rarely been surpassed. He died on the 21st of June, 1631. This valiant captain was born at Willoughby, in the county of Lincoln, and helped by his doings to enliven the reigns of Elizabeth and James I. He had a share in the wars of Hungary in 1602, and in three single combats overcame three Turks, and cut off their heads. For this, and other equally brave deeds, Sigismund, Duke of Transylvania, gave him his picture set in gold, with a pension of three hundred ducats; and allowed him to bear three Turks' heads proper as his shield of arms. He afterwards went to America, where he had the misfortune to fall into the hands of the Indians. He escaped from them, however, at last, and resumed his brilliant career by hazarding his life in naval engagements with pirates and Spanish men-of-war. The most important act of his life was the share he had in civilising the natives of New England, and reducing that province to obedience to Great Britain. In connection with his tomb in St. Sepulchre's, he is mentioned by Stow, in his "Survey," as "some time Governor of Virginia and Admiral of New England."
Certainly the most interesting events of his chequered career were his capture by the Indians, and the saving of his life by the Indian girl Pocahontas, a story of adventure that charms as often as it is told. Bancroft, the historian of the United States, relates how, during the early settlement of Virginia, Smith left the infant colony on an exploring expedition, and not only ascended the river Chickahominy, but struck into the interior. His companions disobeyed his instructions, and being surprised by the Indians, were put to death. Smith preserved his own life by calmness and self-possession. Displaying a pocket-compass, he amused the savages by an explanation of its power, and increased their admiration of his superior genius by imparting to them some vague conceptions of the form of the earth, and the nature of the planetary system. To the Indians, who retained him as their prisoner, his captivity was a more strange event than anything of which the traditions of their tribes preserved the memory. He was allowed to send a letter to the fort at Jamestown, and the savage wonder was increased, for he seemed by some magic to endow the paper with the gift of intelligence. It was evident that their captive was a being of a high order, and then the question arose, Was his nature beneficent, or was he to be dreaded as a dangerous enemy? Their minds were bewildered, and the decision of his fate was referred to the chief Powhatan, and before Powhatan Smith was brought. "The fears of the feeble aborigines," says Bancroft, "were about to prevail, and his immediate death, already repeatedly threatened and repeatedly delayed, would have been inevitable, but for the timely intercession of Pocahontas, a girl twelve years old, the daughter of Powhatan, whose confiding fondness Smith had easily won, and who firmly clung to his neck, as his head was bowed down to receive the stroke of the tomahawks. His fearlessness, and her entreaties, persuaded the council to spare the agreeable stranger, who could make hatchets for her father, and rattles and strings of beads for herself, the favourite child. The barbarians, whose decision had long been held in suspense by the mysterious awe which Smith had inspired, now resolved to receive him as a friend, and to make him a partner of their councils. They tempted him to join their bands, and lend assistance in an attack upon the white men at Jamestown; and when his decision of character succeeded in changing the current of their thoughts, they dismissed him with mutual promises of friendship and benevolence. Thus the captivity of Smith did itself become a benefit to the colony; for he had not only observed with care the country between the James and the Potomac, and had gained some knowledge of the language and manners of the natives, but he now established a peaceful intercourse between the English and the tribes of Powhatan."
On the monument erected to Smith in St. Sepulchre's Church, the following quaint lines were formerly inscribed:—
"Here lies one conquered that hath conquered kings,
Subdued large territories, and done things
Which to the world impossible would seem,
But that the truth is held in more esteem.
Shall I report his former service done,
In honour of his God, and Christendom?
How that he did divide, from pagans three,
Their heads and lives, types of his chivalry?—
For which great service, in that climate done,
Brave Sigismundus, King of Hungarion,
Did give him, as a coat of arms, to wear
These conquered heads, got by his sword and spear.
Or shall I tell of his adventures since
Done in Virginia, that large continent?
How that he subdued kings unto his yoke,
And made those heathens flee, as wind doth smoke;
And made their land, being so large a station,
An habitation for our Christian nation,
Where God is glorified, their wants supplied;
Which else for necessaries, must have died.
But what avails his conquests, now he lies
Interred in earth, a prey to worms and flies?
Oh! may his soul in sweet Elysium sleep,
Until the Keeper, that all souls doth keep,
Return to judgment; and that after thence
With angels he may have his recompense."
Sir Robert Peake, the engraver, also found a last resting-place here. He is known as the master of William Faithorne—the famous English engraver of the seventeenth century—and governor of Basing House for the king during the Civil War under Charles I. He died in 1667. Here also was interred the body of Dr. Bell, grandfather of the originator of a well-known system of education.
"The churchyard of St. Sepulchre's," we learn from Maitland, "at one time extended so far into the street on the south side of the church, as to render the passage-way dangerously narrow. In 1760 the churchyard was, in consequence, levelled, and thrown open to the public. But this led to much inconvenience, and it was re-enclosed in 1802."
Sarah Malcolm, the murderess, was buried in the churchyard of St. Sepulchre's in 1733. This coldhearted and keen-eyed monster in human form has had her story told by us already. The parishioners seem, on this occasion, to have had no such scruples as had been exhibited by their predecessors a hundred and fifty years previous at the burial of Awfield, a traitor. We shall see presently that in those more remote days they were desirous of having at least respectable company for their deceased relatives and friends in the churchyard.
"For a long period," says Mr. Godwin (1838), "the church was surrounded by low mean buildings, by which its general appearance was hidden; but these having been cleared away, and the neighbourhood made considerably more open, St. Sepulchre's now forms a somewhat pleasing object, notwithstanding that the tower and a part of the porch are so entirely dissimilar in style to the remainder of the building." And since Godwin's writing the surroundings of the church have been so improved that perhaps few buildings in the metropolis stand more prominently before the public eye.
In the glorious roll of martyrs who have suffered at the stake for their religious principles, a vicar of St. Sepulchre's, the Reverend John Rogers, occupies a conspicuous place. He was the first who was burned in the reign of the Bloody Mary. This eminent person had at one time been chaplain to the English merchants at Antwerp, and while residing in that city had aided Tindal and Coverdale in their great work of translating the Bible. He married a German lady of good position, by whom he had a large family, and was enabled, by means of her relations, to reside in peace and safety in Germany. It appeared to be his duty, however, to return to England, and there publicly profess and advocate his religious convictions, even at the risk of death. He crossed the sea; he took his place in the pulpit at St. Paul's Cross; he preached a fearless and animated sermon, reminding his astonished audience of the pure and wholesome doctrine which had been promulgated from that pulpit in the days of the good King Edward, and solemnly warning them against the pestilent idolatry and superstition of these new times. It was his last sermon. He was apprehended, tried, condemned, and burned at Smithfield. We described, when speaking of Smithfield, the manner in which he met his fate.
Connected with the martyrdom of Rogers an odd circumstance is quoted in the "Churches of London." It is stated that when the bishops had resolved to put to death Joan Bocher, a friend came to Rogers and earnestly entreated his influence that the poor woman's life might be spared, and other means taken to prevent the spread of her heterodox doctrines. Rogers, however, contended that she should be executed; and his friend then begged him to choose some other kind of death, which should be more agreeable to the gentleness and mercy prescribed in the gospel. "No," replied Rogers, "burning alive is not a cruel death, but easy enough." His friend hearing these words, expressive of so little regard for the sufferings of a fellow-creature, answered him with great vehemence, at the same time striking Rogers' hand, "Well, it may perhaps so happen that you yourself shall have your hands full of this mild burning." There is no record of Rogers among the papers belonging to St. Sepulchre's, but this may easily be accounted for by the fact that at the Great Fire of 1666 nearly all the registers and archives were destroyed.
A noteworthy incident in the history of St. Sepulchre's was connected with the execution, in 1585, of Awfield, for "sparcinge abrood certen lewed, sedicious, and traytorous bookes." "When he was executed," says Fleetwood, the Recorder, in a letter to Lord Burleigh, July 7th of that year, "his body was brought unto St. Pulcher's to be buryed, but the parishioners would not suffer a traytor's corpse to be laid in the earth where their parents, wives, children, kindred, masters, and old neighbours did rest; and so his carcass was returned to the burial-ground near Tyburn, and there I leave it."
Another event in the history of the church is a tale of suicide. On the 10th of April, 1600, a man named William Dorrington threw himself from the roof of the tower, leaving there a prayer for forgiveness.
We come now to speak of the connection of St. Sepulchre's with the neighbouring prison of Newgate. Being the nearest church to the prison, that connection naturally was intimate. Its clock served to give the time to the hangman when there was an execution in the Old Bailey, and many a poor wretch's last moments must it have regulated.
On the right-hand side of the altar a board with a list of charitable donations and gifts used to contain the following item:—"1605. Mr. Robert Dowe gave, for ringing the greatest bell in this church on the day the condemned prisoners are executed, and for other services, for ever, concerning such condemned prisoners, for which services the sexton is paid £16s. 8d.—£50.
It was formerly the practice for the clerk or bellman of St. Sepulchre's to go under Newgate, on the night preceding the execution of a criminal, ring his bell, and repeat the following wholesome advice:—
"All you that in the condemned hold do lie,
Prepare you, for to-morrow you shall die;
Watch all, and pray, the hour is drawing near
That you before the Almighty must appear;
Examine well yourselves, in time repent,
That you may not to eternal flames be sent.
And when St. Sepulchre's bell to-morrow tolls,
The Lord above have mercy on your souls.
Past twelve o'clock!"
This practice is explained by a passage in Munday's edition of Stow, in which it is told that a Mr. John Dowe, citizen and merchant taylor of London, gave £50 to the parish church of St. Sepulchre's, under the following conditions:—After the several sessions of London, on the night before the execution of such as were condemned to death, the clerk of the church was to go in the night-time, and also early in the morning, to the window of the prison in which they were lying. He was there to ring "certain tolls with a hand-bell" appointed for the purpose, and was afterwards, in a most Christian manner, to put them in mind of their present condition and approaching end, and to exhort them to be prepared, as they ought to be, to die. When they were in the cart, and brought before the walls of the church, the clerk was to stand there ready with the same bell, and, after certain tolls, rehearse a prayer, desiring all the people there present to pray for the unfortunate criminals. The beadle, also, of Merchant Taylors' Hall was allowed an "honest stipend" to see that this ceremony was regularly performed.
The affecting admonition—"affectingly good," Pennant calls it—addressed to the prisoners in Newgate, on the night before execution, ran as follows:—
"You prisoners that are within,
Who, for wickedness and sin,
after many mercies shown you, are now appointed to die to-morrow in the forenoon; give ear and understand that, to-morrow morning, the greatest bell of St. Sepulchre's shall toll for you, in form and manner of a passing-bell, as used to be tolled for those that are at the point of death; to the end that all godly people, hearing that bell, and knowing it is for your going to your deaths, may be stirred up heartily to pray to God to bestow his grace and mercy upon you, whilst you live. I beseech you, for Jesus Christ's sake, to keep this night in watching and prayer, to the salvation of your own souls while there is yet time and place for mercy; as knowing to-morrow you must appear before the judgment-seat of your Creator, there to give an account of all things done in this life, and to suffer eternal torments for your sins committed against Him, unless, upon your hearty and unfeigned repentance, you find mercy through the merits, death, and passion of your only Mediator and Advocate, Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return to Him."
And the following was the admonition to condemned criminals, as they were passing by St. Sepulchre's Church wall to execution:—" All good people, pray heartily unto God for these poor sinners, who are now going to their death, for whom this great bell doth toll.
"You that are condemned to die, repent with lamentable tears; ask mercy of the Lord, for the salvation of your own souls, through the [merits, death, and passion of Jesus Christ, who now sits at the right hand of God, to make intercession for as many of you as penitently return unto Him.
"Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you.
Lord have mercy upon you;
Christ have mercy upon you."
The charitable Mr. Dowe, who took such interest in the last moments of the occupants of the condemned cell, was buried in the church of St. Botolph, Aldgate.
Another curious custom observed at St. Sepulchre's was the presentation of a nosegay to every criminal on his way to execution at Tyburn. No doubt the practice had its origin in some kindly feeling for the poor unfortunates who were so soon to bid farewell to all the beauties of earth. One of the last who received a nosegay from the steps of St. Sepulchre's was "Sixteen-string Jack," alias John Rann, who was hanged, in 1774, for robbing the Rev. Dr. Bell of his watch and eighteen pence in money, in Gunnersbury Lane, on the road to Brentford. Sixteen-string Jack wore the flowers in his button-hole as he rode dolefully to the gallows. This was witnessed by John Thomas Smith, who thus describes the scene in his admirable anecdotebook, "Nollekens and his Times:"—" I remember well, when I was in my eighth year, Mr. Nollekens calling at my father's house, in Great Portland Street, and taking us to Oxford Street, to see the notorious Jack Rann, commonly called Sixteenstring Jack, go to Tyburn to be hanged. … The criminal was dressed in a pea-green coat, with an immense nosegay in the button-hole, which had been presented to him at St. Sepulchre's steps; and his nankeen small-clothes, we were told, were tied at each knee with sixteen strings. After he had passed, and Mr. Nollekens was leading me home by the hand, I recollect his stooping down to me and observing, in a low tone of voice, 'Tom, now, my little man, if my father-in-law, Mr. Justice Welch, had been high constable, we could have walked by the side of the cart all the way to Tyburn.'"
When criminals were conveyed from Newgate to Tyburn, the cart passed up Giltspur Street, and through Smithfield, to Cow Lane. Skinner Street had not then been built, and the Crooked Lane which turned down by St. Sepulchre's, as well as Ozier Lane, did not afford sufficient width to admit of the cavalcade passing by either of them, with convenience, to Holborn Hill, or "the Heavy Hill," as it used to be called. The procession seems at no time to have had much of the solemn element about it. "The heroes of the day were often," says a popular writer, "on good terms with the mob, and jokes were exchanged between the men who were going to be hanged and the men who deserved to be."
"On St. Paul's Day," says Mr. Timbs (1868), "service is performed in St. Sepulchre's, in accordance with the will of Mr. Paul Jervis, who, in 1717, devised certain land in trust that a sermon should be preached in the church upon every Paul's Day upon the excellence of the liturgy o the Church of England; the preacher to receive 40s. for such sermon. Various sums are also bequeathed to the curate, the clerk, the treasurer, and masters of the parochial schools. To the poor of the parish he bequeathed 20s. a-piece to ten of the poorest householders within that part of the parish of St. Sepulchre commonly called Smithfield quarter, £4 to the treasurer of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, and 6s. 8d. yearly to the clerk, who shall attend to receive the same. The residue of the yearly rents and profits is to be distributed unto and amongst such poor people of the parish of St. Sepulchre's, London, who shall attend the service and sermon. At the close of the service the vestry-clerk reads aloud an extract from the will, and then proceeds to the distribution of the money. In the evening the vicar, churchwardens, and common councilmen of the precinct dine together."
In 1749, a Mr. Drinkwater made a praiseworthy bequest. He left the parish of St. Sepulchre £500 to be lent in sums of £25 to industrious young tradesmen. No interest was to be charged, and the money was to be lent for four years.
Next to St. Sepulchre's, on Snow Hill, used to stand the famous old inn of the "Saracen's Head." It was only swept away within the last few years by the ruthless army of City improvers: a view of it in course of demolition was given on page 439. It was one of the oldest of the London inns which bore the "Saracen's Head" for a sign. One of Dick Tarlton's jests makes mention of the "Saracen's Head" without Newgate, and Stow, describing this neighbourhood, speaks particularly of "a fair large inn for receipt of travellers" that "hath to sign the 'Saracen's Head.'" The courtyard had, to the last, many of the characteristics of an old English inn; there were galleries all round leading to the bedrooms, and a spacious gateway through which the dusty mail-coaches used to rumble, the tired passengers creeping forth "thanking their stars in having escaped the highwaymen and the holes and sloughs of the road." Into that courtyard how many have come on their first arrival in London with hearts beating high with hope, some of whom have risen to be aldermen and sit in state as lord mayor, whilst others have gone the way of the idle apprentice and come to a sad end at Tyburn! It was at this inn that Nicholas Nickleby and his uncle waited upon the Yorkshire schoolmaster Squeers, of Dotheboys Hall. Mr. Dickens describes the tavern as it existed in the last days of mail-coaching, when it was a most important place for arrivals and departures in London:—
"Next to the jail, and by consequence near to Smithfield also, and the Compter and the bustle and noise of the City, and just on that particular part of Snow Hill where omnibus horses going eastwards seriously think of falling down on purpose, and where horses in hackney cabriolets going westwards not unfrequently fall by accident, is the coach-yard of the 'Saracen's Head' inn, its portals guarded by two Saracen's heads and shoulders, which it was once the pride and glory of the choice spirits of this metropolis to pull down at night, but which have for some time remained in undisturbed tranquillity, possibly because this species of humour is now confined to St. James's parish, where doorknockers are preferred as being more portable, and bell-wires esteemed as convenient tooth-picks. Whether this be the reason or not, there they are, frowning upon you from each side of the gateway; and the inn itself, garnished with another Saracen's head, frowns upon you from the top of the yard; while from the door of the hind-boot of all the red coaches that are standing therein, there glares a small Saracen's head with a twin expression to the large Saracen's head below, so that the general appearance of the pile is of the Saracenic order."
To explain the use of the Saracen's head as an inn sign various reasons have been given. "When our countrymen," says Selden, "came home from fighting with the Saracens and were beaten by them, they pictured them with huge, big, terrible faces (as you still see the 'Saracen's Head' is), when in truth they were like other men. But this they did to save their own credit." Or the sign may have been adopted by those who had visited the Holy Land either as pilgrims or to fight the Saracens. Others, again, hold that it was first set up in compliment to the mother of Thomas à Becket, who was the daughter of a Saracen. However this may be, it is certain that the use of the sign in former days was very general.
Running past the east end of St. Sepulchre's, from Newgate into West Smithfield, is Giltspur Street, anciently called Knightriders Street. This interesting thoroughfare derives its name from the knights with their gilt spurs having been accustomed to ride this way to the jousts and tournaments which in days of old were held in Smithfield.
In this street was Giltspur Street Compter, a debtors' prison and house of correction appertaining to the sheriffs of London and Middlesex. It stood over against St. Sepulchre's Church, and was removed hither from the east side of Wood Street, Cheapside, in 1791. At the time of its removal it was used as a place of imprisonment for debtors, but the yearly increasing demands upon the contracted space caused that department to be given up, and City debtors were sent to Whitecross Street. The architect was Dance, to whom we are also indebted for the grim pile of Newgate. The Compter was a dirty and appropriately convictlooking edifice. It was pulled down in 1855. Mr. Hepworth Dixon gave an interesting account of this City House of Correction, not long before its demolition, in his "London Prisons" (1850). "Entering," he says, "at the door facing St. Sepulchre's, the visitor suddenly finds himself in a low dark passage, leading into the offices of the gaol, and branching off into other passages, darker, closer, more replete with noxious smells, than even those of Newgate. This is the fitting prelude to what follows. The prison, it must be noticed, is divided into two principal divisions, the House of Correction and the Compter. The front in Giltspur Street, and the side nearest to Newgate Street, is called the Compter. In its wards are placed detenues of various kinds—remands, committals from the police-courts, and generally persons waiting for trial, and consequently still unconvicted. The other department, the House of Correction, occupies the back portion of the premises, abutting on Christ's Hospital. Curious it is to consider how thin a wall divides these widely-separate worlds! And sorrowful it is to think what a difference of destiny awaits the children—destiny inexorable, though often unearned in either case—who, on the one side of it or the other, receive an eleemosynary education! The collegian and the criminal! Who shall say how much mere accident— circumstances over which the child has little power —determines to a life of usefulness or mischief? From the yards of Giltspur Street prison almost the only objects visible, outside of the gaol itself, are the towers of Christ's Hospital; the only sounds audible, the shouts of the scholars at their play. The balls of the hospital boys often fall within the yards of the prison. Whether these sights and sounds ever cause the criminal to pause and reflect upon the courses of his life, we will not say, but the stranger visiting the place will be very apt to think for him. …
"In the department of the prison called the House of Correction, minor offenders within the City of London are imprisoned. No transports are sent hither, nor is any person whose sentence is above three years in length." This able writer then goes on to tell of the many crying evils connected with the institution—the want of air, the over-crowded state of the rooms, the absence of proper cellular accommodation, and the vicious intercourse carried on amongst the prisoners. The entire gaol, when he wrote, only contained thirty-six separate sleeping-rooms. Now by the highest prison calculation—and this, be it noted, proceeds on the assumption that three persons can sleep in small, miserable, unventilated cells, which are built for only one, and are too confined for that, being only about one-half the size of the model cell for one at Pentonville—it was only capable of accommodating 203 prisoners, yet by the returns issued at Michaelmas, 1850, it contained 246!
A large section of the prison used to be devoted to female delinquents, but lately it was almost entirely given up to male offenders.
"The House of Correction, and the Compter portion of the establishment," says Mr. Dixon, "are kept quite distinct, but it would be difficult to award the palm of empire in their respective facilities for demoralisation. We think the Compter rather the worse of the two. You are shown into a room, about the size of an apartment in an ordinary dwelling-house, which will be found crowded with from thirty to forty persons, young and old, and in their ordinary costume; the low thief in his filth and rags, and the member of the swell-mob with his bright buttons, flash finery, and false jewels. Here you notice the boy who has just been guilty of his first offence, and committed for trial, learning with a greedy mind a thousand criminal arts, and listening with the precocious instinct of guilty passions to stories and conversations the most depraved and disgusting. You regard him with a mixture of pity and loathing, for he knows that the eyes of his peers are upon him, and he stares at you with a familiar impudence, and exhibits a devil-may-care countenance, such as is only to be met with in the juvenile offender. Here, too, may be seen the young clerk, taken up on suspicion—perhaps innocent—who avoids you with a shy look of pain and uneasiness: what a hell must this prison be to him! How frightful it is to think of a person really untainted with crime, compelled to herd for ten or twenty days with these abandoned wretches!
"On the other, the House of Correction side of the gaol, similar rooms will be found, full of prisoners communicating with each other, laughing and shouting without hindrance. All this is so little in accordance with existing notions of prison discipline, that one is continually fancying these disgraceful scenes cannot be in the capital of England, and in the year of grace 1850. Very few of the prisoners attend school or receive any instruction; neither is any kind of employment afforded them, except oakum-picking, and the still more disgusting labour of the treadmill. When at work, an officer is in attendance to prevent disorderly conduct; but his presence is of no avail as a protection to the less depraved. Conversation still goes on; and every facility is afforded for making acquaintances, and for mutual contamination."
After having long been branded by intelligent inspectors as a disgrace to the metropolis, Giltspur Street Compter was condemned, closed in 1854, and subsequently taken down.
Nearly opposite what used to be the site of the Compter, and adjoining Cock Lane, is the spot called Pie Corner, near which terminated the Great Fire of 1666. The fire commenced at Pudding Lane, it will be remembered, so it was singularly appropriate that it should terminate at Pie Corner. Under the date of 4th September, 1666, Pepys, in his "Diary," records that "W. Hewer this day went to see how his mother did, and comes home late, telling us how he hath been forced to remove her to Islington, her house in Pye Corner being burned; so that the fire is got so far that way." The figure of a fat naked boy stands over a public house at the corner of the lane; it used to have the following warning inscription attached:— "This boy is in memory put up of the late fire of London, occasioned by the sin of gluttony, 1666." According to Stow, Pie Corner derived its name from the sign of a well-frequented hostelry, which anciently stood on the spot. Strype makes honourable mention of Pie Corner, as "noted chiefly for cooks' shops and pigs dressed there during Bartholomew Fair." Our old writers have many references—and not all, by the way, in the best taste—to its cookstalls and dressed pork. Shadwell, for instance, in the Woman Captain (1680) speaks of "meat dressed at Pie Corner by greasy scullions;" and Ben Jonson writes in the Alchemist (1612)—
"I shall put you in mind, sir, at Pie Corner,
Taking your meal of steam in from cooks' stalls."
And in "The Great Boobee" ("Roxburgh Ballads"):
"Next day I through Pie Corner passed;
The roast meat on the stall
Invited me to take a taste;
My money was but small."
But Pie Corner seems to have been noted for more than eatables. A ballad from Tom D'Urfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy," describing Bartholomew Fair, eleven years before the Fire of London, says:—
"At Pie-Corner end, mark well my good friend,
'Tis a very fine dirty place;
Where there's more arrows and bows. …
Than was handled at Chivy Chase."
We have already given a view of Pie Corner in our chapter on Smithfield, page 361.
Hosier Lane, running from Cow Lane to Smithfield, and almost parallel to Cock Lane, is described by "R. B.," in Strype, as a place not over-well built or inhabited. The houses were all old timber erections. Some of these—those standing at the south corner of the lane—were in the beginning of this century depicted by Mr. J. T. Smith, in his "Ancient Topography of London." He describes them as probably of the reign of James I. The rooms were small, with low, unornamented ceilings; the timber, oak, profusely used; the gables were plain, and the walls lath and plaster. They were taken down in 1809.
In the corner house, in Mr. Smith's time, there was a barber whose name was Catchpole; at least, so it was written over the door. He was rather an odd fellow, and possessed, according to his own account, a famous relic of antiquity. He would gravely show his customers a short-bladed instrument, as the identical dagger with which Walworth killed Wat Tyler.
Hosier Lane, like Pie Corner, used to be a great resort during the time of Bartholomew Fair, "all the houses," it is said in Strype, "generally being made public for tippling."
We return now from our excursion to the north of St. Sepulchre's, and continue our rambles to the west, and before speaking of what is, let us refer to what has been.
Turnagain Lane is not far from this. "Near unto this Seacoal Lane," remarks Stow, "in the turning towards Holborn Conduit, is Turnagain Lane, or rather, as in a record of the 5th of Edward III., Windagain Lane, for that it goeth down west to Fleet Dyke, from whence men must turn again the same way they came, but there it stopped." There used to be a proverb, "He must take him a house in Turnagain Lane."
A conduit formerly stood on Snow Hill, a little below the church. It is described as a building with four equal sides, ornamented with four columns and pediment, surmounted by a pyramid, on which stood a lamb—a rebus on the name of Lamb, from whose conduit in Red Lion Street the water came. There had been a conduit there, however, before Lamb's day, which was towards the close of the sixteenth century.
At No. 37, King Street, Snow Hill, there used to be a ladies' charity school, which was established in 1702, and remained in the parish 145 years. Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale were subscribers to this school, and Johnson drew from it his story of Betty Broom, in "The Idler." The world of domestic service, in Betty's days, seems to have been pretty much as now. Betty was a poor girl, bred in the country at a charity-school, maintained by the contributions of wealthy neighbours. The patronesses visited the school from time to time, to see how the pupils got on, and everything went well, till "at last, the chief of the subscribers having passed a winter in London, came down full of an opinion new and strange to the whole country. She held it little less than criminal to teach poor girls to read and write. They who are born to poverty, she said, are born to ignorance, and will work the harder the less they know. She told her friends that London was in confusion by the insolence of servants; that scarcely a girl could be got for all-work, since education had made such numbers of fine ladies, that nobody would now accept a lower title than that of a waiting-maid, or something that might qualify her to wear laced shoes and long ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour window. But she was resolved, for her part, to spoil no more girls. Those who were to live by their hands should neither read nor write out of her pocket. The world was bad enough already, and she would have no part in making it worse.
"She was for a long time warmly opposed; but she persevered in her notions, and withdrew her subscription. Few listen, without a desire of conviction, to those who advise them to spare their money. Her example and her arguments gained ground daily; and in less than a year the whole parish was convinced that the nation would be ruined if the children of the poor were taught to read and write." So the school was dissolved, and Betty with the rest was turned adrift into the wide and cold world; and her adventures there any one may read in "The Idler" for himself.
There is an entry in the school minutes of 1763, to the effect that the ladies of the committee censured the schoolmistress for listening to the story of the Cock Lane ghost, and "desired her to keep her belief in the article to herself."
Skinner Street—now one of the names of the past—which ran by the south side of St. Sepulchre's, and formed the connecting link between Newgate Street and Holborn, received its name from Alderman Skinner, through whose exertions, about 1802, it was principally built. The following account of Skinner Street is from the picturesque pen of Mr. William Harvey ("Aleph"), whose long familiarity with the places he describes renders doubly valuable his many contributions to the history of London scenes and people:—"As a building speculation," he says, writing in 1863, "it was a failure. When the buildings were ready for occupation, tall and substantial as they really were, the high rents frightened intending shopkeepers. Tenants were not to be had; and in order to get over the money difficulty, a lottery, sanctioned by Parliament, was commenced. Lotteries were then common tricks of finance, and nobody wondered at the new venture; but even the most desperate fortune-hunters were slow to invest their capital, and the tickets hung sadly on hand. The day for the drawing was postponed several times, and when it came, there was little or no excitement on the subject, and whoever rejoiced in becoming a house-owner on such easy terms, the original projectors and builders were understood to have suffered considerably. The winners found the property in a very unfinished condition. Few of the dwellings were habitable, and as funds were often wanting, a majority of the houses remained empty, and the shops unopened. After two or three years things began to improve; the vast many-storeyed house which then covered the site of Commercial Place was converted into a warehousing depôt; a capital house opposite the 'Saracen's Head' was taken by a hosier of the name of Theobald, who, opening his shop with the determination of selling the best hosiery, and nothing else, was able to convince the citizens that his hose was first-rate, and, desiring only a living profit, succeeded, after thirty years of unwearied industry, in accumulating a large fortune. Theobald was possessed of literary tastes, and at the sale of Sir Walter Scott's manuscripts was a liberal purchaser. He also collected a library of exceedingly choice books, and when aristocratic customers purchased stockings of him, was soon able to interest them in matters of far higher interest…
"The most remarkable shop—but it was on the left-hand side, at a corner house—was that established for the sale of children's books. It boasted an immense extent of window-front, extending from the entrance into Snow Hill, and towards Fleet Market. Many a time have I lingered with loving eyes over those fascinating story-books, so rich in gaily-coloured prints; such careful editions of the marvellous old histories, 'Puss in Boots,' 'Cock Robin,' 'Cinderella,' and the like. Fortunately the front was kept low, so as exactly to suit the capacity of a childish admirer. . . . . But Skinner Street did not prosper much, and never could compete with even the dullest portions of Holborn. I have spoken of some reputable shops; but you know the proverb, 'One swallow will not make a summer,' and it was a declining neighbourhood almost before it could be called new. In 1810 the commercial depôt, which had been erected at a cost of £25,000, and was the chief prize in the lottery, was destroyed by fire, never to be rebuilt—a heavy blow and discouragement to Skinner Street, from which it never rallied. Perhaps the periodical hanging-days exercised an unfavourable influence, collecting, as they frequently did, all the thieves and vagabonds of London. I never sympathised with Pepys or Charles Fox in their passion for public executions, and made it a point to avoid those ghastly sights; but early of a Monday morning, when I had just reached the end of Giltspur Street, a miserable wretch had just been turned off from the platform of the debtors' door, and I was made the unwilling witness of his last struggles. That scene haunted me for months, and I often used to ask myself, 'Who that could help it would live in Skinner Street?' The next unpropitious event in these parts was the unexpected closing of the child's library. What could it mean? Such a well-to-do establishment shut up? Yes, the whole army of shutters looked blankly on the inquirer, and forbade even a single glance at 'Sinbad' or 'Robinson Crusoe.' It would soon be re-opened, we naturally thought; but the shutters never came down again. The whole house was deserted; not even a messenger in bankruptcy, or an ancient Charley, was found to regard the playful double knocks of the neighbouring juveniles. Gradually the glass of all the windows got broken in, a heavy cloud of black dust, solidifying into inches thick, gathered on sills and doors and brickwork, till the whole frontage grew as gloomy as Giant Despair's Castle. Not long after, the adjoining houses shared the same fate, and they remained from year to year without the slightest sign of life—absolute scarecrows, darkening with their uncomfortable shadows the busy streets. Within half a mile, in Stamford Street, Blackfriars, there are (1863) seven houses in a similar predicament— window-glass demolished, doors cracked from top to bottom, spiders' webs hanging from every projecting sill or parapet. What can it mean? The loss in the article of rents alone must be over £1,000 annually. If the real owners are at feud with imaginary owners, surely the property might be rendered valuable, and the proceeds invested. Even the lawyers can derive no profit from such hopeless abandonment. I am told the whole mischief arose out of a Chancery suit. Can it be the famous 'Jarndyce v. Jarndyce' case? And have all the heirs starved each other out? If so, what hinders our lady the Queen from taking possession? Any change would be an improvement, for these dead houses make the streets they cumber as dispiriting and comfortless as graveyards. Busy fancy will sometimes people them, and fill the dreary rooms with strange guests. Do the victims of guilt congregate in these dark dens? Do wretches 'unfriended by the world or the world's law,' seek refuge in these deserted nooks, mourning in the silence of despair over their former lives, and anticipating the future in unappeasable agony? Such things have been—the silence and desolation of these doomed dwellings make them the more suitable for such tenants."
A street is nothing without a mystery, so a mystery let these old tumble-down houses remain, whilst we go on to tell that, in front of No. 58, the sailor Cashman was hung in 1817, as we have already mentioned, for plundering a gunsmith's shop there. William Godwin, the author of "Caleb Williams," kept a bookseller's shop for several years in Skinner Street, at No. 41, and published school-books in the name of Edward Baldwin. On the wall there was a stone carving of Æsop reciting one of his fables to children.
The most noteworthy event of the life of Godwin was his marriage with the celebrated Mary Wollstonecraft, authoress of a "Vindication of the Rights of Women," whose congenial mind, in politics and morals, he ardently admired. Godwin's account of the way in which they got on together is worth reading:—"Ours," he writes, "was not an idle happiness, a paradise of selfish and transitory pleasures. It is, perhaps, scarcely necessary to mention, that influenced by ideas I had long entertained, I engaged an apartment about twenty doors from our house, in the Polygon, Somers Town, which I designed for the purpose of my study and literary occupations. Trifles, however, will be interesting to some readers, when they relate to the last period of the life of such a person as Mary. I will add, therefore, that we were both of us of opinion, that it was possible for two persons to be too uniformly in each other's society. Influenced by that opinion, it was my practice to repair to the apartment I have mentioned as soon as I rose, and frequently not to make my appearance in the Polygon till the hour of dinner. We agreed in condemning the notion, prevalent in many situations in life, that a man and his wife cannot visit in mixed society but in company with each other, and we rather sought occasions of deviating from than of complying with this rule. By this means, though, for the most part, we spent the latter half of each day in one another's society, yet we were in no danger of satiety. We seemed to combine, in a considerable degree, the novelty and lively sensation of a visit with the more delicious and heartfelt pleasure of a domestic life."
This philosophic union, to Godwin's inexpressible affliction, did not last more than eighteen months, at the end of which time Mrs. Godwin died, leaving an only daughter, who in the course of time became the second wife of the poet Shelley, and was the author of the wild and extraordinary tale of "Frankenstein."
Uncertainty becomes certainty over time. Decisions made now will ripple into the future with consequences whether good or bad. This is why it's so very important to reflect deeply in the moment. As much as it may hurt...some things will be severed in the process. This means some real and fanciful hopes will be relinquished.
-rc
For my part I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of the stars makes me dream.
Vincent Van Gogh
Actaeon in Greek mythology, son of the priestly herdsman Aristaeus and Autonoe in Boeotia, was a famous Theban hero. Like Achilles in a later generation, he was trained by the centaur Chiron.
He fell to the fatal wrath of Artemis, but the surviving details of his transgression vary: "the only certainty is in what Aktaion suffered, his pathos, and what Artemis did: the hunter became the hunted; he was transformed into a stag, and his raging hounds, struck with a 'wolf's frenzy' (Lyssa), tore him apart as they would a stag." This is the iconic motif by which Actaeon is recognized, both in ancient art and in Renaissance and post-Renaissance depictions.
Among others, John Heath has observed, "The unalterable kernel of the tale was a hunter's transformation into a deer and his death in the jaws of his hunting dogs. But authors were free to suggest different motives for his death." In the version that was offered by the Hellenistic poet Callimachus, which has become the standard setting, Artemis was bathing in the woods when the hunter Actaeon stumbled across her, thus seeing her naked. He stopped and stared, amazed at her ravishing beauty. Once seen, Artemis got revenge on Actaeon: she forbade him speech — if he tried to speak, he would be changed into a stag — for the unlucky profanation of her virginity's mystery. Upon hearing the call of his hunting party, he cried out to them and immediately transformed. At this he fled deep into the woods, and doing so he came upon a pond and, seeing his reflection, groaned. His own hounds then turned upon him and pursued him, not recognizing him. In an endeavour to save himself, he raised his eyes (and would have raised his arms, had he had them) toward Mount Olympus. The gods did not heed his plea, and he was torn to pieces. An element of the earlier myth made Actaeon the familiar hunting companion of Artemis, no stranger. In an embroidered extension of the myth, the hounds were so upset with their master's death, that Chiron made a statue so lifelike that the hounds thought it was Actaeon.
There are various other versions of his transgression: The Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and pseudo-Apollodoran Bibliotheke state that his offense was that he was a rival of Zeus for Semele, his mother's sister, whereas in Euripides' Bacchae he has boasted that he is a better hunter than Artemis:
ὁρᾷς τὸν Ἀκτέωνος ἄθλιον μόρον,
ὃν ὠμόσιτοι σκύλακες ἃς ἐθρέψατο
διεσπάσαντο, κρείσσον' ἐν κυναγίαις
Ἀρτέμιδος εἶναι κομπάσαντ', ἐν ὀργάσιν.
Look at Actaeon's wretched fate
who by the man-eating hounds he had raised,
was torn apart, better at hunting
than Artemis he had boasted to be, in the meadows.
In François Clouet's Bath of Diana (1558-59) Actaeon's passing on horseback at left and mauling as a stag at right is incidental to the three female nudes.
Further materials, including fragments that belong with the Hesiodic Catalogue of Women and at least four Attic tragedies, including a Toxotides of Aeschylus, have been lost. Diodorus Siculus (4.81.4), in a variant of Actaeon's hubris that has been largely ignored, has it that Actaeon wanted to marry Artemis. Other authors say the hounds were Artemis' own; some lost elaborations of the myth seem to have given them all names and narrated their wanderings after his loss.
According to the Latin version of the story told by the Roman Ovid having accidentally seen Diana (Artemis) on Mount Cithaeron while she was bathing, he was changed by her into a stag, and pursued and killed by his fifty hounds. This version also appears in Callimachus' Fifth Hymn, as a mythical parallel to the blinding of Tiresias after he sees Athena bathing. The literary testimony of Actaeon's myth is largely lost, but Lamar Ronald Lacy, deconstructing the myth elements in what survives and supplementing it by iconographic evidence in late vase-painting, made a plausible reconstruction of an ancient Actaeon myth that Greek poets may have inherited and subjected to expansion and dismemberment. His reconstruction opposes a too-pat consensus that has an archaic Actaeon aspiring to Semele, a classical Actaeon boasting of his hunting prowess and a Hellenistic Actaeon glimpsing Artemis' bath. Lacy identifies the site of Actaeon's transgression as a spring sacred to Artemis at Plataea where Actaeon was a hero archegetes ("hero-founder"). The righteous hunter, the companion of Artemis, seeing her bathing naked in the spring, was moved to try to make himself her consort, as Diodorus Siculus noted, and was punished, in part for transgressing the hunter's "ritually enforced deference to Artemis" (Lacy 1990:42). (Wikipedia).
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See also the album: www.albelli.nl/onlinefotoboek-bekijken/3af1427e-1eae-4620...
The trail was long and hard. It wound its way through the dense coniferous forest, rising with slow certainty towards an as of yet unseen vista. I was laboring heaving with the weight of my camera gear, wondering how much further the destination was. And after more than an hour of uphill slow, the vegetation thinned out, and the views expanded. I turned around, and the entire vista of Maligne Lake expanded in front of me.
There is perhaps nothing more exhilerating that seeing the endless cascades of the snow-capped mountains rising up from a velvety green forest floor. And I have been fortunate in being able to visit and pay homage to the grandeur of the Canadian Rockies, perhaps the most beautiful of them all.
It was as though the stereotypical mountain landscapes that we drew as a kid came to life, except it was far more majestic and awe-inspiring. Bare sedimentary rock faces were alternately in light and shadow as the clouds cast dappled light on the rugged landscape, while towering peaks with glacial remnants shone in pearly white. Maligne Lake slowly tapered off in the distance towards its source, lost in the multitude of canyons.
As I watched this scene slowly transpiring, an old quote from John Muir popped in my head: "We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us."
Maligne Lake
AB Canada
You can find more of my photography in my 2018 calendar, available here: goo.gl/Nd7p9G. All proceeds go to NRDC and WildAid, two non-profits whose missions I wholly support.
motion, movement, life, light, energy, power, random, choatic, paradoxically ordered, heading with certainty toward a destination that is at once the end and beginning, full of significance and yet meaningless.
I so absolutely resonate to these words. This is the same for me ..... looking up into starry skies is one of the most wonderful things for me to connect to eternity, timelessness and infinity...
My mind is so full ideas about how to go on in my "Things i love to do" , that i cant decide which and what and how to put first...... lol.....
And - little time, lots of work and travels - not helpful, too.
You remember the answer of the little girl to the "what do you want" - question?..... "all - and all at once" Lol. So - I am learning to be patient and to wait for the right time and the right place - called inspiration as well. Lol. .
Anyway...
So I just travelled through my archives, and this is something, I definitely wanted to post for a long time.
I cropped it a bit, reduced the red - but its pretty much sooc. The stars are real.... the little fairies dancing on the leaf, too.
I wish you all a wonderful week, all is well here, thank you for all the questions.
And i want to take some time to visit your beautiful streams soon - I missed a lot, I know. And I am sorry about it.
At least that's what I think he was trying to do . It's almost a certainty that if you try to read the paper / magazine either Guinness or his sister Scully will try to get involved .
En: Rock Tomb attributed to Xerxes Ist in the royal Achaemenid necropolis of Naqsh-e Rostam, vicinity of Marvdshat, Fars province, Iran, April 2008.
Naqsh-e Rostam, a listed World Heritage Site by the UNESCO, has always been a sacred and symbolic place for the ancient civilizations of the Iranian plateau. Apart from the remnants of a rock relief of the Elamite period (2nd millennium BCE), and other reliefs dating from the Persian Sassanid era (3rd to 7th century CE) plus a fire altar from the same period, it contains several elements from the first Persian empire, the Achaemenid Empire. Such elements are a Zoroastrian temple (Kaaba ye Zartosht) and four royal rock cut tombs all made on an identical plan. Such style reflects an official royal art whose canons have been set by Darius the Great. Breaking with the tradition of the first Achaemenid kings that saw at least Cyrus the Great buried in a mausoleum in Pasargadae, Darius, who had already built Persepolis at the foot of the neighbor Kuh-e Rahmat mountain, ordered his grave to be cut in the rock of a nearby cliff. Darius is the only king whose grave is attributed with certainty, because of a long inscription in three languages. The three other tombs are those of the successors of Darius whose reigns have been significant: Xerxes I, Darius II (Codomanus), and Artaxerxes I (Makrocheir or "long hand").
The plan of each tomb is invariant: the cross-shaped tombs are divided into three registers. The lower register is flat and smooth,with no element carved or engraved. The midrange register is remarkable because it provides an accurate picture of the Achaemenid royal palaces as they were at Persepolis and Susa. A large portico surrounds a door whose style is clearly Egyptian ( being decorated by grooves), which leads to the actual tomb, carved in the depth of the cliff. The roof of the portico lay on the top of high thin cylindrical columns, almost identical to those of a Ionian fashion at the palaces. Some differences are indeed observed indicating a desire for simplification: lack of stylized palm trees at the upper parts, and lack of grooves characterizing this Greek style. At the top each column is an animal-form capital, in this case, two divergent bulls between each lay the main beams. The tertiary and secondary beams are upper, perpendiculars, forming the roof. The upper register shows a scene which is emblematic of how royalty wants to be seen. The monarch is represented in an attitude similar to that of Darius in his founding relief at Behistun: a hand raised up and the other holding a bow whose downer end is placed on the ground. Before him is a fire altar, above him is the god Ahuramazda. A moon disk is visible at the top right of the stage. Altar and king lay on a platform resting on horned lions shaped pillars. The platform is supported by many individuals whose ethnic characters and clothes clearly identify the nations subjected to the empire, a recurrent theme of this art. On both sides of the register, immortal guards, heralds, or Persian nobles are represented. The significance of the relief is pretty clear: the king of kings is at the top of the imperial hierarchy, by the will of Ahuramazda, which is the only entity superior to the king. The king of kings takes his power and legitimacy by the strength of his army but also by the support of nations and peoples of the empire, such evidence is imposed by itself to all, even to the nobles.
Fr: Tombe rupestre attribuée à Xerxès Ier dans la nécropole royale achéménide de Naqsh-e Rostam, alentours de Marvdshat, province de Fars, Iran, Avril 2008.
Le site de Naqsh-e Rostam classé patrimoine mondial par l’Unesco a toujours revêtu un caractère sacré et emblématique pour les civilisations antiques du plateau iranien. En effet, outre les traces d’un relief rupestre d’époque Elamite (2ème millénaire BCE) et d’autres reliefs datant de l’ère Perse Sassanide (3ème au 7ème siècle CE) auquel s’ajoute un autel du feu de la même période, il abrite plusieurs éléments datant du premier empire Perse, l’empire Achéménide. Il s’agit d’un temple zoroastrien Achéménide (Kaaba ye Zartosht) et de 4 tombes royales rupestres toutes réalisées selon un plan identique, dont le style témoigne d’un art royal officiel dont les canons ont été fixés par Darius le Grand. Rompant avec la tradition des rois achéménides précédents qui a vu au moins Cyrus le Grand être enterré dans un mausolée à Pasargades, Darius, qui avait déjà fait construire Persépolis au pied de la montagne voisine du Kuh-e Rahmat, fait ainsi sculpter sa tombe dans le roc d’une falaise voisine. Il est également le seul dont la tombe est attribuée avec certitude, du fait d’une longue inscription trilingue. Les 3 autres tombes seraient celles des successeurs de Darius dont les règnes ont été significatifs: Xerxès Ier, Darius II (Codoman), et Artaxerxès Ier (Makrocheir ou « longue main »).
Le plan de chaque tombe est invariant, cruciforme, divisé en 3 registres. Le registre inférieur est plan et lisse, ne comportant aucun élément sculpté ni gravé. Le registre moyen est remarquable car il fournit un aperçu précis de l’architecture des palais royaux achéménides tels qu’ils étaient à Persépolis et Suse : Un grand portique entoure une porte dont le style est clairement égyptien, orné par des cannelures, qui mène à la tombe proprement dite, taillée dans la profondeur de la falaise. Porté par des colonnes cylindriques fines et hautes, presque identiques à celles, ioniennes, des palais. Quelques différences sont en effet observées témoignant d’une volonté de simplification : absence de palmiers stylisés aux parties supérieures, et absence des fameuses cannelures propres à ce style grec. Chaque colonne porte un chapiteau à protomé animal, en l’occurrence, 2 taureaux divergents forment une mortaise dans laquelle s’insère des poutres principales. Des poutres secondaires perpendiculaires puis tertiaires constituent ensuite le toit. Le registre supérieur montre une scène emblématique de la royauté telle qu’elle veut se montrer : le monarque est représenté dans une attitude similaire à celle de Darius sur le relief fondateur de Behistun : une main tendue vers le haut et l’autre tenant un arc dont un bout est posé au sol. Devant lui se trouve un autel du feu, au dessus de lui se trouve le dieu Ahuramazda. Un disque lunaire est visible à la partie supérieure droite de la scène. Autel et souverain sont situés sur une estrade reposant aux angles sur des piliers représentant des lions cornus. L’estrade est portée par de nombreux sujets dont les caractéristiques ethniques et vestimentaires identifient clairement les nations assujetties à l’empire, thème récurent de cet art. De part et d’autre du registre, gardes immortels, héraults ou nobles perses sont représentés. La signification du relief est claire : le roi des rois est au sommet de la hiérarchie impériale, il est souverain par la volonté d’Ahuramazda qui seul, lui est supérieur, son pouvoir et sa légitimité s’imposent à tous, y compris aux nobles par la force de son armée mais aussi par le support des nations et peuples de l’empire.
Good morning everyone. Featured today is the Northern Bush Katydid (Scudderia septentrionalis). One of two common Katydids seen here locally along with the Common Meadow Katydid. And of the two, I'm more apt to see a Bush Katydid as they have a habit of flushing in front you like a Quail would when walking in an over grown field. Meadow Katydids tend to stay put no matter how close you get to them, and by doing so, you tend to see very few in spite of being quite common.
Kind of a short series starting with the above very mature male as evident by its dark green coloring. In the comment section I could easily identify one of the three pictured as a female, but the other two weren't as easy to determine sex with any certainty. Although I'm thinking all of them are females.
As always, don't forget to click on "view previous comments" if you don't see the additional photos in the comment section. Even better, scroll to them by clicking on the arrow thingy to the right of the above pic. And if you want to any pic in the comment section large all you have to do is click on it where you'll also find the full text describing this pretty Katydid.
Thank you for stopping by...and I hope you're having a truly nice week.
Lacey
ISO400, aperture f/11, exposure .003 seconds (1/400) focal length 300mm
ジャーマンスラッシュ、KREATORの3rd。87年作。Noise International(88561-8214-2)。USオリジナル盤。裏ジャケ。
Matrix:88561-8214-2(V):MASTERED BY NIMBUS
再発盤と比べて、バンドロゴのデザイン、ジャケデザインの寸法、アルバムロゴが若干違います。NIMBUSプレス。
Bronze Shieldbugs found in the Carlisle area of Cumbria in 2015: Overview.
Bronze Shieldbugs are common and widespread in the Carlisle area, and were found at virtually every site visited this year. Nevertheless, this species turned out to be the most fascinating - in part due to the fact that it was one of the few shieldbugs for which eggs were found, thus providing an opportunity for recording its progression over the full life-cycle.
In fact four batches of eggs were discovered:
Batch 1: Kingmoor Sidings, 16 June (9 eggs on birch)
Batch 2: Kingmoor North, 17 June (13 eggs on alder)
Batch 3: Kingmoor North, 11 July (14 eggs on alder)
Batch 4: Sowerby Wood, 24 August (14 eggs on birch)
The three Kingmoor batches were all monitored on a daily basis till the eggs hatched and the nymphs dispersed; in the case of the Sowerby Wood batch, the eggs were only checked out every ten days or so, but once they were found to have hatched out the nymphs were then monitored much more frequently. Fortuitously, the 11 July batch was found shortly after being laid (the female was still on the leaf) and so it can be said with certainty that these eggs took 27 days to hatch, with the other Kingmoor eggs taking at least 14 days. The situation is more complex in the case of the Sowerby Wood eggs due to the less frequent monitoring, but it can be said with certainty that the eggs took at least 29 days to hatch, this being the time span between when the eggs were first discovered and when they were last seen intact.
There was found to be a surprising variation in the time taken for the nymphs to disperse, with two of the Kingmoor batches disappearing from view within no more than two days, with the third taking between 6 - 7 days. However, in the case of the Sowerby Wood nymphs, they all stayed bunched together at the egg site for at least 13 days and only dispersed after moulting into second-instars on 13 October.
Tracking down the nymphs post-dispersal proved to be something of a challenge. In fact of the three Kingmoor batches monitored only two (second-instar) nymphs were ever seen again - both for just a day or so on the underside of a leaf near the egg site. The Sowerby batch proved to be more amenable as four second-instars were found on the same sapling a week later on 20 October (Photo 4 of montage), with two nymphs still being present on 1 November (Photo 5 of montage). There then followed a long spell of poor weather and when I next visited the site 11 days later they were nowhere to be seen.
All the later instars were located without too much difficulty at various sites. A discovery in Sowerby Wood on 10 October, however, is worth highlighting: a group of seven fourth-instars were found all with defective antennae - not something I've ever seen before (see photo for details).
Length measurements of first to fourth-instar nymphs were carried out, and with the usual caveats, the results were as follows:
First-instar: 1.7mm (1 Oct)*
Second-instar: 2.3mm (18 Aug), 2.3mm (13 Oct), 2.7mm (20 Oct)
Third-instar: 4.3mm (17 Aug)
Fourth-instar: 6.6mm (15 Aug)
(*Estimated by photographing the leaf held against my measurement grid)
All Bronze Shieldbug photos taken this year and submitted to Flickr are included in my Bronze Shieldbug (Year 2015) album, where more detailed information can be found. All of the shots included in the montage are taken from here. The contents of the montage are as follow:
Photo 1: Adult (overwintered), Finglandrigg Wood, 15 February
Photo 2: Eggs (recently laid), Kingmoor North, 11 July
Photo 3: First-instar nymphs, Sowerby Wood, 8 October
Photo 4: Second-instar nymphs, Sowerby Wood, 20 October
Photo 5: Early-instar nymphs, Sowerby Wood, 1 November
Photo 6: Third-instar nymph, Drumburgh Moss, 17 August
Photo 7: Fourth-instar nymphs, Scaleby Moss, 19 August
Photo 8: Fifth-instar nymph, Sowerby Wood, 20 October
Photo 9: Adult, Sowerby Wood, 20 October
Note on identification: As the first-instar nymphs were all initially found at the monitored egg sites within a day or so of the eggs hatching (at least in the case of the Kingmoor batches), there can be no doubt that these have been correctly identified. Also as the usual arguments regarding fourth and fifth-instar nymphs apply, only the second and third-instars are considered further.
The first-instars from the Sowerby Batch were seen - and photographed - moulting into second-instars on 13 October. The four nymphs shown in Photo 4 of the montage were found on the same sapling a week later on 20 October and have been identified as second-instars for two reasons: Firstly, the largest (by eye) of the four was measured and found to be 2.7mm in length, ie comparable to the 2.3mm length of the known second-instar measured here on 13 October; also, as it took at least 13 days for the first-instars to moult into second-instars, it would seem to be unlikely that they could moult for the second time within a week. The nymph shown in Photo 6 was assumed to be a third-instar largely on the basis of its length measurement (4.3mm), as it neatly spanned the size gap between the known second and fourth-instars.
So in my opinion the only uncertainty arises in the case of the two nymphs shows in Photo 5 of the montage. As they were both measured at about 2.7mm in length, I'm fairly confident that they're both second-instars. My only concern is that the photos were taken on 1 November, ie 19 days after the first moult - quite a long time. Perhaps this can be accounted for by the late timing of this batch, but as I don't have enough information on this issue I've not attempted a definitive identification, and instead I've just described these two nymps as "early instars".
EDITED ON FEBRUARY 6, 2021
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(Geonosis, first day of the Clone Wars and the new Grand Army of the Republic)
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Amongst the asteroid belt of the terrestrial, barren and rocky planet known as Geonosis, three short, triangular shaped Acclamator star cruisers had recently appeared from one of the hyperspace lanes and have stationed themselves outside the belt, awaiting for the signal of the battle that would soon commence below the planet's surface.
Inside the Ne'-Cross Acclamator-class cruiser, the main leading triangular star ship out of the three, a young, black haired seventeen year old Padawan stared and glazed through the many asteroids that orbited around the planet before him. He wore a traditional brown robe that covered his grey tunic underneath it, followed by a pair of long, baggy brown pants that ended tucked away within the confines of his black boots. He wasn't intentionally focused on the giant rocks or field belt that were all either twirling or swaying about, however. It seemed his attention was somewhere else, where his mind pondered very hard to somewhere else. But as his mind was focused on whatever he was thinking about, he didn't even sense the presence of another figure beside him appear, a long black shadow that created a faint dark smog around him.
"So, I guess this is really it, huh Kydan?"
The deep, hazy voice was loud enough to snap himself back into reality as he looked over his left shoulder to find the black figure standing next to him, gazing at him with rose red-budded colored eyes. The young padawan, Kydan Witress, gave an uncertain and sad smile to the figure.
"Yeah it is...," he replied back, a sigh escaping his lips. He turned his attention back to the large, black opened vast of space before him. "I just can't believe this is really happening. I thought I was prepared for this. But now...now I don't think I'm ready to fight in a war. Sure, I have fought in many small battles in the past during my missions, but I never fought in a war before. I have no clue on how to act in a war. I have no skill, I don't..."
Kydan closed his eyes, the thoughts that occupied in his mind began to surface as he gave a hesitant answer once more. "...I-I don't know Dark, maybe I'm just speaking this out of proportion. Not really sure."
"Yeah, maybe your right," the black figure, Dark, said to the confused padawan. His eyes lowered a bit and his mind went into one of contemplation, then looked back to Kydan with his red colored eyes as they gave a sympathetic look to them. "You might just be saying that...but your not the only one who thinks that. I can sense the vast, majority of other young, Jedi padawans and knights feeling the same way as you are right now. But I know one thing for sure; we will not be alone in this fight. We will have each other backs, now to the end."
Not feeling any of the bit of worry he just had no more, Kydan gave his friend a genuine smile of certainty and approval. Dark is the only few people that he knew who can give him the confidence and advice he always needed to move forward. He couldn't think about where he would be today without him or his other friend's help. He was happy that he had them in his life, and he could never ask for better friends than them.
Kydan chuckles softly, placing his hand on Dark's shoulder in appreciation. "Yeah, you got that right Dark. We're never alone..."
"Uh, who are you speaking to?"
Gasping silently, Kydan turns around in surprise as a young, blonde pony-tail hair woman who was around his age approached him, just stopping in the same spot where Dark had just recently stood before. She gave the young man a confusing look with her eyebrow raised, her green eyes staring at him with utter curiosity. He probably thought that she was thinking of him as a complete loon or something.
"Oh, uh...no one! J-Just talking to myself Rilicia!" He lied, rubbing the back of his short, black hair with an embarrassed chuckle. Hoping that it convinced her, which appeared it did, she gave him a gentle smile and chuckled softly herself.
"Well, you know, if you keep talking to yourself, people are gonna think and treat you like a lunatic. If that happens, I don't think I can help you from that."
"U-Uh, right!"
She giggled in response, causing his heart to skip a beat from the sweet noise that he adored very much. "So, are you ready for the upcoming battle down there?"
"Yes...and no. Yeah, I'm eager to help defeat Count Dooku and his droids once and for all, but I'm still not too sure about fighting in a war just yet. I still feel like I need more training in order to do something like this."
Rlicia nods in response. "Same here. But like it or not, were gonna have to fight them, no matter what the decisions we will make."
Kydan slowly nodded in response, somewhat understanding what she was saying. Still, he felt uneasy with all of this, let alone having the Jedi Council allowing him to even be out of the Temple of all things. But before he could even reply, an older man walked up to the two young Jedi, unaware of his presence at that moment. Much like the other officers on board, he wore a long sleeved, dark button up, dark grey shirt with a red and blue rectangular shaped badge on the left side of his breast, outlined with a gold colored scheme to it. He had a short, brown, bushy style mustache with brown hair that had a dark grey officer hat concealing it. Unlike the other crew members, his badge represented him as a higher classed official among them all; the ranking of a High Captain.
"Excuse me, commanders," the older man addressed to the two Jedi. The two turned to him, gaining their full attention. "We ready to go over the mission brief?"
"Yes, Captain Wolrien, we are," Rilicia replied to the captain, strolling up to the medium sized, metal circle table that was displaying a holographic image of the planet's surface. Kydan and Captain Wolrein circled around the table as well, each one taking their perspective spots across from each other.
The three huddled around closer to it as Wolrein pulled out a data pad from his belt, immediately typing in some syllables and numbers on the screen. Clicking the last button, the data from the pad linked together with the hologram table, projecting a blue, holographic image of a large, thin pointed tower surrounded by many obstacles that were surrounding it.
Clearing his throat with a small quick cough, Wolrein begins to explain the mission brief to them. "Once you arrive on the surface of Geonosis, your mission will be the Geonosian Research Tower, proximately three clicks away from the landing point. There, you'll find your main target; a Mandalorian assassin named Alurak Eclipse. Our intelligence indicates that he's been working on new designs for the Trade Federation and their ally, Count Dooku. Apparently, from one of his recent projects, they had created a brand new set of droids, the BX-series Droid Commandos; elite class battle droids that are capable to survive against most dangerous hazards. Once we have Alurak in our custody, we can try to interrogate him and possibly get the information to shut down these new droids."
The plan sounded all well and good, but one thing still plagued Kydan's mind. His expression turned to confusion as he looked for someone else, before turning his attention to the captain. "Captain, what of our masters? Aren't they meeting us down there too?"
Wolrein looked at Kydan with a dumbfounded face, as if the answer was obvious enough. "It was under the request of the generals, actually. They requested this mission for you two under their authority."
They're leaving me alone with Rilicia, without a Jedi Master watching over me? he thought to himself. The information was surprising, yet more confusing to him. Never has the council left him alone with another person that wasn't a master, even more than someone his age. It was a set rule by the masters that he would be on watch at all times around the clock. So what was going on? Were they testing him or something? Or was there something more going on that he just didn't know yet? Just trying to wrap his head around the whole thing was giving him a headache.
Sensing his disorientation, Rilicia tried to changed the mood, her lips turning into a small confident smirk and her hand clutched into a fist. "Well, no worries captain. We'll bring in this Mandalorian!"
The mood successfully changed as Kydan playfully rolled his brown eyes at her, a small grin itching at his lips. "As confident and reckless as me, Rilicia."
A mischievous smirk plagued her own lips. "Well, my confidence and recklessness hasn't failed me yet, has it? Besides, I've learned from the best."
"That's a bad habit to have," chuckled Kydan, ever so slightly.
"Says the boy who has done the same," a playful smirk forming, her gaze staring straight at him. She could never understand why, but it was always hard for her to pull away from his gentle brown eyes of his.
"Eh-hem!"
The two slightly jumped as their conversation suddenly ceased completely, turning their heads to Wolrein. He had the look of annoyance on his face, his gaze giving off a serious one at them. Frankly, he wasn't pleased from their little conversation.
Kydan chuckled awkwardly, a weary smile plagued on his lips. "Heh...uh, sorry, captain. Please, continue."
"As I was saying," he said, cautiously staring at them with a knowing look. "Once you have captured Alurak alive, you are to set the charges inside and destroy the research tower. When you have completed your tasks, contact us as soon as you finish rounding up the remaining droid forces in the vicinity. Until the area is cleared, we won't be able to give you air or ground support for the time being. Any questions concerning the mission?
Kydan raises his hand up slowly. "Just one; what teams are we taking down to the surface?"
The captain smirked a little at the young Jedi's question. He didn't know why, but he found that what he was going to say would be a bit amusing. "Ah yes, your squadrons. Both of you will take one team each down to the surface. Commander Kydan, you'll be taking Black Moon Squadron, under the command of Sergeant Rilos. You'll find him considerably...interesting. And Commander Rilicia, you'll be taking White Claw Squad, under the command of Lt. Flash. Just like Sergeant Rilos, you'll find this one...intriguing, to say the least."
She just rolled her eyes as Kydan snickered to her utter dismay. "Glad to know that."
"We'll be in the atmosphere in thirty-three minutes," Wolrein said, deactivating the holograms from the table in front of them. "I'll contact you both once when we are ready to make drop."
The two nodded in compliance to the captain's words as they retreated from him and the hologram table towards the elevator. They both entered the elevator and the doors closed in front of them, the shaft descending downwards below the command bridge.
"Well, this should be a lot of fun," Kydan sighed with a sarcastic tone. His nerves were reaching peek once again, the thoughts of his first mission alone drove him to feel doubt sprouting up.
Rilicia, sensing her friend's struggle, placed a delicate hand on his shoulder. Her soft smile was placed on her lips. "Hey, it'll be fine. Just remember the training that you received from the masters. Once we get to the tower, everything will be fine."
"Yeah, I guess your right," Kydan replied, a small smile beginning to form on his own lips. Seconds later, the doors to the elevator open, revealing multiple hallways where they saw dozens of soldiers and military officers walking about, continuing on with their duties. "Well, I'm gonna head down to the squad's quarters below and meet with my new squad."
"Same here. It'll be nice to get acquainted with my new troops," she said, walking out of the elevator and into the hallway. She turned around to face Kydan, a smile appearing on her face. "I'll see you later then?"
Kydan smirked and threw her a thumbs up in approval. "Definitely!"
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Fifteen minutes past as Kydan strode through the cold, metallic floor, no doubt heading towards one of the clone quarters to meet and introduce himself to his new squadron.
While he paced across the hallways, his mind went back to one of his earlier questions; why did the Jedi Council allow authorization for him to be alone with only one Jedi? On top of that, a Jedi Knight that was his friend? It was very unusual for the Jedi to allow him to go freely and be command of his own team. Although he didn't mind the major change of things, he couldn't shake that something was up with all of this. He just kept questioning himself the same thing over and over again; why? He just didn't know, couldn't even conjure up a good answer for it all.
So deep in mind with his questioning, he hadn't realized that he had reached the Black Moon Squad Quarters' door. He was a bit startled at first, but was able to keep his composure as he reached his hand to the control panel on the right, pushing the button to open the sliding doors before him. When the doors slid open with a hiss, he was immediately met with the officer himself, talking to a small hologram on his small, metal rounded device.
"Yes sir, Black Moon is prepped and ready for action," the Clone Sergeant said to the hologram. He wore a standard Phase I, white clone trooper armor. His shoulder and leg pads were both colored in black while his breastplate armor had the symbol of the moon pattern on it, also colored in black. "We are just awaiting for further orders."
'Very good, Sergeant Rilos,' the small hologram replied back to the clone sergeant. From a distance, Kydan could see that the hologram that was displaying from the clone's device was none other than Captain Wolrein, standing in an orderly fashion before Rilos, his hands placed behind his back. 'As for your new commanding officer, I placed you and your team under the command of Kydan Witress, a Jedi Padawan. I have already explained the details of the mission to both him and Commander Rilicia. He will brief you on your mission before you all reach the planet's surface.'
"Yes sir, thank you sir," Rilos responded back to the captain, saluting to him in approval. "Sergeant Rilos, out!"
As Rilos deactivates the comm and places it back into his white, plastic pouch, Kydan enters the room where the rest of Black Moon squad were stationed in. Far as he could tell, he could see that every clone soldier in the room were all preparing themselves with the mission that was yet to come. He didn't know if it was a clone DNA thing or just part of who they really were, he could tell, though, how formal, tidy and unified each one of them were. It actually impressed him somewhat.
He walks towards the sergeant himself, who was gazing at his squad from the side. "Sergeant Rilos?"
Rilos hears his name as he turns his head around to the source, seeing the young black haired Jedi padawan walking towards him with a friendly smile. The sergeant took a saluting stance with his arms by his sides and himself facing forward his new commanding officer.
"Commander Witress! We have been expecting you sir!"
"Already? I see that word travels fast for you guys, huh?"
"Captain Wolrein had just contacted me to alert me that you were on your way here, sir."
Kydan chuckled at the sergeant's reply, "Yeah, I'll admit I was a bit nervous, but also excited, to meet with you all. And please, you don't have to be all formal on me sergeant. I kinda like it when I'm around people who act like themselves."
Rilos looked at his commander with a surprise expression, though it wouldn't have been visible to the eye since he was wearing his 'T' shaped visor helmet on. Hesitantly, the sergeant loosened up a bit as his hand reached behind his neck, rubbing it back and forth in an embarrassing and uncomfortable state.
"Yes sir, apologies sir. I-I'll make sure to remember that for now on."
He just laughed a little at the clone's dismay. "No need for apologies, Rilos. I just figured you should know that ahead of time."
"U-Uh, right sir. May I introduce you to the rest of the team?"
"Of course! I'd love to meet the others!"
Taking the lead, Rilos guides Kydan to one of the members of the team.
"Black Moon Squad is one of the mid-top, elite squads in the Clone Army," Rilos said to his commander, strolling up to one of the troopers. "We have never had difficulties with our training, nor our test assignments back on Kamino. Due to our high skills in combat training, we were ranked up as one of the many elite squads."
Kydan smirked in response to the soldier, no doubt a bit impressed and intrigued with the information given to him. "I guess now's a good time to use those training skills on the front lines."
"Couldn't agree more sir."
Approaching the first trooper, they saw that he was practicing shooting at a metal targeting stance that was being used by the clone himself, noticing that he was testing out his new weapons. The trooper finally finishes with his testing, just placing the rifle and blaster he was using down on the bench next to him. Just as he placed them down, he glanced to the side to see his sergeant and a Jedi padawan heading towards him. He stood in place, putting his hands behind him as they approached.
"Let me introduce you to Bulk; our specialist for using the DC-17 Heavy Blasters. He is specifically good with his accuracy of throwing grenades in open and closed fields, let alone tanking against the larger forces when he is loaded with his rifles."
Kydan smiled at Bulk, extended his right hand out to the trooper. "Pleasure to meet you, Bulk."
Bulk reached for his hand, firmly grasping the padawan's hand and shook it. "Pleasure is ours, Commander. Can't wait to use that training to good use on some of those scrappies."
"No worries Bulk, you'll get a chance at them soon enough," Kydan said to the trooper with a chuckle. "I'll leave you back to your business."
Bulk saluted to his commander and sergeant as he went back to sorting out everything he needed for their journey down to the planet. The two leave the clone to be as they proceed to greet the next member of the team, who they saw was pacing back and forth, grabbing and placing some interesting equipment inside his backpack.
So focused on his own work, he lacked the capacity of noticing the officers coming closer to him. When he saw them both, he somewhat jumped in surprise, accidentally dropping whatever tools and what not on the floor. He stood at attention, his one arm saluting to them both. "S-Sirs! I-I didn't you two there!"
Sergeant Rilos laughed at his brother's embarrassment, "At ease, cadet. No need to be formal."
The trooper sighed in relief, "That's a relief!" But when his words escape his mouth, he immediately regretted it. "T-T-That's not what I meant, sir, I only meant-"
Rilos began to laugh a bit harder, while Kydan just chuckled at the trooper's embarrassment. He looked to the sergeant with a smile, "I'm gonna guess that he is one of our tech specialist?"
"You've got it, sir," Rilos nodded to him, introducing the embarrassed trooper to him. "This is Scanner, our tech specialist and our best tracker. He was one of our many cadets that reached the top of the tech training classes. In fact, his commanding officers recommended him as having the best strategic plannings out of the rest, even if he does have a stammering problem."
"Really?" Kydan asked curiously, looking at Scanner with a surprised, but intrigued look.
"N-No sir, really, I-I wasn't that great in my class! I-I was just an average like the rest o-of our b-brothers on Kamino!" Scanner stammered in a hurry, waving his hands back and forth at them. He was so glad that he was wearing his helmet right now, he couldn't even dare think what his face would be looking like.
"No need to be so bashful, Scanner. We already know all the details about your training," Rilos snickered, although he was honestly giving him a compliment.
"Y-Yes sir, sorry sirs," Scanner replied, his head lowered down as his embarrassment grew even more.
Kydan placed a hand on the cadet's left shoulder, causing him to look at the commander with a startled jump. "You don't have to apologize, Scanner. I'm glad to have met you, and to be part of this team."
As Kydan finished his words, Rilos gestured him to the other side of their quarters, leaving Scanner to ponder by himself. What they didn't realize was that Scanner, underneath his shiny coated, white helmet, he had a big smile on his face. Kydan's words rejuvenated him to feel better and more confident about himself. He didn't understand why, but he felt like he was going to like his new commander immediately.
Kydan and Rilos approached the second-to-last clone trooper of Black Moon Squad, who they notice was staring at the viewing window of their quarters. He seemed very calm and relaxed, not as a hurry like the others Kydan has met. In fact, resting beside his legs was his equipment, all packed and ready to go. Kydan took note that this soldier was someone who tends to finish his work quite early, no matter where or when it happens.
The soldier heard their footsteps getting closer to him, turning his head toward the source to see that his suspicions were true. He turned himself to his commanding officers, nodding his head in greeting. "Sergeant Rilos, pleasant to see you sir."
"Always a pleasure to see you, Hopper," Rilos replied with a friendly tone to his fellow brother. He grasped the trooper's hand in a handshake before turning to Kydan. "Commander, this is Hopper, our extremist for using the heavy duty DC-17 Repeater Gun. He is quite known for making and tweaking up our weapons before our training excercise back on Kamino. He's known for his...effectiveness, if you catch my drift."
Hopper rolled his eyes underneath his helmet, looking at Rilos with a shrug, "Hey, if it ain't broken, why fix it? It's been pretty handy when we have all trained."
"So, in a sense, you're a weapons specialist, right?" Kydan asked him curiously.
"In a matter of speaking...yes," Hopper replied with a nod.
Kydan smiled at his fellow trooper. "Well we're glad you're here then, Hopper. Looking forward to see how much firepower you've given the team, especially with that heavy gun there."
Hopper grinned with an evil chuckle, patting his long, six barreled gun that was resting next to his backpack. "Sir, you can count on that. Just point me at the target, and I'll mow them down."
Acknowledging him with a small chuckle, the two officers leave Hopper and move on to the final crew member of the squad.
"Our last squad mate is actually our newest recruit," Rilos said, trekking through the metal floor underneath their feet. "We had our sniper specialist on our team, his name was Line-Up. He was one of the most elite snipers in his class. Unfortunately, he was transferred to another squad a few weeks before we left Kamino."
"Sorry to hear that, Sergeant."
"It happens sir," Rilos said, looking up ahead to see the new recruit placing his equipment into his backpack. Unlike the other clones in his team, the recruit's Phase I armor didn't have any black markings that indicated his team's symbol.
As they got closer to him, Kydan silently studied the trooper with a close eye. Something about this clone seemed off, but not in a bad way. It was as if something was special about this one, much more than the other clones he had met so far. He didn't exactly know why, but just the presence of this recruit made him feel calm, just like his-
"Red Scar!" Rilos called out to the trooper. Somewhat startled from his superior's call, he immediately stood at attention.
"Red Scar, reporting for duty, sirs!" He saluted to them both. "I'm guessing your our new commander, sir?"
Kydan smiled and nodded in approval, "You're right, I am. I'm Kydan Witress, your new commanding officer. Pleasure to meet you R.S."
"Uh...R.S., sir?"
Not realizing what he said, Kydan chuckled in embarrassment, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. "Oh, sorry about that! I thought it would easier to say rather than 'Red Scar' all the time. Sounded more fitting."
Red Scar and Rilos both looked at their commander with surprise looks, though he couldn't tell since they were wearing helmets. Although it was slightly weird for a few seconds, Red Scar thought about the name a bit more. He wasn't use to shortening out his name, let alone someone else call him by something else instead of his nickname or clone number. But the more he thought about it, the more he was starting to like it.
"R.S. huh?" Red Scar thought out loud, trying to make it slip off his tongue more easily as he kept repeating it more and more. After a few seconds of saying it, he looked back at his commander, a small smile appearing underneath his helmet. "You know what, I like it. It's actually easier to say!"
"Is that what you want, Scar?" Rilos asked in a questionable tone.
"Yes sir, I'm sure," R.S. replied back, his smile growing even more.
"Then I guess R.S. it is, then," Rilos said, shrugging a bit with a still confused body language.
Kydan laughed at Rilos' confusion, with R.S. joining in on the fun. With only a few more words back and forth, the two left R.S. to finishing up his preparations for the mission, making their way back to the exit doors.
"Thank you for introducing me to the squad, sergeant," Kydan said to Rilos, feeling less nervous than he had earlier when meeting his team.
"It was a pleasure, sir," Rilos replied, also feeling a bit more relaxed from the nerves he had when meeting his new officer, let alone a Jedi for the first time. "I'll admit, we were all nervous meeting you, Commander."
"Why's that?" Kydan asked with a surprised look. They were nervous to meet him? Did they know who he was or something?
"Honestly, we haven't met a Jedi before, so you would be the first,"Rilos admitted, albeit a bit embarrassed. "When we learned that we were going to have a Jedi padawan as our commander, we didn't really know what to think at first. Karabast, we didn't even know what you Jedi were like, so were all pretty nervous meeting you. When you gave Scar a new nickname like that, I was surprised that he actually liked it. In his eyes, your his friend sir."
Kydan couldn't believe what he was hearing from the clone sergeant. Never has anyone but Rilicia and his Master acknowledged or complimented him on anything, even the littlest of things! It made him feel welcome, relaxed; he felt like he belonged somewhere for the first time in his life. It was a great feeling...no, an amazing feeling. He just knew that Black Moon Squad would be-
'Attention, attention!' The speakers shouted throughout the entire Acclamator, booming all around them. 'This is Captain Wolrein of the Ne'-Cross speaking! We have just received orders to move the fleet into the planet's atmosphere! All personnel to their battle stations, and all troops to their designated gunships! Repeat; all personnel and troops to their designated areas! We will be reaching the atmosphere in 10 minutes!'
So much for having a fond moment, Kydan thought to himself, a bit annoyed as well. "Well, so much for preparations. Have you and your men meet me in the hangar bay, sergeant!"
"Yes sir, right away sir," Rilos replied, quickly saluting to his commander before rushing to the team and gathering them together.
Kydan, nodding back at the sergeant before leaving him, dashing out of his squad's quarters and making his way through the hallways, passing by multiple military personnel as they rushed to their stations, preparing for combat that would be quick to come. He didn't understand why, but somewhere deep inside him, whatever would happened down on the rocky, desert planet of Geonosis, he knew that his life would be altered from now on...
_________________________
This is the prologue of our Star Wars TWC series back on the pages, and yes, it is an old one lol. If any of you are interested, head over to MOC-pages and view the whole chapter with more pics involved. But other than that, thank you guys for reading, and have a fan-building-tastic day/night! See ya' in the next one!
- Director K.W.
I had hoped to find out a few details about the Lamp Manufacturing & Railway Supplies company who made this paraffin railway signal lamp, but unfortunately the internet seemed to be somewhat sparse on details, so I guess a more thorough investigation of company records etc would be needed.
Nevertheless, what can be said with certainty is that the company was in existence between 1923 when the railways were grouped into the “big four” and nationalisation in 1948, and possibly outside of this period.
I have seen railway lamps made by them badged both LMS and LNER so the company was clearly an independent concern.
The example shown is a Welch Patent model and as the brass plate suggests would have been one of a number of lamps kept at Charwelton on the London extension of the former Great Central Railway. On top of the lamp in embossed raised lettering is “LNER” for London & North Eastern Railway who took over the Great Central in 1923 when the UK’s railways were grouped into four large companies.
The lamp has had some restoration but could do with another light rub down as surface rust has started to appear. Originally the glass was broken / missing in both side panels, but fortunately the all important front glass was intact. The hinged top was also missing and had to be replaced (now in copper but this would originally have been made in mild steel).
The lamp itself would have resided in a cast iron outer case fixed onto a bracket on the signal itself. The outer case had a convex glass to magnify the relatively low light from the flame, and the carrying handle had to be pushed back to allow the lamp to be inserted into the case otherwise the case lid could not be closed. This ensured that the hinged top of the lamp flipped back thus allowing the heat to rise and be dispersed by the vented top of the outer case. Interestingly, some of the cases had a bimetallic strip in the lid whereby heat from the flame closed the contact of an electrical circuit to detect that the lamp was alight. Should the flame go out the circuit would be broken and an audible / visual alarm would be relayed to the signal box, although signals in clear view of the box were not normally light indicated so were not provided with this device.
The link to the photo below by Trains & Travel (John Cosford) shows the lamp room at Charwelton adjacent to the signal box before the whole site was demolished and swept away forever.
www.flickr.com/photos/trains-travel/49898441652/in/photol...
These are 2 pictures merged together of a bandstand in Lago di Massaciucoli, Torre del Lago, Viareggio, Lucca, Italy. The famous composer Giacomo Puccini lived and worked here.
Words from a song-poem "The triumph of Bacchus and Ariadne",
written by Lorenzo de Medici in about 1475:
Quest’è Bacco ed Arïanna,
belli, e l’un de l’altro ardenti:
perché ’l tempo fugge e inganna,
sempre insieme stan contenti.
Queste ninfe ed altre genti
sono allegre tuttavia.
Chi vuol esser lieto, sia:
di doman non c’è certezza.
Here are Bacchus and Ariadne,
Handsome, and burning for each other:
Because time flees and fools,
They stay together always content.
These nymphs and other gents
Are ever full of joy.
Let those who wish to be happy, be:
Of tomorrow, we have no certainty.
© All rights reserved
Images may not be copied or used in any way without my written permission.
fast moving clouds during golden hour eluded us once more... an hour before it was almost a certainty until they dissipated into nothing. this is my 7th go and I'm still searching for that "one" shot in mind. colors were good though, and the foreground changed a bit so this is something I have not seen before.
High tide is a mathematical certainty
6 hours goes up, 6 hours goes down
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More high tides on The Guardian
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You must accept that there are some things that cannot be known, and must be taken on faith. To believe otherwise is to condemn yourself to a fruitless search for a certainty that does not exist. Certainty provides psychological comfort, but it may exact a very high price on you and those around you. Let it go. Life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be lived.
-How Dante Can Save Your Life: The Life-Changing Wisdom of History's Greatest Poem, Rod Dreher
While awaiting the sunset last night at Buck Hill (2855 feet in elevation) within the eastern reaches of Theodore Roosevelt National Park's South Unit, these four mule deer appeared atop a distant ridge nearly a mile away, likely enjoying the recent arrival of greenery that has finally begun to confirm Spring's presence in the region. I've scoured Google Earth and topo maps but honestly can't swear with any certainty where the glints in the distant valleys originated, for they were both stationary. The access to the Coal Vein parking area is closed for construction according to signage (construction equipment or a trailer first came to mind) but working the angles over the ridge out in my head, that area shouldn't be visible (or perhaps my mental angles are simply "bent", eh? lol). Perhaps a good place to cheat and give both a quick swipe in PS... ;) (5-1-2016)
MY DESIREE LIBERTAD.SURF® PRODUCTS WEB PAGE
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by Bohdan Rodyuk Chekan von Miller aka CHERO®
The ● Hoax Art®
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Personal thanks from the Artist to the Font Meme site for finding fonts and their Creators
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Inspired by ИN® in ИN® Honor ◬
“Order is heaven`s first law.
Alexander Pope, An Essay on Man: Epistle I
www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44899/an-essay-on-man-epis...
© 2021 Poetry Foundation
“Everything will turn out right, the world is built on that.
Mikhail Bulgakov, The Master and Margarita
www.masterandmargarita.eu/estore/pdf/eben001_mastermargar...
© 2007-2018 Jan Vanhelmont, B-3000 Leuven - RU-115008 Moscow. All rights reserved.
On Humanism and Morality
Noam Chomsky interviewed by Tor Wennerberg
Montreal Serai, Vol. 13, No. 3, Autumn 2000 [conducted in November, 1998]
Tor Wennerberg: One idea that I find extremely interesting and fascinating is the notion that just as our language capabilities are genetically determined, so is our capacity – as human beings – for moral judgement. What do you see as the implications of the idea that our moral capacity is innate?
Noam Chomsky: Well, for one thing, I don’t think it can really be much of a question. (That’s not to say we understand anything about it.) But, the fact of the matter is that we’re constantly making moral judgments in new situations, and over a substantial range we do it in a convergent fashion–we don’t differ randomly and wildly from one another. Furthermore, young children do it, very quickly, and they also converge.
Of course, there are cultural and social and historical effects, but even for those to operate, they must be operating on something. If you look at this range of phenomena, there are only two possibilities: one is, it’s a miracle, and the other is, it’s rooted in our nature. It’s rooted in our nature in the same sense in which language is, or for that matter, having arms and legs is. And it takes different forms depending on the circumstances, just as arms and legs depend on nutrition, and language depends on my not having heard Swedish when I was six months old and so on. But basically, it must be something that flows out of our nature, or otherwise we’d never use it in any systematic way, except just repeating what happened before. So, it’s got to be there.
What are the implications? One implication is, we ought to be interested in finding out what it is. We’d learn something important about ourselves. You can’t hope at this stage that we’re beginning to learn anything from biology. Biology doesn’t begin to reach that far. In principle it should, but right now it deals with much tinier problems. It has a hard time figuring out how bees function, let alone humans.
But I think we can learn things by history and experience. Take, say, the debate over big issues like slavery or women’s rights and so on. It wasn’t just people screaming at each other. There were arguments, in fact, interesting arguments on both sides. The pro-slavery side had very substantial arguments that are not easy to answer. But there was a kind of common moral ground in which a good bit of the debate took place, and as it resolved, which it essentially did, you see a consciousness emerging of what really is right, which must mean it reflects our built-in conception of what’s right. And that’s something that we learn more about over time, we get more insight into what’s coming out of our nature. The implications are very substantial, to the extent that we can understand them. It’s better to have a conscious understanding of what’s guiding you, to the extent you can, than just to react intuitively, without understanding. That’s true whether you’re a carpenter reacting to how to form wood artifacts or a moral human being reacting to how to decide between behaviors toward others.
One example that comes to mind is that even the most extreme neoliberals never defend income inequality in itself – it’s always supposed to benefit the poor.
That’s a kind of universal. Every proposal that’s made is made because it helps the poor people. Doesn’t matter what it is. Actually, that’s something that’s been noticed by mainstream economists, like Paul Krugman. He has a review article in a professional journal, International Affairs, in their 75th anniversary issue. They had reviews of various topics. He reviewed economic development. He pointed out that people have always had different ideas about economic development, and every time they’re completely certain that it’s right, and they’re completely certain it’s going to help everyone. But then it turns out, shortly afterwards, that it was all built on sand, and they switch to some other idea, with equal certainty that it’s also going to help everyone, including the poor, although it’s recognized in retrospect that the earlier one was a bad idea. He then adds that some people claim that bad ideas flourish because they’re beneficial to the people with power. Well, yes, that probably happens–perhaps a hundred percent of the time.
But you’re right, it’s always rationalized as being for the poor. No individual gets up and says, I’m going to take this because I want it. He’d say, I’m going to take it because it really belongs to me and it would be better for everyone if I had it. It’s true of children fighting over toys. And it’s true of governments going to war. Nobody is ever involved in an aggressive war; it’s always a defensive war–on both sides. Again, you have to present things in such a way that they will accord with people’s understanding of what’s right or wrong. Sometimes reaching ludicrous levels. Let’s take, say, the Nazis and Jews. That was presented to the population as a defensive action. The Germans were defending themselves against the Jewish attack.
If we just make the thought experiment that a whole generation of children were given the opportunity to grow up in a truly loving and respectful environment, through liberatory child-rearing, so that they would be able to fully develop their moral capacity, would it then, do you think, be impossible to uphold a social order based on vast inequality and elite rule?
I wouldn’t say it’s impossible, but I would think it would generate very considerable resistance. Actually, it always generates resistance. And it would generate even more in that case. It’s a striking fact, if you look at the notion of equality, take our own history, from the Greeks to the present, it’s very striking that just about every leading figure has regarded equality as an obvious desideratum.
Take the earliest serious work on politics, Aristotle’s Politics. Well he points out that he’s not a great fan of democracy, it’s the best of a bunch of bad systems. But he said a democracy cannot function if there are extremes of wealth. Everyone has to be roughly equal– everyone has to be middle class, he said. And in fact, he called for a super welfare state. He said in any democratic society, public resources will have to be used in ways that he outlines, like communal meals, to ensure that the poor are relatively well off and that there are no big differences. Otherwise, it’s impossible to have a properly functioning democracy.
Or go on to, say, Adam Smith. His argument for markets was nuanced; it’s not as extreme as people claim. He argued that under conditions of perfect liberty, markets will lead to perfect equality. That’s basically the argument for them. Maybe the first real break with this, apart from pathological cases, is capitalist ideology. So after Ricardo, you start getting the conception that it’s better for the poor if I’m rich. As capitalist ideology becomes dominant, this conception that you’ll only hurt the poor by helping them, takes over. And then comes the idea that you have no intrinsic rights. The big intellectual revolution for capitalism, I think, was the principle that you human beings, have no rights other than what you can gain on the labor market. So Malthus and Ricardo and others said that if you can’t survive by what you can gain on the marketplace, go somewhere else. And any effort to try to help you will just harm you in the long run, because of market interference. This was a real intellectual revolution reflecting the economic emergence of capitalist relations of ownership and production. And people fought against it. The British army was putting down riots in the 1820s and 1830s, because people simply would not accept the fact that they had no right to live. And that goes way back to enclosure of the commons.
Look at what was called liberty in England, the first modern democratic revolution, in the 17th and 18th century. Liberty meant liberty for property, which meant taking away from people their traditional rights. Like their rights to the commons. And this was no small thing. The rights to the commons meant forests, and pasture lands, grazing lands, and so on. That’s what kept people alive, and it was considered communal property. With proprietary rights established, with liberty given to the owners, that land was taken away from everyone else. And thereafter you had formal liberty, but popular deprivation, which proletarianized the British working class. And, there was plenty of resistance to that. In fact, and the resistance goes on today. I think this is a deep sentiment, and an understandable one, and we all recognize, at some core of our being, that there’s something quite wrong with one person having superfluities and another person starving. You find that all the way through the tradition, in people’s actions, in literature.
And now, just looking at the latest Human Development Report, the figures on the combined wealth of the 250-something richest individuals in the world…
But you noticed that they criticized it. They don’t say, isn’t this wonderful? They say it’s something wrong. In fact everybody says there’s something wrong. The only arguments that support it are saying, really everybody benefits because it trickles down. The arguments are ludicrous, but it’s interesting that they have to give the arguments. The arguments for defensive war are often equally ludicrous. Take the latest U.S. bombing in the Sudan: it wasn’t an attack on a Sudanese factory, it was self-defense. Everything has to be self-defense.
If we consider the likelihood that we as humans have an instinct for creativity and a moral instinct, what is it in the way our system of education is functioning, that perverts or inhibits these instincts from fully developing themselves?
A good educational system ought to nurture and encourage these aspects of human life and allow them to flourish. But of course that has problems. For one thing it means that you will encourage challenge of authority and domination. It will encourage questioning of powerful institutions. The fact of the matter is that honesty, integrity, creativity, all these things we’re supposed to value, all run up dramatically against the hierarchic, authoritarian structure of the institutional framework in which we live. And since that structure is what sets the basic framework in which things happen, it becomes virtually contradictory to implement the values that you talk about in church on Sunday morning. So you put the values to the side, to the Sunday Service, and get on with existing the rest of the time. So Sunday is when you say, yeah, love and kindness and charity and equality and all that stuff are the soul of life. But the other six days of the week you’re working within institutions of authority and domination and control and self-enrichment and so on and you must comply or suffer even graver consequences for not complying.
And schools are like that. So the way schools actually function – of course it’s not 100 percent, because there is a contradiction, so all sorts of aspects show themselves depending on the teacher and so on – but, by and large, there’s a very strong tendency which works its way out in the long run and on average, for the schools to have a kind of filtering effect. They filter out independence of thought, creativity, imagination, and in their place foster obedience and subordination. I think everyone knows this from their own history. Like, how did I get to a good college myself? I was always very critical and dissident. But I got there by shutting up! I went through high school, thinking it was all really stupid and authoritarian and boring, but I was obedient, I was quiet, I wasn’t a behavior problem, I didn’t tell the teacher what I thought he was teaching was ludicrous when I thought it was. And I made it to a good college.
There are people who don’t accept, who aren’t obedient. They are weeded out, they’re driving taxi cabs, they’re behavior problems. The long-term effect of this is to reward and foster subordination; it begins in kindergarten and goes all the way through your professional or other career. If you challenge authority, you get in one or another kind of trouble. Again, it’s not 100 percent the case, and there are some areas of life were it’s dramatically not the case, but on average and overwhelmingly in the outcomes, it holds.
Yes, certainly there are counterforces at work but unfortunately, the major effect is disciplinary. This is a point that Orwell notes in works of his that aren’t read. Everyone has read Animal Farm, the satire about the Soviet Union. Not many people have read the introduction to Animal Farm, and one of the reasons they never read it is it wasn’t published. The introduction to Animal Farm was called “Literary Censorship in England.” It wasn’t published, it was found in his papers years later.
The point of the intended introduction is that, well, the book is about this totalitarian monster society, but I want to talk about England, a free society, to talk about how opinions are suppressed here, because they’re suppressed with remarkable efficiency. He doesn’t go into the reasons in any great depth, actually he has two sentences about the reasons. One of them is that the press is owned by wealthy men who have every reason not to want certain thoughts to be expressed. And the other reason is that as you go through a good education – Oxford, Cambridge, that sort of thing–you have instilled into you, you sort of internalize the fact that there are some things it just wouldn’t do to say. In fact, deeper: it wouldn’t do to think. And you become aware that people who do think those things – now, going beyond Orwell–people who do think those things and do say them tend to elicit a negative reaction, either to be weeded out of the system or to be marginalized or to be punished in some fashion. And the long-term effect is that success is to some considerable extent contingent on subordination to institutions of power, and that that kind of socialization–knowing what it wouldn’t do to say–is a good part of our education.
I just reread the chapter “Psychology and Ideology” in The Chomsky Reader, your critique of Skinner. Behaviorism is much less influential today, but I wonder-it is two or three decades ago that you wrote about thi-but what do you think has happened in the time since with the theory of human malleability in a broader sense?
Well, behaviorism was very popular among the managerial classes, for not surprising reasons. For one thing, it gave them a moral right to control and dominate people. If people have no nature, no intrinsic nature, then there is no moral barrier to control or manipulation of them – in their own interest, of course. Somehow “we,” the controllers, are immune from this human condition of infinite malleability, however. “We” have a nature and “we” understand what’s good, that’s kind of like a hidden premise. But for the rest of the slobs out there, they’re just passive objects, and we can control and manage and organize them using the latest behavioral techniques, and they’ll all be better off.
That’s a strain of thought that runs right through the whole intellectual, managerial culture, from priesthoods up to Leninist commissars and to contemporary liberal theorists. And behaviorism gave the perfect intellectual justification for it; it didn’t matter that the intellectual foundations were ridiculous. It served a function so it survived. And the parts of the society that need that, they still believe it–in fact, believe it more than ever.
So, instead of talking only about academics, we’re sort of minor folk, let’s go to the big institutions, like, say, the public relations industry. Now we’ve gone several orders of magnitude larger in power and significance. They were based from the beginning on the same idea. The idea that it is necessary to control the public mind. In fact, the modern public relations industry was in many ways an outgrowth of the increase in democracy–and consciously so. You read the manuals, they talk about it, in the 1920s and so on. With the extension of the franchise, with the bringing in of working people and others into the public arena, you can no longer ensure that the wealthy and the capable and the enlightened, us good folks, will run everything. So therefore it is necessary to use the techniques of propaganda. And right after the First World War this was very prominent because of the enormous success of Anglo-American propaganda during the war, which had real success in affecting people’s views, extremely so, and they were aware of it.
So in England for example–documents have now come out–the British Conservative party recognized that its traditional domination of English politics was threatened seriously by the extension of the franchise. And they therefore concluded that they must turn to the techniques of propaganda, drawing on the war-time experience, when the British Ministry of Information had set off, as they put it, to control the thought of the world–particularly the thought of the United States, because that’s what they cared about, that the United States come in and save them from this mess. The Conservative party organized itself around the theme of propaganda to overcome the threat of democracy. Something comparable happened here, but here it happened primarily in the rise of public relations, which became a huge industry devoted to “controlling the public mind.” The “intelligent minority” must “regiment the public mind every bit as much as an army regiments the bodies of its soldiers.”
I’m quoting from a manual written, incidentally, by a good New Deal liberal intellectual, for whom this was second nature–of course you have to regiment the public mind. He had come out of Woodrow Wilson’s wartime propaganda ministry, the first state propaganda ministry in American history, which was very successful. You have to remember, during the first World War, the population here was pacifist, the tradition was: don’t get involved in the European bloody nonsense, it’s not our business, we’re the New World. And somehow, Woodrow Wilson had to – he was elected in 1916 on a slogan of “Peace Without Victory”–and he had to quickly turn the country around to become raving jingoist fanatics, hating everything German. And they did it. With remarkable success. So they were impressed with their achievement. The British Conservative party was impressed, the business world was extremely impressed (then came the huge growth of the propaganda industry). Another person who was impressed, incidentally, was Adolf Hitler. He writes in Mein Kampf that Germany lost the war because of propaganda, and next time we’re going to have it too.
The idea that you can control people was supported by that experience. They didn’t read Watson or Skinner. You can control people, and you must control people – of course in their own interest, it’s always in their own interest. You can read it in the Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, by one of the founders of modern American political science, Harold Lasswell. In an article on propaganda, he says that we should not succumb to “democratic dogmatisms about men being the best judges of their own interests.” They’re not, they’re too “stupid,” they’re too “ignorant.” We’re the best judges of their interests, and although they have this official right to vote, we have to make sure they don’t make any use of it in an unreasonable way. We do that by controlling the public mind, by propaganda. This was before the Second World War. After the Second World War the term propaganda took on bad connotations and people did not want to use the word anymore. But that was pre-World War II, so you were allowed to use it.
And it continues. After the second world war, the business world, particularly in the United States but in fact worldwide, was appalled by the fact that most of the world, the industrial world, was being swept by radical democratic ideas–takeover of factories and all sorts of activities, including in the United States incidentally–and the business world was terrified. You can read it in their manuals and pronouncements. They say we have a few years to try to reverse this tide, we have to fight “the everlasting battle for the minds of men,” and “indoctrinate citizens with the capitalist story” until “they are able to play back the story with remarkable fidelity.” Huge campaigns took place, covering everything you can imagine. In factories you have a captive audience, so they ran what they called economics lectures on the principles of “free enterprise,” and Americanism lectures that went on radio and television. They aimed at churches and schools, even to sports leagues. There was a huge coordinated campaign, with many purposes. It demonized unions. It instilled the idea that the government can’t do anything for you–it’s not your government anyway, it’s some thing out there which takes money from you. The government isn’t anything that you have, and what it does is harmful, stealing your money and taxes and so on, and the only real kind of freedom is freedom to function in a market economy. You should be a consumer and not worry about anything else except maybe diversions, entertainment, sports and so on.
These are self-conscious campaigns, designed to control people and to make sure that the formal mechanisms of democracy really don’t function. In a third world country you can do what is essentially the same thing more simply: put in a military dictatorship and send out the death squads. In societies where people have won a degree of freedom from state coercion, you have to turn instead to the techniques of propaganda, control of the mind, of course all on the assumption that people are not only malleable but that they’re better off if they’re molded and you are the one who molds them. There is a very striking similarity between Leninist and Western liberal doctrine on this, they’re almost interchangeable. I’ve sometimes run paragraphs side by side, and if you change a few names you can hardly see the difference.
I think that helps account for the appeal of behaviorist doctrine. It gives a kind of moral basis for all this.
So it lives on outside of academia, outside of science?
As an intellectual claim about how people actually are, it’s pretty hard to take seriously in the sciences anymore.
With the global economic crisis growing deeper and deeper ever since last summer, several mainstream economists are finally saying that we’re about to see a replay of the Great Depression. Even Clinton and Blair produce rhetoric about the need to regulate markets and Business Week argues the case for capital controls. What is happening and what does this tell us about this past decade of capitalist triumphalism?
The triumphalism was an expression of the fact that a very small section of the population was becoming enriched. But this crisis happens to be now at a point where it’s hitting rich people, and that’s why it’s a crisis. But in fact the crisis has been going on for 25 years. There was a period after the second world war, sometimes called the Golden Age of capitalism, in which there were historically unprecedented growth rates over most of the industrialized world. There was also growth of the social contract, labor rights, workplace reforms, as well as growth of both the economy and productivity. That sort of continued into the late 1960s, more or less.
From the early 1970s, the industrial world has been in a long downturn. Since the early 1970s growth rates have slowed, both of the economy and of productivity, wages and incomes have basically stagnated for most of the population; for a period, corporate profits were lowered, but in the 1990s–and that’s the triumphalism–corporate profits shot up, sky-high. Read the business press in the United States, every year: “dazzling,” “stupendous,” they ran out of adjectives a long time ago. And that’s the triumphalism. For a small sector of the population, this long downturn happened to lead to extreme wealth mostly via redistribution upward. That is why inequality is so radically increased.
Take, say, the recovery in the United States, the latest stage of the business cycle in the United States, from about 1991 until now. In fact, it’s the slowest postwar recovery. And it’s the first one in American history in which most of the population has been left out. Wages and incomes are barely getting back to their 1989 level, let alone their level of the 1970s. One thing that is booming, however, is the stock market. When you read – this is pre-August, still triumphalist – the stories about “the fairy-tale economy,” about Americans being “smug and prosperous,” there is only one example that’s given: that’s the stock market. But close to 50 percent of the stocks are held by one percent of households; and most of the rest is held by the top ten percent so that roughly 90 percent of the stocks are held by ten percent of the population. And in fact if you look more closely, the richest one half percent holds about forty percent of the stock. And for that sector, the economy no doubt is a fairy-tale economy. But for maybe two thirds of the population or perhaps as much as 70 percent of working people, wages have either stagnated or declined, working conditions have gotten worse, working hours have gotten longer, and you have to have both husband and wife working just to keep food on the table. It’s been a long slowdown across the industrial world, and it has hit the underdeveloped world in much harsher ways.
You can roughly date when it happened, it’s from the early 1970s. And there was one crucial event that took place in the early 1970s, namely the Bretton Woods system was dismantled. The Bretton Woods system – the postwar economic system – was based on an effort to free trade from restraints (freedom of trade was considered something to work for), but to simultaneously regulate finance. So the Bretton Woods system was not solely a liberalization system – it called for liberalization of trade but regulation of finance and fixed exchange rates. Capital controls were permitted, and there was something like a gold standard except that it was a dollar standard, with the dollar pegged to gold. The IMF in its rules was to maintain stability of exchange rates and to cut back capital flight. For example the rules of the IMF prohibit giving credits to cover capital flight. The rules are not honored nowadays, but they’re there.
This system was dismantled from the early 1970s. The U.S. took the first steps to break it down, Britain went along, and gradually other financial powers went along as well, and so the rest of the world just had to do it too. Some parts held back, like South Korea, they maintained the system of controls through the late 1980s. And then they were more or less forced to give them up. That was a condition for entry into the OECD. And the United States put enormous pressure on them to overvalue their currency and to take more American imports and to deregulate their financial markets and so on, and they gave in. Next you had this huge market failure, which is largely what it is: the so-called Asian crisis. By now it’s fairly widely recognized.
First, the pundits were talking about crony capitalism and that sort of thing, as an explanation, which is nonsense – I mean, it’s there, of course, but it’s here too, it’s everywhere, and it was there during the growth period as well. What was different about the recent period of decline was that you had an almost classic failure of financial markets, a huge flow of capital, huge borrowing, private borrowing, private lending, and an extraordinary flow of herd-like behavior, and then pulling it all out in another irrational, herd-like action. And this is very familiar. Keynes warned about it 60 years ago, when he argued that finance ought to be closely regulated and controlled, as indeed it sort of is internally. So internally to the United States, the banks want to keep it controlled or otherwise everything blows up.
But during this neoliberal escapade of the rich after dismantling Bretton Woods, they were having a ball, and it was great for them, the super rich, while most of the population suffered. And they spread the conditions supporting this sort of triumph far and wide. And now the crisis is hitting home, hitting them too, so now it’s called a crisis.
Notice that there is nothing new about the volatility – since the early 1970s, markets have become much more volatile, contrary to the predictions of many famed economists. Milton Friedman predicted with confidence that, free the exchange rates, let the market rule, and everything will settle down, it will all be stable. It went exactly the other way. With capital restraints reduced, with limits on how capital could be moved about, markets became far more volatile, with very sharp ups and downs. The IMF recently released a report saying that of its roughly 180 members, about 20% had suffered severe financial crises, and about 60 percent, some number around that neighborhood, had suffered fairly serious ones, over this post World War Two triumphalist period (1980 to 1995). This is the way financial markets operate. There is no theory of financial markets. It’s mostly amateur psychology. When you read economists – Alan Greenspan and so on – talking about economic policy, it’s mostly, this is going to inspire confidence, or this will make people feel better, or something like that. You can sort of dress it up in formulas if you like, but it’s a kind of amateur psychology, no real theory applied.
It’s known descriptively that highly irrational behavior, even from the point of view of market doctrine, takes place all the time. So in a rational market, investors are supposed to look for economic fundamentals, they’re supposed to value solid manufacturing capacity and fiscal austerity and all that kind of stuff. They are not supposed to do what is called technical trading, to look for short-term patterns and see if you can make a tiny gain by playing this and that game over a period of weeks, or days, or even hours. But the latter is exactly what they do. About 80 percent of the capital in foreign exchange has a turnaround time of less than a week, much of it a day or less. And what this is, it’s smart guys, a lot of Ph.D.s in math who are working for Wall Street firms on sophisticated techniques to extrapolate little changes in currency fluctuations and so on, so that you can make a lot of money fast.
It finally hit home that this is a real crisis when one of the big hedge funds collapsed, which wasn’t supposed to happen, but that’s the game they’re playing. Not only does it not contribute to the economy, it harms it.
And now the tax payers are paying the bill.
In some manner the public bails it out, that’s the name of the game. Capitalism means, we don’t take the risks, the public takes the risks, we take the profits. As much as possible, risk and cost have to be socialized, profits privatized. It’s the basic principle. But the thing has become so serious that by now even the major establishments are worrying about it.
So what they’re now talking about in the G-7, and the finance ministers, and Business Week, and the Financial Times and so on, is what critics have been saying all along, that unless there is some regulation, careful regulation in fact, of financial flows, and some penalty for short-term speculation, you’re going to have serious problems. And in fact there have been problems, in blow-up after blow-up. Now they’re even willing to talk about things that were anathema to them until recently, like the Tobin tax.
The Tobin tax was proposed more than 20 years ago by a Nobel prize-winning economist, who pointed out that unless you do something to throw sand in the gears of short-term, speculative capital flows, it’s going to seriously harm the international economy. Well, nobody wanted to hear that, because that was challenging the orthodoxy that markets are wonderful, which was an orthodoxy precisely because it was benefiting rich people, not because there was any logic in it – the usual story. There was a major study done on the Tobin tax by a group of quite well-known international economists, about five years ago I guess. The UN Development Program wanted to distribute it, and they were apparently put under pressure by the Clinton administration not to so the book is known mostly to technical economists. Not all of the authors thought it was a great idea. It includes people like the chief economist of the IMF, who didn’t particularly like it. But it was a serious discussion of its possibility, and this type discussion was just not supposed to be on the agenda. In today’s newspapers, however, they’re talking about it. What’s the difference? Well, now the rich people are in trouble. So it’s a sudden crisis — a crisis for the wealthy and powerful whereas up until now, it was just a crisis for everybody else.
Given the risk that the world economy might spin out of control completely now, and considering that last time, in the 1930s, it took a world war to overcome the depression, how worried do you think we ought to be about the prospect of war?
The prospect of war is much less, but for other reasons. Europe is, in modern history at least, the most violent part of the world. One of the reasons why Europe conquered the world is that it created a culture of war, based on centuries of mutual massacre and slaughter – both a culture of war and a technology of war. But that largely came to an end in 1945, and for a very simple reason. Everybody could understand that the next time we play this game, we’re all dead. The techniques of destruction had reached such a point that war is simply not an option for rich and powerful countries. If they try it once more, that’s the end. Now, somebody may be irrational enough to do it anyway, but within anything remotely like the domain of rationality, where you can at least begin to talk about prediction, there isn’t going to be war among the powerful countries. And this is understood.
For example, right in the middle of the Gulf War, somebody at the Pentagon leaked to the press – which buried it — an interesting document. When any new administration comes in, the CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency and so on give them a kind of intelligence assessment of the world, a strategic analysis of the world. Someone leaked part of the Bush administration strategic analysis (this would have been from early 1989), and one part of it dealt with war. Here is approximately what it said: it said in case of a conflict with “much weaker enemies” (implication: that’s the only kind of conflict we’re ever going to get into), we must defeat them “decisively and rapidly,” because anything else will “undercut political support.” So no more bombing of South Vietnam for fifteen years, and certainly we don’t go to war with any major power.
This was well before the Gulf War. In fact at that time Saddam Hussein was a great friend, so he wasn’t contemplated as a target – but that’s what you can do. You can invade Panama, kidnap Noriega and get out in a couple of weeks, bomb the Sudan, bomb Libya, bomb Iraq from a distance, very fast, and don’t get involved in more than a few days of fighting. That kind of thing you can do with a much weaker enemy, rapidly and decisively, but nothing else. So as long as you’re within the domain of rationality, the chances of war involving major powers I think, are extremely slight, unless they’re fighting a much weaker enemy. And even that’s not so simple anymore.
But to return to your other point, what actually overcame the depression was not so much the war as the semi-command economies. The British economy started to pick up in the late 1930s, when it sort of deliberalized and became a kind of semi-command economy. The U.S. was barely at war, there was no fighting here. But the wartime economy not only overcame the depression, it flourished as industrial production tripled, and so on. But that was a semi-command economy, it was highly coordinated from Washington, run by corporate executives, with wage and price controls, industrial policy deciding what would be produced, and so on. And that worked like a charm. Just like it worked in England – England in fact out-produced Germany and came close to the United States.
So the mobilization of the economy did overcome the depression. The war was taking place and that was the justification for it, but the war was not what overcame the depression in itself. This was pretty well understood. The consensus among American economists and businessmen and others in the mid-forties was that with the government-coordinated economy declining, after the war, they were going to go right back to the depression due to market failures. And so there was an interesting discussion in the late forties, quite open. It’s in the business press, I’ve quoted parts of it at times, and it’s very interesting. There was recognition that we’ve got to do something to get the government to stimulate the economy again or else we’ll go back to the depression.
It was understood — you didn’t have to read Keynes to figure it out — that you could stimulate the economy in a lot of different ways. You could stimulate it with social spending, or you could stimulate it with military spending. There there was a perfectly sane discussion, in Business Week actually, of which to do. And the conclusion was: well, social spending is not a good idea, and military spending is a great idea. The reason is that social spending has a downside. Yes, it can pump the economy. But it also has a democratizing effect, because people are interested in social spending; they want to know where you’re going to build a hospital or a road or something, and they become involved. They have no opinions about what jet plane to build. Social spending also gives people more security and better conditions, better education, more means of communicating, more ability to withstand threats of unemployment. It makes people, workers, more powerful, that is, and thereby better able to win higher wages and better conditions.
So social spending has a democratizing effect, it has a redistributive effect, and it’s not a direct gift to corporations. Military spending, however, has none of those defects; it’s non-democratizing – on the contrary, people are frightened and they shelter under the umbrella of power. And while it aids corporations it doesn’t directly improve the lot of workers; it rather tends to reinforce workplace discipline. So it’s a direct gift to corporations. It redistributes upward. And it’s easy to sell if you terrify the public. So what emerges is a Pentagon-based industrial policy program, one which is now buckling a bit, due to the excessive liberalizing of capital movements, and thus, one which has to be repaired a bit, so that it once again benefits the rich, as intended.
CHOMSKY.INFO
“For the anarchist, freedom is not an abstract philosophical concept, but the vital concrete possibility for every human being to bring to full development all the powers, capacities, and talents with which nature has endowed him, and turn them to social account.”
― Noam Chomsky, On Anarchism
“The intellectual tradition is one of servility to power, and if I didn't betray it I'd be ashamed of myself.”
― Noam Chomsky
“... if we adopt the principle of universality: if an action is right (or wrong) for others, it is right (or wrong) for us. Those who do not rise to the minimal moral level of applying to themselves the standards they apply to others -- more stringent ones, in fact -- plainly cannot be taken seriously when they speak of appropriateness of response; or of right and wrong, good and evil”
― Noam Chomsky
“Optimism is a strategy for making a better future. Because unless you believe that the future can be better, it’s unlikely you will step up and take responsibility for making it so. If you assume that there’s no hope, you guarantee that there will be no hope. If you assume that there is an instinct for freedom, there are opportunities to change things, there’s a chance you may contribute to making a better world. The choice is yours.”
― Noam Chomsky
“If you assume that there is no hope, you guarantee that there will be no hope. If you assume that there is an instinct for freedom, that there are opportunities to change things, then there is a possibility that you can contribute to making a better world.”
― Noam Chomsky
“Thinking is a human feature. Will AI someday really think? That's like asking if submarines swim. If you call it swimming then robots will think, yes.”
― Noam Chomsky
..."M’agrada, doncs, que el color groc sigui el color escollit per demanar la llibertat dels presos polítics.
Per dir que els recordem, que la nostra indignació perdura i creix cada dia que ells passen a la presó.
M’agrada que el groc representi el desig de llibertat i la vitalitat d’aquesta causa que sabem justa.
Han gosat prohibir el groc.
I, si us he de dir la veritat, m’agrada contraposar el nostre groc llampant amb el seu gris de plom.
La nostra fermesa amb les seves prohibicions.
La nostra constància amb les seves amenaces.
M’agrada que els carrers s’omplin de bufandes i fulards grocs, d’anoracs i de guants grocs, de bruses i de jerseis grocs.
Portem el llaç groc perquè estem a favor de la llibertat, de l’alegria i de la llum."... (SÍLVIA SOLER )
www.ara.cat/opinio/silvia-soler-elogi-del-groc_0_19168083...
Camp de colza en el Carril Bici/Vies verdes camí de Vilanna (Gironès) CAT.
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The color of Freedom.
... "I like, then, that the yellow color is the color chosen to demand the freedom of the political prisoners.
To say that we remind you that our indignation lasts and grows every day that they go to prison.
I like that yellow represents the desire for freedom and the vitality of this cause that we know just.
They dared to ban yellow.
And, if I have to tell you the truth, I like to contrast our yellow lightning with its lead gray.
Our firmness with its prohibitions.
Our certainty with its threats.
I like the streets to be filled with scarves and yellow peepholes, anoraks and yellow gloves, blouses and yellow jerseys.
We carry the yellow ribbon because we are in favor of freedom, joy and light. "... (SÍLVIA SOLER)
www.ara.cat/opinio/silvia-soler-elogi-del -groc_0_19168083 ...
Rapeseed field in the Bike Lane / Greenways Vilanna Way (Gironès) CAT.
David Lynch meets ... I don't know , I am not sure who he meets exactly ..
ok folks, first of all let me state with all certainty - it is not a staged photo, the whole thing is 100% candid.
Further on if you are scared sh..less of these two, as I am, your condition has a name, not sure if that helps you in any way though - Leporiphobia.
My quick google informed me that
"Leporiphobia is the fear of bunnies. It is one of the most common phobias in the Western Hemisphere. "
(That can't be true!)
"Leporiphobia usually begins in women who tend to drink a lot, and crash their cars, most commonly caused by getting scared after thinking it is a monster that can attack them. If the phobia is not treated, it can linger for the rest of the life. "
and if you are not scared enough a bunny or a hare of some sort is conveniently a thing Swans like and this little tune played at full blast in totally dark room should do the trick, enjoy;
In fact, not just a second opinion but a third opinion was needed to identify this lizard with certainty. It is a Viviparous Lizard (male) aka Common Lizard (Zootoca vivipara)
On site, I readily admit I was expecting Sand Lizard. However, after looking at the resulting photographs, I was not convinced. Having consulted various online sources, I was leaning towards the identification as a female Viviparous Lizard. I sought a second opinion courtesy of Tim Melling who also thought it was of that species. However, he recommended a third opinion from a real expert, Will Atkins. It was Will who kindly confirmed that our identification was correct but that it was a male Viviparous Lizard. Thanks to both. That's team work!
Based on the location of the restrooms and furniture signs, I'm going to say with 99.5% certainty this was the back action alley! I certainly remember furniture being in the back of the store, though I know that's not always the case with Kmart.
____________________________________
Kmart, 1975(?)-built (closed Sept. 2017), Hwy. 43/72 and E. 6th St., Muscle Shoals, AL
BOX DATE: 1975
APPROXIMATE RELEASE DATE: 1977
MANUFACTURER: Mattel
PERSONAL FUN FACT: This sparkly blue halter dress has to be one of the most beautiful finds from the "Fountain Mermaid Barbie lot" of 2016. I had seen this dress dozens of times online whilst researching old Barbie clothes that I was trying to identify. Obviously, I didn't know this dress's stock number when I first found it, however, I did know with great certainty, that it was some sort of Best Buy Fashions pack. It was really easy to track down online, and I was pleased to confirm my suspicions. This dress is amazing quality. It has a unique textured look about it, that makes it very visually interesting. I love the sparkly fabric used on the sides of this dress, and how the center of it is made from a sheer material that is bunched together. This is the kind of dress that drives me wild--I can picture my favorite Jasmine doll donning this fabulous outfit when I was a kid!
Toujours la même dévotion sur les berges du Gange,les mêmes couleurs,les odeurs et cette sensations d'être dans un lieux unique au monde.
Le lien spirituel qui attache les Indiens à cet endroit est du domaine du divin et pour nous occidentaux la claque que l'on prends ici nous fait sortir de nos certitudes les plus tenaces.
.
Always the same worship on the banks of the Ganges, the same colors, the smells and this sensations to be in one places unique in the world.
The spiritual link which attaches the Indians to this place is of the domain of the divine and for us the Westerners the slap which one take here we made go out of our firmest certainties.
I had hoped to find out a few details about the Lamp Manufacturing & Railway Supplies company who made this paraffin railway signal lamp, but unfortunately the internet seemed to be somewhat sparse on details, so I guess a more thorough investigation of company records etc would be needed.
Nevertheless, what can be said with certainty is that the company was in existence between 1923 when the railways were grouped into the “big four” and nationalisation in 1948, and possibly outside of this period.
I have seen railway lamps made by them badged both LMS and LNER so the company was clearly an independent concern.
The example shown is a Welch Patent model and as the brass plate suggests would have been one of a number of lamps kept at Charwelton on the London extension of the former Great Central Railway. On top of the lamp in embossed raised lettering is “LNER” for London & North Eastern Railway who took over the Great Central in 1923 when the UK’s railways were grouped into four large companies.
The lamp has had some restoration but could do with another light rub down as surface rust has started to appear. Originally the glass was broken / missing in both side panels, but fortunately the all important front glass was intact. The hinged top was also missing and had to be replaced (now in copper but this would originally have been made in mild steel).
The lamp itself would have resided in a cast iron outer case fixed onto a bracket on the signal itself. The outer case had a convex glass to magnify the relatively low light from the flame, and the carrying handle had to be pushed back to allow the lamp to be inserted into the case otherwise the case lid could not be closed. This ensured that the hinged top of the lamp flipped back thus allowing the heat to rise and be dispersed by the vented top of the outer case. Interestingly, some of the cases had a bimetallic strip in the lid whereby heat from the flame closed the contact of an electrical circuit to detect that the lamp was alight. Should the flame go out the circuit would be broken and an audible / visual alarm would be relayed to the signal box, although signals in clear view of the box were not normally light indicated so were not provided with this device.
The link to the photo below by Trains & Travel (John Cosford) shows the lamp room at Charwelton adjacent to the signal box before the whole site was demolished and swept away forever.
www.flickr.com/photos/trains-travel/49898441652/in/photol...
The Hornberg shooting is the event that has spawned the phrase "that goes like the Hornberg shooting". The phrase is used when an affair is announced with great fanfare but then nothing emerges from it at all and it ends without result.
Origin
Historians disagree as to whether the following events and explanations really underlie the known phrase. As with any etymological meaning that cannot be clarified with any certainty there are with the Hornberg shooting numerous legends about this phrase, the two below ones in relevant works being the most widespread. However, neither of these stories is historically accurate.
Duke visit
Cannon on the cobbles as an advertisement for the theater
In Hornberg anno 1564 Duke Christoph of Württemberg had announced himself. This one should be received with gun salute and full honors. When everything was ready, approached from afar a large cloud of dust. All cheered and the cannons roared like there was no tomorrow. But from the cloud of dust emerged only as a stagecoach. The same was happening then as a grocer carts and still much later a herd of cattle came towards the town. The lookout had given each time a false alarm and all the powder was fired when the Duke finally came. Some Hornberger tried to imitate the cannon by bellowing. Some reports even put the Duke visit on the end of the 17th century.
This version is regularly performed in summer on the outdoor stage in Hornberg as a folk theater.
Attack on Hornberg
According to the second version of the explanation the proverb refers to an event from 1519 when the city was attacked by the neighboring Villinger (Villingen, a city in the Black Forest not that far away). The Hornberger are said to have fired their ammunition in a short time so that the attacker just had to wait for the end of the cannonade to conquer Hornberg subsequently. This explanation goes back to the pastor Konrad Kaltenbach who describes it in paragraphs 3, 4 and 5 of Heimatklänge (Echoes of home) from ancient and modern times, a supplement to the Freiburger daily mail from 1915 and relies on historical sources (Villinger Chronicle 1495-1533 ).
Other versions
Early 18th century should have been in a free shooting in Hornberg such inconsistencies regarding the operation that gradually all the shooters left the festival and the planned shooting finally was dropped.
Use in the literature
Already Friedrich Schiller writes in his book The Robber (first edition 1781) in the first act: There it ended like the shooting at Hornberg and they had to withdraw with disappointed faces. Thomas Mann formulated in his narrative Man and His Dog (1918): "However, it may also be that the whole thing, after all the events and fussinesses, ends as the Hornberg shooting and comes to nothing." Hannah Arendt used the phrase in her book power and violence (1970): "However, this situation does not have to lead to revolution. It can first end with counter-revolution, the establishment of dictatorships and it can secondly end as the Hornberg shooting, it needs nothing to be happening".
Das Hornberger Schießen ist das Ereignis, das die Redewendung „das geht aus wie das Hornberger Schießen“ hervorgebracht hat. Die Wendung wird gebraucht, wenn eine Angelegenheit mit großem Getöse angekündigt wird, aber dann nichts dabei herauskommt und sie ohne Ergebnis endet.
Entstehung
Die Historiker sind sich nicht darüber einig, ob die folgenden Begebenheiten und Erklärungsversuche wirklich der bekannten Redewendung zugrunde liegen. Wie bei jeder nicht mit Sicherheit zu klärenden etymologischen Bedeutung ranken sich auch beim Hornberger Schießen zahlreiche Legenden um diese Redewendung, wobei die beiden nachstehenden in einschlägigen Werken als die am weitesten verbreiteten gelten. Allerdings ist keine der beiden Erzählungen historisch verbürgt.
Herzogsbesuch
Kanone auf den Pflastersteinen als Werbung für das Theater
In Hornberg hatte sich anno 1564 der Herzog Christoph von Württemberg angesagt. Dieser sollte mit Salutschüssen und allen Ehren empfangen werden. Als alles bereit war, näherte sich aus der Ferne eine große Staubwolke. Alle jubelten und die Kanonen donnerten, was das Zeug hielt. Doch die Staubwolke entpuppte sich nur als eine Postkutsche. Selbiges geschah dann, als ein Krämerkarren und noch einiges später eine Rinderherde auf die Stadt zukam. Der Ausguck hatte jedes Mal falschen Alarm gegeben, und alles Pulver war verschossen, als der Herzog endlich kam. Einige Hornberger versuchten, durch Brüllen den Kanonendonner nachzuahmen. Manche Berichte legen den Herzogsbesuch auch auf das Ende des 17. Jahrhunderts.
Diese Version wird regelmäßig im Sommer auf der Freilichtbühne in Hornberg als volkstümliches Theaterstück aufgeführt.
Angriff auf Hornberg
Der zweiten Version der Erklärung nach soll sich das Sprichwort auf ein Ereignis aus dem Jahr 1519 beziehen, als die Stadt von den benachbarten Villingern angegriffen wurde. Die Hornberger sollen in kurzer Zeit ihre Munition verschossen haben, so dass die Angreifer nur das Ende der Kanonade abwarten mussten, um anschließend Hornberg erobern zu können. Diese Erklärung geht zurück auf den Pfarrer Konrad Kaltenbach, der sie in den Nummern 3, 4 und 5 der Heimatklänge aus alter und neuer Zeit, einer Beilage zur Freiburger Tagespost aus dem Jahr 1915 beschreibt und sich auf historische Quellen beruft (Villinger Chronik 1495–1533).
Andere Versionen
Anfang des 18. Jahrhunderts soll es bei einem Freischießen in Hornberg derartige Unstimmigkeiten über den Ablauf gegeben haben, dass nach und nach alle Schützen das Fest verließen und das geplante Schießen schließlich entfiel.
Verwendung in der Literatur
Bereits Friedrich Schiller schreibt in seinem Werk Die Räuber (Erstausgabe 1781) im ersten Akt: Da ging's aus wie’s Schießen zu Hornberg und mussten abziehen mit langer Nase. Thomas Mann formuliert in seiner Erzählung Herr und Hund (1918): „Es kann aber auch sein, daß das Ganze, nach allen Veranstaltungen und Umständlichkeiten, ausgeht wie das Hornberger Schießen und still im Sande verläuft.“ Hannah Arendt verwendet die Redensart in ihrem Buch Macht und Gewalt (1970): „Dennoch braucht diese Situation nicht zur Revolution zu führen. Sie kann erstens mit Konterrevolution, der Errichtung von Diktaturen enden und sie kann zweitens ausgehen wie das Hornberger Schießen: es braucht überhaupt nichts zu geschehen.“
Monastery and Cave of Saint Andrew the Apostle
Few things are known about the cave of Saint Andrew the Apostle. One of those things that can be said with certainty is that it was discovered in 1918 by Jean Dinu, a lawyer. After dreaming one night, he came in this area to find the cave in an advanced state of degradation. After cleaning it of the vegetation inside, he built a couple of cells and the first monks came in a short time.
It was sanctified in 1943 by the bishop Chesarie Paunescu but during the communist period it was destroyed and turned into a shelter for animals.
Only in 1990, with the blessing of IPS Lucian, father Nicodim Dinca, the monarch of Sihastria Monastery, along with the hieromonarch father Victorin Ghindaoanu, started to restore the cave and to build the monastery.
The cave shelters the icon of Saint Andrew, known as the apostle who christianized the lands at the North of the Danube. There is a bed carved in stone in a niche of the pronaos. It is said that that was used as a resting place by Andrew the Apostle. In the course of time this has been a place to light candles, and now it is used by those in need of comfort from disease. Here, the priests also read prayers for sick people and the Mass of Saint Basil the Great.
Today the monastery has a smaller church built during the years of 1994 – 1995, sanctified with the Holy Virgin’s Protection as its dedication day and the third bigger church was built during the years of 1998 – 2002.
In the small church are kept the relics of Saint Andrew. A cross in the shape of “X” can be found, on the left, in front of the altar of the smaller church. In the center of this cross is placed a part of the finger belonging to Saint Andrew. The finger was brought from the Trifiliei Metropolitan Church of Greece. On the four extremities of the cross there are the relics of the martyr saints of Niculitel from Dobrogea: Zoticos, Attalos, Kamasis and Filippos, Epictet the priest and Astion the monk.
Near the cave there is a spring about which the legend tells that it appeared after Saint Andrew struck the rock with his staff in search of water.
Tens of thousands of pilgrims come each year to the Cave of Saint Andrew and this made this place to be rightfully named the Bethlehem of Romanian people.
To get here, the pilgrims must first reach Cernavoda, afterwards head south to Ostrov. In the locality Ion Corvin, an indicator points them to a side road that takes them to the monastery in a forest, after 3 – 4 km.
Short biography
The Saint Apostle Andrew was the brother of Saint Apostle Petre. At first he and Saint Apostle and Evangelist John were apprentices of Saint John the Baptist. After the Resurrection and the Ascension of Jesus Christ and the Descent of the Holly Spirit, the apostles drew the chances on where to go to preach this faith, and Saint Apostle Andrew reached the area of the Black Sea, including Scythia Minor of the time or today’s Dobrogea. He secluded in that cave with two apprentices and he started to preach. He then went to the region of Kiev, and returned to Dobrogea. Because all went well, he headed to Patras in Greece where he was crucified on a cross in the shape of “X”.