#I have not lingered in European monasteries

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

“I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries”, Leonard Cohen

from The Spice-Box of Earth (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1961)

[mioritic]

“I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries”, Leonard Cohen

from The Spice-Box of Earth (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1961)

[tills-poetry-wednesday]

Poetry Wednesday - Episode 7

Leonard Cohen - I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries

[draculasstrawhat]

I’m not going to reply directly to the post because I suspect it’s derailing, but I don’t think a lot of North Americans understand how fully (and casually) Europeans inhabit their own history. Not just as landscape, but in terms of buildings, institutions, etc. This is not to say that America doesn’t *have* ancient places, or old buildings that are still inhabited, or anything like that - because obviously it does - but the extent to which they are the background of our lives, the very fabric of our towns. They are not just *there* - our lives are still broadly defined by them. This is partly because Europe is so much smaller, and partly because Europeans were - in the main - the colonisers, and when European countries were invaded, the invaders generally adopted the existing fortifications and town structures.

So that post about proximity to a castle? My mother has moved a lot in her life, but she has never lived in a place (town, city, or village) that didn’t have a castle. My town doesn’t have a castle - it has a 15th? century fortified Manor House, and as such the town is broadly considered “architecturally unremarkable” and having “no old buildings of note.” I live in the ‘new town’ of this place, where most of the buildings are coming up on 200 years old.

But it’s not just that. My partner’s old school - not a particularly special or posh school - had been school since the 16th century. It was no longer in the same building, ofc, but the original building was still there. I had university lectures in a big old Haunted Mansion style stately home that had been sold off in the ‘60s - some of the rooms still had the Jacobean panelling. I don’t actually know the history of it, which is unlike me. A town near where I used to live had its parish church in what was essentially 1/3 of the old monastery with the ruins in the churchyard, and new burials among the old ones. Then there are places like Avebury, where the whole village is built inside (and partly of) a Neolithic stone circle. These things are not so much artefacts of history, but living buildings, towns, institutions. It’s not just, “Oh, they’re here, they exist,” but that we interact with them on the daily. I drive down a Roman road to visit my parents, and literally cross Hadrian’s wall. We eat in pubs on old turnpike roads that were once coaching inns and that are named after the families who used to (and in some cases still do) own the land.

And… I don’t live anywhere especially interesting or ‘Historical’. The majority of my life has been lived in houses that were built after 1950, (and those that weren’t were built after 1850) but it is just *everywhere*, all the time.

The States are a wonderful, diverse country with huge amounts of history - both pre colonial, and post - but one of the effects of it being colonised land (and also, just so massive) is that in a lot of places, there is a disconnect from the bones and continuity of history that is very unsettling to people from European countries (and I suspect a lot of the rest of the globe). And while I know there are places there that history layers itself in fascinating and everyday ways… the influence of the era of a lot of American expansion (The alleged ‘Age of Reason’) lingers in planned cities and communities, in a way that has never really taken off over here - mostly because there was a lot of stuff already in the way that the planners could not bulldoze without repercussions the way they could over the Pond.

[thereisnohouse]

I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries

I have not lingered in European monasteries

and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights

who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell;

I have not parted the grasses

or purposefully left them thatched.

I have not released my mind to wander and wait

in those great distances

between the snowy mountains and the fishermen,

like a moon,

or a shell beneath the moving water.

I have not held my breath

so that I might hear the breathing of God,

or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise,

or starved for visions.

Although I have watched him often

I have not become the heron,

leaving my body on the shore,

and I have not become the luminous trout,

leaving my body in the air.

I have not worshipped wounds and relics,

or combs of iron,

or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls.

I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years.

During the day I laugh and during the night I sleep.

My favourite cooks prepare my meals,

my body cleans and repairs itself,

and all my work goes well.

[antilogosweapon]

I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries / Leonard Cohen

I have not lingered in European monasteries and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell; I have not parted the grasses or purposefully left them thatched. I have not released my mind to wander and wait in those great distances between the snowy mountains and the fishermen, like a moon, or a shell beneath the moving water. I have not held my breath so that I might hear the breathing of God, or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise, or starved for visions. Although I have watched him often I have not become the heron, leaving my body on the shore, and I have not become the luminous trout, leaving my body in the air. I have not worshipped wounds and relics, or combs of iron, or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls. I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years. During the day I laugh and during the night I sleep. My favourite cooks prepare my meals, my body cleans and repairs itself, and all my work goes well.

[murderballadeer]

⛵️❤️

(leonard cohen - i have not lingered in european monasteries)

[calamityk8]

"My name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain. I am admitting this to you with the full understanding and acknowledgement that what I am doing is absolutely not going to be fully understood; but perhaps in pieces it can reconcile the most fragmented and deranged parts of my psyche, or at least arrange them in a way that will relieve this incessant pressure that always haunts me. Whatever happens, well, at least I have tried to do something to explain this innate and incessant madness, which is more than most get a chance to do.

Okay, here goes.

Belatedly, I suppose, there were neurons misfiring to account for, some chemical mishap that perforce disengaged my social abilities to adapt and be of use to others. Panic and hysteria have ruled the contours of my experience for longer than this busted-up brain can recall. Looking back, well, I can gauge the horrific aspects of it, in the present. Of course hindsight’s a malignancy at this point. I have become this disease; it as all that I am: a sporadically hebetude-induced corollary on the razor’s edge of sanity’s rusty hook. Saying things like this doesn’t help. I know. It’s just hard to judge oneself from the outer limits of perspective’s gush and flow. Trapped in this insidious circle of discontent and maladjustment, I am oozing the sap of life’s lost lust.

I might have a way to put it, so let me.

Having severe systemic and constant depression and simply “being bummed” are two very distinct and different things. One is a disease; the other is just one of the myriad consequences of being alive. If someone has cancer you don’t tell them to, “buck up and get over it.” We don’t admonish a stroke victim to, “stop lying around, and get up and do something with yourself.” Even our advice for sufferers of the common cold is sympathetic, as cough-and-congestion victims aren’t told they are being “weak” or “soft” and should just “be happy because things could be a lot worse.” But, for some inane reason that is preconditioned into us by years of inhumane pseudoscience, diseases of the mind are linked to some weakness or lassitude of the individual, as if that person who is suffering from a disease such as depression or severe anxiety is somehow inept and is to be blamed for their troubles. As if it is within their control to get better by “just trying a bit harder at it.” It’s really a nonsensical viewpoint to take; but, alas, it is one of many such idiotic theories held by the masses.

Here — there is this too: you’ve got to fight this one alone. Other people can help you, but in the end it comes down to you fighting for your life all by your lonesome. This is a difficult thing to internalize, but once you do, in some wary way, a strand of hope will spring from this, as finagled and shoddy with trepidation as it may be. There will be a surge of selfhood guiding you, a reliance on the one person you can always count on: yourself. It is a scary thing, but like most scary things one finds as obstacles on the wayward path of one’s existence, extremely worthwhile to conquer. Just like any other terminal disease, depression kills; suicide is merely its mechanism.

This shouting in my head, it never seems to cease.

I am nervous and concise around others. I only laugh when it’s expected. Being alone has become my only comfort, though it too is getting to be unendurable. To guide me I take some small salvation in the long history of human endeavor to fight through the gnashing teeth of internal strife. According to Lecky’s History of European Morals, “A melancholy leading to desperation, and known to theologians under the name of ‘acedia,’ was not uncommon in monasteries, and most of the recorded instances of medieval suicides in Catholicism were by monks.” I dream through these trials and tribulations of ancients, attempting to stem the tide of my own demise with less troubling thoughts than the ones I’ve come to own: I am the angular distance of a star below the horizon; the dusty truth of eons of suffering through a terrible weight’s pressing down; sunken and lost; in old, forgotten times what they once called grevoushede. Grevoushede. Acedia. I breathe the words and balance the syllables on my tongue, unable to savor their taste or texture. I am a weightless pin pricked in the skein of an upside-down world I’ll never get close enough to know.

Who could ever fall in love with this raggedy bag of afflictions?

I trek through the ruins of my obsession, draped in sorrow’s mask, leaning on tiny tics and safe places to guide me. The cracking of my toes, one by one. Snapping all of my fingers back and forth. Clicking my tongue on the roof my mouth. Blinking an even number of times with one eye and then an odd number with the other. Popping my ears with my jaw. Smoothing my eyebrows down with my fingertips. An innumerable array of distractions that ease the arrhythmic pulse of thoughts that come but never go, blurring out my sight, and leaving me trembling, all filled-up with static but as empty inside as an ice cream shop in the freezing rain.

Woe is my middle name.

All of these little vacancies in my head surface and fill into the most chronic of all conditions. Possibilities go awry with suspicious and judgmental looks. Maybe I’ll put on some Dolly Parton and fall in love with a bookmark. These are thoughts that calm the deliriousness at it swarms. Exceptional circumstances to bow down to in this glut of terrors, this amassing of torturous routines: the bath mat must be lined up perfectly with the tiles, the showerhead at just the right angle, the curtain stretched just so, and the shower water, the god-damn shower water…always and forever just a touch too hot or too cold. The chores of being me, they never end.

The human senses can somehow even detect whether a television set is off or just on mute without looking. And everyone can tell the difference between boiling and room-temperature water being poured in much the same manner. But it is when these senses go astray, when they slip and frazzle and get pinched, that’s when one comes to know the real intensity of those senses’ powers. A daily trauma that haunts me wherever I go, my brain stuffed with the lint of leftover churning, dizzy and lopsided and playing alive, I ignore the impossibilities of being able to maintain a normal existence for as long as this sapped torpidity allows. The courage I need to muster just to leave my place and walk to get groceries is at most times an insurmountable obstacle, and so I stay in and worry and worry and worry about everything. Every object grows too precious to disturb as I put it on the pedestal of the postponed quenching of my desires. There is nothing I can do or think that will snap this spell of disenchantment that grips me tighter as it deepens this hole I am eternally residing in. Just making it home from the grocery store with a few shopping bags of food sometimes feels like the greatest accomplishment in the world. I should be doing other things with my time, I know: concentrating my efforts on more grand pleasures and goals. But these things of consequence, they are not for me. I lose so much more than I gain in these battles. Small, inconsequential, pyrrhic victories are the only ones I’ve known.

Hope is a bestial thing with daggers and fangs; I make up a thousand reasons to not have any of it bombard me as this disease attacks relentlessly. There are honestly times when I cannot even bring myself to lift a finger to scratch an itch. I’ve been prescribed a list of medications too long to register properly in the catacombs of my lingering doubt about the chemical cohesion of my wherewithal: Abilify, clomipramine, Lexapro, bupropion, Celexa, Cymbalta, Lithium, Xanax, Paxil, amitriptyline, Lamictal, and that grand old sturdy classic Prozac. Etcetetra. It seems that I am only etceteras: more and more of less and less. It’s all a wash. It was a messy chorus of boos from the cheap seats as I struggled through side effects and listened to the growing drone of a singularly horrible voice that wasn’t quite my own resounding in my skull: “You’re no good. You’re a lost cause. Stop whining; start winning. You’re no good. You are just no good,” over and over; nauseated at all times; woozy, delirious, insomnia-plagued and diarrhea-bound; garbling my words when forced to speak, fumbling through life like a doped-up zombie with no appetites, every little thing so impossibly far away.

The window washers will not sing for me. The faucets around here all look like dead swans. I sweep. I litter. I am unable to know for sure if anyone else ever feels the way I always do. I am ill with this ravenous beast that pesters and claws at and drapes itself over me, leaving me with the gumption of soon-to-be-roadkill sluggishly slouching across a busy highway. I yawn instead of moan. I burst into tears in the dark of crowded movie theaters just before the feature starts. I am normal. Really. I am sane — maybe even too much so. I do wish I could just go insane, but, sadly, I cannot quite contemplate how to accurately achieve this feat. My brain will not assuage nor relent with its ceaseless cracked and mangled disturbances.

The boring by-rote recitation of symptoms rattled off to every doctor who’d listen. They don’t know who I am, what I’ve suffered through, how I came to be this way that I am; and there’s no device by which I can properly explain it to them. It’s not like they can run a test, take some blood, or do a biopsy, and then figure out what’s wrong with me. It’s a hidden thing, deep within the walls of my pain, not on or off any scale they’ve ever invented. I am my own example. There are no answers to any of this. They used to take out parts of people’s brains, thinking it would relieve their suffering. But it just left folks lobotomized to a dull, vegetable state, unable to form words or dress themselves. Perhaps they were happy, though. Perhaps they were thankful for the big, empty space that now occupied what they’d formerly called living. Perhaps there was no person behind those dead eyes left to care. The disease wins yet again, as it always does.

Clinical diagnoses follow me with heavy clomps. “Heavy dysthymia with a robust anxiety level. Somatic cross-cutting, serious signs of high Altman-scale mania, repetitive and troubling thoughts bordering on multiple phobias and generalized panic. Personality Trait Facet Scores high on rigid perfectionism/grandiosity/anhedonia type, though scores lower across board than patient believes. Unusual and abnormal, but not psychotic at all.” As you can see, the weather inside my head is rather frightful, to say the least. I trudge through the murky terrain of my past with great regularity. I am muddy with it, soaked through from the storm of my memories, which are remembering themselves over and over and over again and again and again, until I do not rightly know what has happened or what is happening now. Who am I but this box of disturbing thoughts?

Madness in the family. A quirk in the genes being passed down just like Huntington’s or any other inherited affliction. This one’s just as deep in the bones, though not as noticeable, not as prominent in the makeup of one’s persona. My father was a brazen raver whose depression put the business end of a rifle under his chin to finally wreck its one final havoc on him as pulled the trigger in defeat; his father before him too came to an early funeral, though his disease’s weapons of choice were gasoline and matches, as he lay in immolation by the pumps of an empty gas station in the wee hours of his final night on earth. This dreary thing, it just goes and goes right on down the line. Shelter from it is inconstant at best. It is as if I am in hiding from my inheritance, from my own true self — a hibernation of sorts: falling in and out of a troubled sleep, groggy and drooling through another afternoon, I become obsessed with trifles. I organize the cups and plates on my shelves until they all perfectly line up. I become tempestuous at a single hair being out of place. I talk to myself constantly, mostly demeaning phrases and freshly coined derogatory slurs aimed at myself. I have been parked too long in my heart’s handicap spot. There is very little “me” left here to notice.

So, do not look at me lightly, with deferential judgement or pity’s hidden ire. My sorrows are so much smaller than you’d suppose. My shoes come untied just as much as yours do. I can be as brave and also as craven as most. I eat blackberries and put salted butter on my toast. There are no cures, only temporary stopgaps for relief of symptoms. I am not in control of the way that I feel. I will try. I do try. None of this is less than extremely difficult. I do not need nor crave your sympathy; I just want understanding. Perhaps, even after all this exegesis and other inexplicable explanatory notions are through, this is still too much to ask. In the end, casting aside whatever ideas anyone might get to having about me and my plight, I only return right back to where I began: my name is Barney Rolfe, and there is something wrong with my brain."

[labitacoradelhombresolitario]

ACTUALIZACIÓN HABLADA: DOMINGO, 23 DE AGOSTO DE 2020

Premura excesiva · Leonard Cohen y la reencarnación · Temperamental Tumblr · Las pesadillas del editing digital · Borrón y cuelgue nuevo · Cuando una entrada desaparece y vuelve a aparecer · Voz y acústica · Toma 2 de “I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries”

• • •

Reimpresión de 1973 de la edición británica, en tapa dura, de los «poemas escogidos» de Leonard Cohen (Jonathan Cape, 1969) · El diseño de la sobrecubierta es de Barry Hall

[bike42]

Tuesday May 17 Zaros

The scripted plan for today was 48 mile loop to Matala, where we would have seen Roman Gortys ruins, Minoan Phaestos ruins, and swam in the Matala Caves. When we arrived at Eleonas Cottages yesterday, we both immediately fell in love with the place and without much discussion we both knew we didn’t need another ride today.

There are many hikes nearly, so after a lazy morning, we set out to hike the 9km Rouvas Gorge trail. Actually, our outfitter, Colleen suggested that we’d arrived here yesterday in time for lunch, then after lunch do the Gorge hike and have all day today to ride the alternate route. We’re not in that kind of shape, nor do we want to be in that kind of time crunch - after all, it’s “holiday” for us (we’re talking with a lot of Europeans!).

We awoke to yet another perfect day! I went out by our pool for my morning meditation and yoga - it was hard to meditate because I just kept wanting to open my eyes and take in the beautiful surroundings!!

After breakfast, we dressed for hiking and set out from our cottage at 11am. We walked down through the resort and into the parking lot, found the trail head and started climbing. The odd thing was that we saw a river yesterday just as we were arriving, but the gorge was dry. There were several large black pipes, perhaps diverting the water to the Zaros water plant? Occasionally, one would have sprung a leak and make a refreshing shower!

The climb was steep, and it was nearly 80 degrees so we were taking it slow. There were a lot spots with shade, which was a nice surprise so we lingered in the shade as much as we could. We passed by a monastery, then through a series of gates, presumably fencing off goats (we could hear their bleating and their bells but didn’t see them). At just over a mile, we saw several groups of people that were sitting and resting or heading back down. No one we talked to had gone much further and were turning back or thinking of turning back.

We crossed the gorge and went up a steep section and we were just about 2 miles according to my watch (2 hours!). Jeff found a spot to sit and said he was worried about going back down and didn’t think he should go further. We’re both nervous about the fall he had last week! I went ahead and hiked another 30 minutes. It was a mixture of steep climb, gradual traverse, and boulder scrambling. Nothing felt particularly scary, but being out on my own was a bit unsettling. At 30 minutes, I got a to high bridge that would cross to the other side of the gorge and that’s where I decided to turn back. Jeff was happy to see me back and in one piece and I was happy to be reunited with him too. I sat and had a snack, then we headed down.

We went down a bit of the trail, but then opted for a gravel road walk down. Still hard on the knees and toes, but more solid than the trail would have been. At the monastery, we rejoined the trail and crossed to gorge to find the trail that would lead us to Zaros Lake. We stopped there for beers and a large bottle of sparking Zaros water. Seemed like mainly German tourists there and we enjoyed relaxing and watching the white geese(?). From there, it was 0.6km back to Eleonas, but that was up and then down a steep hill - a little tougher with beer in our bellies!

Back at our cottage, we jumped in the pool and spent the rest of the afternoon napping and relaxing. Life is good!

We reorganized our stuff again (tomorrow is another transfer day) and headed down to the taverna for dinner - we were able to wait until a more respectable 7pm for dinner tonight!

Our stay at Eleonas was magical - I could see coming back here for an extended stay!

[geminitraveller]

Art Encounter Through the Years:  The First Encounters

It was in France and Spain that I got the so-called baptism of fire in the appreciation of arts.  My first museum visit was in Paris at Musée d’Orsay, home of the largest collection of Impressionist paintings in the world.  It was by accident that we got to the Orsay as we would have preferred to visit the Louvre instead.  But the lines were long and we didn’t have time to wait that long.  I never regretted the visit to the Orsay.  It is a bit smaller and more manageable than the Louvre.  Smaller is a relative word because the Musée d’Orsay is actually not small.  You could easily spend the whole day exploring it.  It’s just that the Louvre is humongous and needs several days to explore.

Since it was my first museum visit, overwhelmed is an understatement to describe it.  I was mesmerized and dumbfounded to say the least.  Never in my life have I imagined these many great artists and their beautiful artworks exist and that you can spend a whole day exploring them ad still you didn’t finish looking at all of them.  And this was just a single museum.  How many museums like this are there in the world?

Bal du Moulin de la Galette (1876) Pierre-Auguste Renoir.  Musée d’Orsay, Paris, France

One of the few artworks that I remembered admiring then was Bal du Moulin de la Galette, one of Renoir’s most important works and one of Impressionism’s most highly revered masterpieces.  

The Moulin de la Galette was an open-air dance hall in Paris in the 1870s. Open-air dance halls were very popular in 19th-century France and were a great source of entertainment for the people. Most people went there not to dance, but just to watch the dancers and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere.

Pierre-Auguste Renoir (1841-1919) is a French painter from Limoges in the middle of France.  He is one of the founders of Impressionism, together with artists like Cézanne, Degas, Manet, and Monet. The Impressionists focused on the effects of light and often painted outside. Renoir’s opinion about art was that it should be pretty and he mostly painted very happy scenes.

The Burial of the Count of Orgaz (1586) El Greco. Iglesia de Santo Tomé, Toledo, Spain

On my visit to Toledo, an ancient city an hour away from Madrid, I became a fan of Mannerist painter El Greco who calls Toledo his home.  The above artwork was the first time an artwork was explained extensively by a local tour guide and so it was quite memorable.  I listened intently, amazed at how much details an artist can reveal in his work.

The Burial of the Count of Orgas is widely considered one of El Greco’s masterpieces. The painting depicts a popular legend, regarding the Count of Orgas, who was a pious man, and who upon his death left a large sum of money to the church. The legend tells that Saint Stephen and Saint Augustine descended from heaven at his funeral and buried them with their own hands. Andres Nunes, the parish priest of Sao Tome, was the commissioner of the work, who intended it for a project to refurbish the Count’s burial chapel. According to the commission, the observers of the burial were to be portraits of the notable men of Toledo at the time.  Included also are portraits of El Greco and his son, the only two people in the painting looking front at the viewer.  The artist signed his name in the handkerchief of his son.  All the small details pointed to us by the guide as we viewed this masterpiece.

Domenikos Theotokopoulos, other wise known as “El Greco” due to his Greek heritage, was a popular Greek painter, sculptor, and architect of the Spanish Renaissance. He was a master of post-Byzantine art by the age of 26, when he traveled to Venice, and later Rome, where he opened his first workshop. Unlike other artists, El Greco altered his style in order to distinguish himself from other artists of the time, inventing new and unusual interpretations of religious subject matter. He created agile, elongated figures, and included a vibrant atmospheric light. After the death of Raphael and Michelangelo, he was determined to leave his own artistic mark, and offered to paint over Michelangelo’s Last Supper to Pope Pius V. His unconventional artistic beliefs (his dislike of Michelangelo included), along with his strong personality, led to the development of many enemies in Rome, especially the hostilities of art critics. 

Las Meninas (1656) Diego Velázquez.  Baroque.  Museo Nacional Del Prado, Madrid, Spain

Back to Madrid, on our last day, I chose to visit Museo Nacional del Prado, the main Spanish national art museum.  This time I am prepared to face a multitude of artworks.  But based on what I saw in Musée d’Orsay, I was not prepared to see a different kind of art - Spanish art and the prevalence of the Baroque style.  From the many works of art at the Prado, Las Meninas has caught my eye.  I lingered longer in front of this art piece than at any other works.  Something in it is unique from my untrained but appreciative eye.  You must remember that internet was still in its infancy in 1999.  I was new in art and I didn’t know that this was one of the most important artworks in history.  Only when I researched back home did I understand the importance of this work in art. 

“One of the most famous and controversial artworks of all time, Las Meninas (The Maids of Honour) is regarded as a dialogue between artist and viewer, with its double mirror imagery and sketchy brushwork that brings every figure and object in the room to life" - from the book, 30,000 Years of Art. "Painters as diverse as Goya, Manet, Sargent and Picasso have been inspired to create copies and adaptations after Velázquez’s masterpiece.” 

Diego Rodríguez de Silva y Velázquez (1599-1660) was a Spanish painter, the leading artist in the court of King Philip IV, and one of the most important painters of the Spanish Golden Age. He was an individualistic artist of the contemporary Baroque period. In addition to numerous renditions of scenes of historical and cultural significance, he painted scores of portraits of the Spanish royal family, other notable European figures, and commoners, culminating in the production of his masterpiece Las Meninas.

The Garden of Earthly Delights (1503-1515) Hieronymus Bosch.  Northern Renaissance.  Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid, Spain

Another work of note which has impressed me at the Prado was The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch.  The intricacy of the work is amazing and a short glance was simply not enough.  There is a story you have to look for and many small details to examine which made me remember the work.

By far the best known and most ambitious work, The Garden of Earthly Delights illustrates Bosch’s individual artistic style, containing the most vivid imagery and complexity of symbolic meaning. The triptych is generally thought to be a warning of the dangers of giving in to temptation, but has been subject to vast amounts of conjecture and scrutiny, and critics and historians are split in two directions. Whereas some believe that the middle panel, which depicts a fantastical world of nudes in sexual engagement, large fruits, and other suggestive elements, is simply an illustration of paradise lost, others believe that it is a moral warning, which will lead you to hell, as it is depicted in the third panel of the series. Although there are many contradictory explanations, it is generally thought to be a warning against lust, one of the seven deadly sins.

Hieronymus Bosch born Jheronimus van Aken c. 1450 – 9 August 1516) was a Dutch/Netherlandish painter from Brabant. He is one of the most notable representatives of the Early Netherlandish painting school. His work contains fantastic illustrations of religious concepts and narratives. Within his lifetime his work was collected in the Netherlands, Austria, and Spain, and widely copied, especially his macabre and nightmarish depictions of hell.

Bartolomé Esteban Murillo.  Staue in bronze by Sabino de Medina . Plaza del Museo, Seville, Spain

During my first visit to the city of Seville, I chanced upon seeing this monument of Sevillian painter Murillo and the museum across it.  It was located about a minute or two from the small hotel we booked.  Since everyone was tired and wants to rest, I decided to pay a visit to this museum on my own.  I got the surprise of my life when I went to explore this seemingly small museum.  First, it was not small inside and the works on exhibit were by far the most extensive collection of Spanish works of art I’ve seen even to this day.  And the grandeur of the architecture and interior  of the sala was something I have never expected to find inside this local museum.  Even the beautiful gardens and several courtyards are a nice addition to explore. The main gallery dedicated to the works of Murillo, together with its grand cupola  is located in the former antigua iglesia and is one of the most magnificent exhibition halls I’ve been.

The Museo  (Museum of Fine Arts), Sevilla, was established as a "Museum to display paintings", by Royal Decree on 16 September 1835, with objects from convents and monasteries seized by the liberal government presided by Mendizábal. It is located in the Plaza del Museo, in the place of the former Convento de la Merced Calzada founded on lands transferred by Ferdinand III after conquering Sevilla.  

It has magnificent works of art by Murillo, Zurbarán, Valdés Leal and other representatives of the Seville school. True enough, due to the quality of the art, it is today considered as the second best gallery in Spain.

In 2017, I was back in Seville after 18 years and I didn’t pass on the chance to visit one of my favourite museums again.  After visiting many museums through the years, Museo de Bellas Artes in Seville still leaves me in awe of the beautiful works of art.  The fascination was still there.  Only this time, I am more knowledgeable about arts and museums and I can better appreciate everything in this museum.  Still, I loved this museum.  I still haven’t met anyone who’s visited this museum.  It’s somewhat off the beaten path where museums are concerned.  I’m glad to have been there not once but twice.  It’s my secret gem of a museum.  

Visiting the grand main gallery of Museo de Bellas Artes.  Paintings in the background are by Bartolomé Esteban Murillo including Inmaculada  Concepcion “La Colosal” in the center.

Cristo Crucificado, a series of paintings on Jesus on the cross by Francisco de Zurbarán, a Spanish painter known primarily for his religious paintings depicting monks, nuns, and martyrs, and for his still-lifes.  Zurbarán gained the nickname "Spanish Caravaggio," owing to the forceful use of chiaroscuro in which he excelled.

[earlyandoftenpodcast]

We look at the historical context for the European colonization of North America, and then at the utterly catastrophic first decade of Jamestown, the first permanent English settlement in America.

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Transcript and Sources:

Hello, and welcome to Early and Often: The History of Elections in America. Episode 2: The Virginia Company. Today I’m going to discuss the early political history of Jamestown, the first successful colony in what would become the United States, leading up to the creation of the first legislature in British America, and the first real elections. But before we get to Jamestown we need to take a step back and explore the Atlantic world in the 1500s, to understand why 104 English adventurers sailed to Virginia in the first place.

In 1492 Christopher Columbus, searching for a trade route to Asia, instead stumbled upon the Americas, uncharted continents that held everything from tiny tribes to vast empires. But the arrival of Europeans to the New World was an unparalleled disaster for the Native Americans. European diseases like smallpox ravaged North and South America for centuries, eventually reducing the native population by perhaps 90%. And the Portuguese and Spanish had been quick to take advantage of the instability they caused. Conquistadors overthrow weakened empires and won for Spain lands stretching from Florida and Mexico in the north down to Chile and Argentina in the south. Additionally, the Portuguese had been in Brazil since 1500. Within decades the map of the Americas had been totally redrawn.

But beyond those two powers, the European presence in the New World was fleeting. An English expedition led by John Cabot in 1497 had been the first to reach North America since the Viking Era, but the region had still hardly been touched, at least directly. Both France and England had attempted to establish colonies in North America in the 1500s, but those had all failed. Most famously the inhabitants of the English colony of Roanoke in North Carolina simply disappeared without a trace in the 1580s. So beyond fishing expeditions to the Canadian coast and a few French fur trading outposts, there was no significant European presence north of Florida.

European diseases were only just starting to reach this part of the world in full force, but it had always been sparsely populated. Bernard Bailyn estimates that there were only about 300,000 people living in the entire region from the Carolinas all the way to Nova Scotia. For comparison, England had about 4 million people at this time. London alone had 200,000 people. The Powhatan tribe, which was inhabiting the lower Chesapeake when the English arrived, had a population of perhaps 14,000. Negligible, in comparison. There were no cities other than those of the Iroquois much further north. Villages of a few hundred were the norm. And apart from the Iroquois Confederacy there was little in the way of large-scale political organization either. Many groups were organized into somewhat loose chiefdoms of a few thousand people, as with the Powhatan, where various chiefs ruled over groupings of towns, with a paramount chief who ruled over them all. And these chiefdoms were unstable in the long run. The Powhatan’s rule predated the English arrival at Jamestown by only a few decades.

None of these peoples had developed metallurgy. There was no writing. There was agriculture, but it was more gardening than growing huge fields of cereal crops. It was a region totally unlike England, and totally unprepared for the destructive change the English were about to unleash.

Back in Europe, the Age of Exploration was also the Age of Reformation, and that change is just as important in understanding the English colonization of America. In Columbus’s day all of Western Europe from Italy to Iceland and from Spain to Sweden was united by the Catholic Church. And while monarchs often chafed at the Pope’s attempts to wield power, his spiritual authority was beyond question. But that all changed. In 1517, 25 years after Columbus’s voyage, Martin Luther, a German monk, nailed 95 Theses to a church door in Wittenberg. Luther was a reformer, who wanted to challenge the corruption of the Church, as well as many of its beliefs. But the debate he began spiraled out of control. Soon many reformists, including Luther, were breaking away from the Pope altogether. It wasn’t what he’d wanted at first, but the horse of schism was out of the barn.

The next century and a half would see nation after nation descend into brutal wars over religion. In the end much of Northern Europe broke away from Papal authority, founding their own national churches based in a variety of new Protestant doctrines. To oversimplify, these new denominations were generally opposed to the elaborate hierarchies and elaborate rituals of Catholicism. Vernacular languages were favored over Latin. The monastic life was rejected, as was priestly celibacy. Christianity was nationalized and stripped down, and its separateness from society was greatly reduced.

But in England the Reformation took a peculiar course, less minimalist and less hostile to grandeur and hierarchy. I’m going to explain this in a bit of detail, because the various strands of Christianity in England will all have their part to play in the colonies. Instead of being driven by theologians, the English Reformation was driven by the monarchy. Famously, in the 1520s Henry VIII was seeking an annulment of his first marriage so that he might marry his mistress. The Pope refused, so in the early 1530s Henry broke the English church away from Papal control and put himself at its head.

This was a political maneuver. Henry himself was no religious radical. He was happy to dissolve the monasteries in England and sell off the valuable land to line his own pockets, but he had little interest in deeper doctrinal changes. Although there was now some support in England for Protestant ideas, at least among the intelligentsia, Henry steered a cautious course and cracked down on Protestants who went too far for his tastes. But upon his death in 1547 the increasingly confused religious situation led to violence. His son, Edward VI, took the throne. Edward, though not yet a teenager, had become a fervent Protestant and his brief reign was one of rapid reform. Anything deemed too Catholic was thrown out and banned. The church was thoroughly remade from the top down.

However, Edward’s rule lasted only six years. He was followed by his half-sister Mary, who was as fervently Catholic as he had been Protestant. She brought England back into the Catholic fold and did everything in her power to roll back the reforms of the previous few years. She also led a violent crackdown on Protestants, executing several hundred while she was on the throne. Though Protestants persecuted Catholics too, it was Mary’s violence -- so called “Bloody Mary” -- that would live on in the popular imagination. Hatred and fear of Catholicism lingered in England for centuries to come.

But Mary’s rule would be even briefer than Edward’s had been. In 1558 she died and her half-sister Elizabeth I took the throne. Elizabeth would rule for 45 years and it was under her that a new, English Protestantism would finally emerge from the chaos. She was at heart a cautious Protestant, looking to make the break with Rome permanent while steadfastly avoiding any of the radical social experiments happening elsewhere in Europe. She succeeded, to the exasperation of many Protestants who wanted her to go much further. As a result, the new Anglican faith she created was far more similar in style and practice to Catholicism than most other Protestant branches. But whatever it was, it was still anti-Catholic.

It’s hard to say exactly when a majority of the English people became Protestant. Most people had just kept their heads down during the initial era of violence and confusion. But certainly by the end of Elizabeth’s reign in 1603 England was strongly and proudly Protestant. By that point most citizens had never known anything else. Religious questions had by no means been settled, but from now on the English would be a self-consciously Protestant people.

So when colonization began, England could be divided into three main religious groups. The small but hated Catholic minority was on one side. And on the other side there were those who wanted the Reformation to go even further, the Puritans. Most were in the middle, cautious Anglicans who liked things the way they were. Each of these groups would try to establish themselves in the Americas, reproducing the conflicts of England in their new homes.

The late 1500s also saw England continue to modernize. The state was gradually becoming more centralized and more effective. Merchants in London and other port cities were becoming a powerful force in their own right, distinct from the rural aristocracy that had previously dominated politics. The financial system was becoming more complicated. Most important for our story is the invention of the joint-stock company. Unlike in a simple partnership, where a handful of people would pool their resources together in some cooperative venture, in a joint-stock company outsiders could invest in shares of the company without assuming liability and without needing to take an active role in management, in exchange for being paid dividends at some point in the future. This is, in essence, the modern idea of buying stocks.

This allowed private merchants to pursue more complicated and risky ventures than had previously been possible. Hence, it was a perfect fit for trading abroad. Under this model the monarch would create a company with a royal charter and give it a monopoly on trade in a given region of the world. The East India Company, which would eventually conquer much of India in later centuries, was one of these, but in Elizabeth’s time, expeditions were sent all over the globe, from Africa to the Arctic. This was the model on which the Virginia Company was based, a private company, but one with government support.

So that’s the basic situation across the Atlantic. When Elizabeth died in 1603, England was on the rise. The English were now both able and willing to pursue ventures abroad. The Americas were ripe for conquest, and England was ready to try. It was a logical next step. Everything was in place, economically and politically. There were even solid ideological motives, both increasing the nation’s prestige and spreading Protestantism at the expense of Catholicism. To quote a propagandist from the time, "The eyes of all Europe are looking upon our endeavours to spread the Gospell among the Heathen people of Virginia, to plant an English nation there, and to settle a trade in those parts".

Elizabeth had no children, and so she was succeeded by James I, who was also already King of Scotland. It was under him that Jamestown, Virginia would be founded. In future episodes we’ll also explore in greater detail life in England around this time, since it’s so vital in the understanding of American colonial history.

But back to the narrative.

The Virginia Company was a joint-stock company chartered by the King (on behalf of well-placed investors) in 1606 to oversee the creation of two colonies on the Atlantic coast of North America. One, in Maine, would fail within a year so we can ignore it. But the other, Jamestown, would survive against all odds.

The main goals of the expedition included finding silver or gold and finding a navigable route to the Pacific. Of course, no one had any idea far away the Pacific truly was and how hopeless their goals were. These were basically get-rich-quick schemes, aimed at getting a high enough potential return to justify the huge financial risk. This was all new, and no one knew that agriculture would wind up being the key to financial success. But the investors covered their bases. The Company was granted a monopoly on all “lands, woods, soil, grounds, havens, ports, rivers, mines, minerals, marshes, water, fishing, [and] commodities.” within their new colonies. Since the natives weren’t Christian any property rights they might have could safely be ignored. But while the Company had its monopoly in Virginia, the Crown had its monopoly on the Company. The new colony would be allowed to trade only with Britain and no one else. This was a time when the mercantile system was favored over free trade.

How was the colony to be run? Although the expedition was financed and run privately, the King still made sure he could have his say. The colony was to be governed as follows: back in England the King (or more realistically his ministers) were to appoint a council of 14 men from within the Virginia Company to oversee the project as a whole. This council in England would then select another council from among the members of the expedition to administer the colony itself on site and pass laws, so long as they accorded with the “lawes, ordinannces and instructions” of the King. This secondary council would also elect a President to act as an administrator with somewhat limited powers. So James would have ultimate control, even if it was to be exercised distantly and judiciously. The Company would be restructured several times in its short life, but we don’t need to worry about that. Basically, the King controlled the Company, the Company controlled the Council, and the Council controlled the Colony.

What was the status of the colonists? Were they just employees? Well, they weren’t just employees, at least. According to Virginia’s charter, the colonists and their descendants were to “have and enjoy all liberties, franchises and immunites within anie of our other dominions to all intents and purposes as if they had been abiding and borne within this our realme of Englande or anie other of our saide dominions”. Of course, these rights that the colonists were granted weren’t what we’d think of today as universal rights, like free speech. It meant that various English customs, such as trials by jury and habeas corpus, were to be maintained. However, in practice the colony’s first years were largely spent in a constant state of strict martial law. And in any case the colonists were there to serve the company, not to start new lives of their own. So real English liberties would be hard to come by.

The Company moved quickly after its creation. On December 20, 1606 (less than a week before the first recorded performance of King Lear) three ships, the Susan Constant, the Godspeed, and the Discovery, sailed from London. They were carrying 105 colonists, all male. One man died en route. A large number were surprisingly well off, well educated, and well-connected at court. Gentlemen adventurers and soldiers with colorful pasts, not the desperately poor. For instance, John Smith, of Pocahontas fame, had survived sea battles, killed and beheaded three Turks in single combat, and escaped from slavery in the Ottoman Empire all the way to Russia. Others had fought in the wars against Spain or been involved in the colonization of Ireland. There were also some craftsmen, some boys and a minister. Since there were no women, this was clearly not a colonization effort that was aiming at a long term, self-perpetuating presence yet. As I said, no one really knew what model would succeed.

The Englishmen arrived at Chesapeake Bay after a long and storm-ridden voyage on April 26th, 1607. The lush and apparently fertile land they discovered delighted them. The colonists sent out a landing party but it was quickly attacked by Native Americans. Two Englishmen were injured, but the Indians withdrew and the Europeans were able to set up camp.

I’ve already sketched a basic outline of how the colony was to be governed, but actually none of the colonists knew what the plan was yet. Perhaps to avoid factionalism while at sea the Virginia Company back home had decided that the plan should be kept secret until the expedition reached the Chesapeake. Their instructions were kept in sealed boxes, with one copy on each ship. Now, at their destination, the box could finally be opened. The Council was declared and seven councilmen were named, the six I listed at the start of the episode plus John Smith, who was at the time already imprisoned for mutiny and facing an execution he would only narrowly escape. Which was lucky both for him and the colony, since after he was freed Smith would be instrumental in keeping it from being wiped out completely.

The council didn’t elect their president quite yet. Instead, the expedition set off again the next day, exploring for several weeks the rivers of the Chesapeake for a suitable place to encamp, inland enough to be safe from potential Spanish attack. They had further encounters with Americans, both friendly and hostile. On May 14th they decided to land on a defensible two mile long peninsula up what they called the James River. They had arrived at Jamestown. They were in the territory of the Powhatan, a fact which would define the early history of Virginia.

The six councilmen not in chains then elected Edward Maria Wingfield to be their first President for a one year term. Wingfield, at 57, was twice as old as many of the other colonists, but he’d had a notable military career, serving in the Netherlands as well as Ireland. He had many connections among the important merchants of the day, and family connections to the expanding plantations in Ireland. He was a natural choice.

He ordered the colonists to begin constructing defenses and other public buildings. At first, relations with the Powhatan were merely wary, with both sides trying to feel out the other, but within weeks a party of hundreds of natives led an attack on Jamestown, killing two. President Wingfield himself was shot through the beard with an arrow. From that point on, relations between the English and the Native Americans would never be very good.

The Powhatan immediately had the upper hand. The Europeans were too few in number to really use their superior weaponry. And the colonists soon became dependant upon the Indians for food as well, as their provisions began to run out. Yet the Powhatan’s leader did not wish to simply wipe out the Europeans, at least not yet. He instead pressed them for valuable foreign goods while keeping them utterly weak and subservient. He alternated between friendliness and hostility as needed.

Problems quickly mounted for the colonists. The settlers were increasingly at each other’s throats. Repeated attacks by the Indians began to take their toll. Starvation and diseases like malaria hit them hard. The men became too weak to farm, and many of the gentlemen, more interested in finding gold, may have seen farming as beneath them. Occasional gifts of food from the Native Americans helped, but it wasn’t enough. By September 10th, half of the men were dead. On that day the remaining council members deposed Wingfield, which they had the right to do, and arrested him on trumped up charges of hoarding food and negligence. So ended the four month rule of the first sort-of elected official in British America. It was not an encouraging precedent.

Wingfield’s character and abilities would come under attack, but I don’t know how much you can blame him. Worse disasters would follow and his successor, John Ratcliffe, would fare no better. There simply weren’t enough colonists yet to make headway.

The new President, Ratcliffe, had been captain of one of the expedition’s ships. He didn’t really change policies much, because there was little to be done. Further exploration of the Chesapeake by John Smith yielded little. Trading English manufactures for native food was an absolute necessity for survival, but there was little warmth or understanding between the two sides. Commerce and violence could hardly be separated. And the region happened to be in a deep drought, so there was little food to be had on any side. The dying continued.

Incidentally, around this time a newly appointed Councilman started agitating for the creation of a little Parliament in the colony, but this was contrary to the colony’s charter and so the idea was quashed with the arrival of a supply ship from England in January 1608. It was an idea just a little too ahead of its time, I suppose. When the ship left, Wingfield left with it, to face trial in England. He would be acquitted and remain a prominent figure in the Virginia Company, a far better fate than most.

Another batch of colonists, which included the first non-British settlers to British America, some Polish and German craftsmen, did little to help the colony’s precarious position. Ratcliffe too was deposed by the council before his term was up thanks to the plotting of John Smith, who would wind up replacing him. Smith proved to be one of the few men who could navigate Jamestown’s problems with any success. He had shown himself able in negotiating with the natives and had survived their captivity. But still the raids continued. Any colonist wandering alone was liable to be killed. Smith reciprocated by raiding villages and forcing them to trade for food at gunpoint. He sent some colonists to start new outposts to relieve the food situation in Jamestown. He challenged native leaders to fight him in single combat. It was all very dramatic, but not enough to stabilize the situation.

In early 1609, back in England the Virginia Company was increasingly dismayed by the news coming from America. Their investments in the colony were imperiled, and they knew it. So they took matters into their own hands and reorganized the governance of the colony, under a new royal charter. The Council was kept on only as an advisory body. A governor with absolute power and answerable to no one else in the colony would be appointed directly by the company. And so ended the first system of elections in what would become the United States, two years after it had begun. Although I don’t want to exaggerate the importance of this to American history or anything. I mean, Smith was already ruling much more autocratically than his predecessors. And the elections were about as closed off as possible. The shift to something even closer to straight up martial law mattered at the time, but neither this new system nor the old one set real precedents for the future. The elections are just a good framework for this episode.

In addition to the change in government the Virginia Company also doubled down economically. They simply lied about conditions in Jamestown, appealed to patriotism, and secured more investors and maybe 600 more colonists, including some women and children in addition to the usual contingent of soldiers and gentlemen. Plus a bunch of vagrants they rounded up. But conditions were still terrible in Jamestown. The rumors that the Company was desperately trying to quash were true. And the vast majority of those duped settlers would be dead within the year.

This new expedition was hit by a full-on hurricane in the middle of the Atlantic, wrecking the flagship Sea Venture off Bermuda. Most of the provisions were lost along with it, so that when the remnants of the fleet reached Virginia they were just bringing even more mouths to feed in an already desperate situation. Also lost were the instructions removing Smith from the governorship. More factional infighting ensued until a gunpowder mishap severely injured Smith and forced him to return to England as soon as possible. His time in Virginia was done. He would later return to America, charting the New England coast and even giving the region its name. He would also write a number of rather self-aggrandizing books about his experience in the New World, which are an important source for our understanding of the period.

With Smith out of the picture and no new governor yet, the anti-Smith faction elected one George Percy as governor. But without the most competent leader in the colony at the helm the situation only deteriorated further. Relations with the natives became even worse. The mix of hostility and friendliness became just hostility. Deposed president Ratcliffe was skinned alive with mussel shells by Indians he was attempting to trade with. The colonists were unable to leave their encampment to gather food for fear of attack by the Powhatan. It was now a siege.

The food truly ran out and there was nothing anyone could do about it. This was what was called the Starving Time. Men hunted rats and ate their boots. In the face of annihilation the settlers in Jamestown turned to savagery. One man, caught stealing food, was chained to a tree with a needle stuck through his tongue and left to starve to death. Another man murdered and ate his pregnant wife. Of the 500 colonists in Jamestown in late 1609 only 60 would survive the winter.

That spring, survivors from the wreck of the Sea Venture unexpectedly appeared. They had built two ships on Bermuda and managed to reach the Chesapeake. They hadn’t brought much food, of course. But among them was the newly appointed deputy governor, Thomas Gates, who took control of the colony. He was of course horrified by the situation he found, and utterly at a loss about what to do. But after taking stock of the situation and aiding the survivors as best he could, he decided that there was no choice but to abandon Jamestown and head north for Newfoundland. There they might find food and hopefully they could make contact with the English fishermen who often sailed there.

So on Gates’s order, Jamestown was totally abandoned. The weapons and all available food were loaded on ships. They all set sail out of the Chesapeake, hopefully towards salvation… only to be met at the mouth of the bay by yet another English fleet. The new governor, Lord De La Warr (after whom the state of Delaware would be named), was on board. He took over from Deputy Governor Gates and ordered everyone to sail straight back to Jamestown. Having no choice, the shellshocked and resigned survivors complied.

De La Warr, another former soldier, had brought food though, so the worst of the crisis was at an end. He ran Jamestown more like a military outpost than ever before. Absence from church could be punished by whipping, and to criticize the government three times earned you the death penalty. He enforced strict rules against idleness and pressed every man into working for the colony’s overall benefit. The church was rebuilt and the defenses were strengthened. Some men were assigned to produce food. The colony didn’t thrive by any reasonable definition -- a third of the new arrivals died within six months -- but things were better than before at least.

Additionally, the arms and manpower De La Warr had brought with him meant that the English were finally able to gain the upper hand over the Indians. Now their superior weaponry could make a real difference. They went on the warpath, burning down villages at the slightest provocation, stealing corn, and massacring men, women, and children. It worked quickly. De La Warr was now free to send out expeditions further and further and establish new outposts around the Chesapeake. The Virginia Colony was still vulnerable, but it was now here to stay.

The pattern repeated itself. More colonists arrived. Many colonists died. Gradually headway was made and more outposts were founded. The English presence was spreading. However, Jamestown still lacked an economic reason for existence. The possibilities for gold or a route to the Pacific had evaporated. The commodities sent back to England hadn’t been worth anything. So why were they there at all, suffering and dying in droves? Martial law couldn’t overcome economics. English pride and national expansion wouldn’t keep things going forever.

It was tobacco that would unexpectedly save Virginia. The Spanish had imported both tobacco and the practice of smoking it from America to Europe. So by the founding of Jamestown there was already a small English market for it. King James himself had written an ineffective pamphlet against “the manifolde abuses of this vile custome”. In 1612 John Rolfe, the man who would marry Pocahontas, introduced West Indian tobacco to Jamestown and found that it grew quite well. Further experimentation followed over the next few years. In 1614 the first shipment was exported back to Europe. In 1618 20,000 pounds of tobacco were shipped off. In 1625, 400,000 pounds. At last, there was money to be made.

This dovetailed with a change in the Virginia Company’s policy. Its ultra-centralized economic model was dead. Increasingly short on funds and looking to get more people to Virginia by any means necessary, the Company started offering 50 acres of land to anyone who went. Not only that, if you brought someone else too, you’d get 50 acres of land as well. Before, all land had more or less been held by the Company. These smaller holdings began to be consolidated into larger plantations in the name of economic efficiency and indentured servants were imported to work the land. Indentured servants had their passage to Virginia paid for, but were required to work the land of their master for several years upon arrival before getting their own plot. Sometimes poor people, including poor children, were coerced into leaving. Most, but by no means all, of the immigrants continued to be English. And most of them would still die, from diseases or violence, so growth continued to be slow.

But the real foundations of colonial Virginia were finally being laid. The militaristic model was being rapidly discarded as cash crop plantations, based on cheap and unfree labor, rose to prominence. It wasn’t the Virginia of prominent slaveholding families with vast estates yet, but it was getting there.

There were also big political changes to match the economic ones, and those will be the topic of our next episode. Because on July 30, 1619, the first elected assembly in British America met for the very first time, in a small wooden church in Jamestown, Virginia. From here on out, elections were to be an increasingly essential part of life in America, a continuity that would be maintained through revolution and war. So join me next time, as we discuss the origins of Virginia’s General Assembly.

Sources:

The Colonial Period of American History Volume I by Charles M. Andrews

The Barbarous Years by Bernard Bailyn

Jamestown Colony: A Political, Social, and Cultural History by Frank E. Grizzard, Jr. and D. Boyd Smith

A Counterblaste to Tobacco by King James I of England

Apathy and Death in Early Jamestown by Karen Ordahl Kupperman

The Reformation by Diarmaid MacCulloch

The American Colonies in the Seventeenth Century Volume I by Herbert L. Osgood

A True Relation of Virginia by John Smith

The Generall Historie of Virginia, New-England, and the Summer Isles by John Smith

The Jamestown Experiment by Tony Williams

A Discourse of Virginia by Edward Maria Wingfield

[tifonbellanariablog]

Half-serious, half-funny argument

Found something in my old channel in youtube about two women arguing in a drama. Oddly - and hilariously enough - these could perfectly fit Ki-Yong and his dad Ryuketsu. It doesn’t matter if they are guys, the lines fit perfectly their personalities. 

Ki-Yong just didn’t mess more with his father’s temper because he knew Ryuketsu’s very own essence and his spells could mean an explosion of dark aura enough to kill any human within an fifty kilometres ratio. Poor Hibiki...he might be a coward through and through, but he’s sometimes a kind-hearted coward.  

I kind of wrote just a little more because Hibiki and dear Dad would look out-of-character. Also the Château Von Tifon is, indeed, a castle with European architecture. It was there before Ryuketsu came to the service of an old Leberecht.

Positive Näogi Year of 1698 

Ryuketsu: *with a swirling of dark aura underlining those features, the Château Von Tifon’s hall darkening and becoming stifling despite being two in the afternoon. * “Enough! Silence!” * He pants, some of the Duke Rüdiger’s precious indoor vines dying and withering. One of his hands is grasping into a rasping, terrified Hibik’s shivering armi, both the young dragon and the spider looking more like claws than actual hands. 

Hibiki breaks into a sweat, his eyes widened into two big black pits, small curls of black smoke coming from his nostrils. His allergic reaction to his father’s venomous gas is starting to make his throat and stomach itch. Soon he wouldn’t be able to breathe without expelling a fireball. 

Hibiki: “Father! Father! Water...! Please!” 

Ryuketsu: *Furrows his painted eyebrows while glancing at his youngest son with a surprised look.* “Earth, fire, air! Are you such a child you still want to play those silly games, Hibiki! *Places one hand in his face, sighing. Raises his voice, ringing in the castle like thunder * “Will someone in this castle bring some glass of water for my cowardly son?!” 

Ki-Yong: “Dad! I think he’ll need a waterfall to wash out so much poison!” 

“I can’t grasp---! I cannot grasp how you allow this treacherous, cruel, manipulative man to belong to our family, Kato Hibiki!”

Ki-Yong: *laughs* “Aww, that does sound familiar! Isn’t that what our sister’s hubbie told us after he arrived from the wedding ceremony?”

Hibiki chortles quietly, but he immediately is silenced with a glare from his father, who is so furious to the point of nearly destroying the entire castle.  

Ryuketsu: “I was talking about you, you demented twit!” *He growls. * “Why don’t you go and spy on the Kinnara Queen Roshini! Instead of trying my patience and yapping all day, you should keep an eye on that Kinnara!” 

Ki-Yong: “Hibiki! Oh, Hibiki! Be a good fellow and tell this to your dear pet tarantula: I have no idea where the Sacred Hazelnut Tree Monastery is! Sure, it is near the banks of the Blessing River...but no one knows where exactly...!”

Hibiki shakes his head to an incoming crew of servants wearing leather masks, his face pale and haggardly as he struggles to hold his breath.

Hibiki: “This is an excellent training for breathing exercises! That’s it, think of it as a training exercise!” 

Ryuketsu: “Who are you to question my orders, Ki-Yong?!” 

Hibiki: “Please...will...Will you stop bickering! Mayu won’t return to us if she...Well, what am I talking about?!’ *Hibiki immediately stands up, groaning inwardly as he began to run towards the exit. The telepathic spell would not last, and so wouldn’t the poor people who lived in the castle if he lingered any longer near his father’s poisonous words and breath. * You selfish idiots only care about yourselves. I’ll find Mayu by myself. 

Ryuketsu: “You will, won’t you?” The dark, silken voice is calmer, and that is what frightens more the two brothers. Inwardly, both the dragon and the fox are shuddering. But they are men now. “Benzaiten escaped me...See to it we hear Mayu’s last breath”. 

A  last breath...That makes Hibiki recall a song. It’s a song his sister made up, while examining a harpsichord. She had been captivated how such a instrument could exist. Her father, in a rare moment of kindness, taught her how to play it. It was nothing like the Hibiki’s koto. 

He takes one last moment to the main hall of the castle. 

It is a sharp contrast, the crimson and golden harpsichord a few meters to the left of the golden eerie, hexagonal, Ku-naira paper-lanterns shimmering in a greenish light, lining the marble stairway, the deep black stair-rails where the realistic picture of the glowing, happy Von Tifon were, Percival and his late wife holding a toddler child with dark brownish hair. The little Rüdiger was not so little anymore. 

Forty two steps downwards, his father is looking at - or maybe through him. That flowing royal haori coat and the black silken kimono trailing across the marbled ground, the realistic golden kinnara statues and the picture of a golden Buddha hanging on the eastern wall...Everything in that hall is light, everything  in that hall is wealth...A fact Hibiki never associates with his father. 

Hibiki: “He is a criminal, no matter how many times he tries to disguise it. But what am I? ” 

Closing the main gates, Hibiki takes a sharp breath, noticing how the trees are unaffected by his father’s bad mood, the blossoming sakura trees whistling in a chilling tone.  It’s oddly cold for a spring afternoon, the sun barely visible from grayish clouds. 

I’ve been here for far too long... Snapping his long leather coat shut, Hibiki rushes to the outer gates of the castle. 

[jeromenathen]

Following in Martin Luther’s 500-year-old footsteps

On July 2, 1505, a young law student in central Germany was walking from Mansfeld, where he’d visited his family, to Erfurt, the university town where he studied. A flash of lightning struck the ground near him. “Help me, St. Anne,” he said, referring to the saint with a reputation for saving people in mortal danger. Two weeks later, he walked into an Augustine monastery in Erfurt to fulfill his promise and went on to teach theology in Wittenberg. With the approach of the 500th anniversary of this historic hammering, I wanted to pay homage to Luther’s achievements. Working on my master’s degree in Central European history, I spent countless late nights in cafes and libraries reading about the Protestant Reformation. Today, it’s a Protestant center that attracts legions of Lutheran devotees who stroll the grounds, taking in the medieval church with its 700-year-old stained glass windows and lingering in the intimate, dark-wood-clad Renaissance courtyard. Luther’s actions resulted in a break from the Catholic Church, which until that moment was the only church in the land — an institution so powerful that people believed it could determine the fate of one’s soul. In critiquing church practices, Luther traveled where no human had gone without meeting a flaming stake. Yet, the second the hammer hit the nail on that church door in Wittenberg, the reformer tapped into a zeitgeist — a desire for change that had been simmering throughout much of Europe. Souvenir shops hawked Luther-related paraphernalia, and a food cart offered sausages named after Luther. A voracious eater and imbiber of beer, Luther is said to have turned up occasionally at a bar called Schwarzer Bär (black bear) and had long, beer-fueled, theological discussions past closing time. After Pope Leo X excommunicated Luther in 1521, Saxon elector Frederich III directed some of his soldiers to kidnap the revolutionary for his own protection and take him to Wartburg Castle, a medieval fortress towering above Eisenach. Arriving in Eisenach, I forewent the city bus that snakes up to the castle and opted to trek the Luther Adventure Trail, a steep climb that I figured would offset all the sausages and beer I’d been consuming. For my final stop, I took the train to this town of some 24,000 people. Tall pine trees gave way to Baroque- and Renaissance-era burgher houses, and before I knew it, I was standing in Eisleben’s main square. Outside, Klaus pointed to the gorgeous late-Gothic doorway of a building across the square. Ornate lines bedecked its characteristic apex, a hallmark of an era on the threshold of the Renaissance. Klaus, who was a dead ringer for Bob Newhart but with a German accent, deadpanned: “No, he had heart attacks all the time.” The heart attack that historians believe did kill Luther occurred two weeks after his arrival in Eisleben, sending him to that meat and beer hall in the sky where there is no closing time. from Travel News and Features http://www.sfgate.com/travel/article/Following-in-Martin-Luther-s-500-year-old-11236925.php

[learningfromthehands-blog]

"I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries" by Leonard Cohen

I have not lingered in European monasteries and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights who fell beautifully as their ballads tell;

I have not parted the grasses or purposefully left them thatched.

I have not released my mind to wander and wait in those great distances between the snowy mountains and the fishermen, like a moon, or a shell beneath the moving water.

I have not held my breath so that I might hear the breathing of God, or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise, or starved for visions.

Although I have watched him often I have not become the heron, leaving my body on the shore, and I have not become the luminous trout, leaving my body in the air.

I have not worshipped wounds and relics, or combs of iron, or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls.

I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years. During the day I laugh and during the night I sleep. My favourite cooks prepare my meals, my body cleans and repairs itself, and all my work goes well. 

[aandriskobold]

[ID: I Have Not LIngered in European Monasteries.

I have not lingered in European monasteries. and discovered among the tall grasses tombs of knights who fell as beautifully as their ballads tell; I have not parted the grasses or purposefully left them thatched.

I have not released my mind to wander and wait in those great distances between the snowy mountains and the fishermen, like a moon, or a shell beneath the moving water.

I have not held my breath so that I might hear the breathing of G-d, or tamed my heartbeat with an exercise, or starved for visions. Although I have watched him often I have not become the heron, leaving my body on the shore, and I have not become the luminous trout, leaving my body in the air.

I have not worshipped wounds and relics, or combs of iron, or bodies wrapped and burnt in scrolls.

I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years. During the day I laugh and during the night I sleep. My favourite cooks prepare my meals, my body cleans and repairs itself, and all my work goes well. /end ID]

“I Have Not Lingered in European Monasteries”, Leonard Cohen

from The Spice-Box of Earth (Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 1961)