#about her Yankee Doodle music

[tallmadgeandtea]

Turn Week 2024

Set It To Music

What do I even say for this prompt? If you’ve been following me for a long time, you’ll know that learning about songs in early America is one of my nerdiest passions. (I have a whole tag about it here.) (Two, actually.) For today though, I’m going to share some of my Turn specific playlists (folk music or not) and give a little run down of each:

(Perhaps) my favorite, a take on the show’s soundtrack but with songs from the mid 1960s- to the mid 1970s. Yes, ABBA is on there.

Turn: Bicentennial Edition’s younger, angrier, louder sibling. Did you guys know Billy Joel, hero of Long Island, was actually a member of the Culper Ring?

An oldie, but a goodie! I made this playlist WAYY back when I first started getting into attaching Turn to folk songs, and I think it’s a good place to start. If you loved the song from 2.08 (Dowie Dens of Yarrow) this playlist is for you.

Torturing Benjamin Tallmadge. That’s it. That’s the playlist.

And, last but not least, because today is THE FOURTH OF JULY:

METHINKS I HAVE NEVER HEARD OF SUCH A BULLSHITE MEASUREMENT AS A “KILOMETER”

[sianagrace]

Meet Me in St. Louis_Roundtable 3

Meet Me in St. Louis follows the Smith family living in St. Louis the year before the 1904 World’s Fair. Esther Smith, played by Judy Garland, is the middle “child” of five siblings but is notably the most outgoing, and thus the lead, of her entire family of eight. Garland sings most of the featured songs, including those original to this film:  "The Trolley Song", "The Boy Next Door", and "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”. Most of the remaining songs we popular during the time of the World’s Fair.

Social Context for Musical Relevance

This film straddles two remarkably different eras of US history. The beginning of the 20th century (when the film is set) marked great changes in industrialization and first-wave feminism, while the 1940s (when the film was made) can be largely characterized by WWII and FDR’s final term. Two songs - “The Boy Next Door” and “Over the Bannister” balance these two times while mostly serving to satisfy the 1940s audience. “The Boy Next Door” follows a conversation between Esther and her older sister, Rose, who leaves her sister with the sentence “My dear when you get to be my age you’ll learn that there are more important things in life than boys”. The first few scenes of the film cover the fact that Rose, despite her “spinster” age, is not yet married. While this isn’t necessarily problematized it is heavily emphasized. Instead of following in her sister’s footsteps, Esther yearns for love and attention but seeks it out on her terms. Her relationship with the boy next door, John Truett, begins with these two songs. Last week we discussed Altman’s “inevitable couplings”: this pairing, despite falling into the heteronormative framework and finality of so many other musicals, does require effort and initiation from Esther’s character specifically. When John first kisses Esther, long after the performance of these songs, she hesitates. While this relationship is a goal for Esther, she prioritizes her family and personal needs. Rose and Esther’s overall characters and personalities are reminiscent of the feminist movement they harken from, but their ultimate decisions to settle down with comfortably wealthy men aim to please an audience engulfed in war, loss, and instability.

The Cultivation of Christmas Cheer and Nostalgia

Though half the songs are original to the score, the pieces that make this a jukebox musical serve mainly to cultivate nostalgia and joy. Again, the films release during WWII shaped the messaging required or desired by audiences. “Skip to Ma Lou” is sung to the tune of “Yankee Doodle” and other short ditties popular in the late 19th and early 20th centuries but likely still familiar to adult audiences in 1944. This party scene as a whole evokes normalcy, making the plot and characters more desirable and relatable. Other songs included in the score are “auld lang syne” and “the first noel”, some of the oldest Christmas songs that maintain their relevance to this day. Meet Me in St. Louis is often categorized as a Christmas movie despite only the last 20 or so minutes being set during the holiday season. Including these familiar songs in the score sends clear messages about the persistence of peace and being in communion with one another. These songs don’t necessarily have specific or relevant histories but they do have age-old recognition.

Melodrama Meets Musical

Meet Me in St. Louis combines opera, show tunes, and classical music to create a sound that effortlessly blends into the diegesis of the film. Erin Blakemore notes how the film lacks large, spontaneous musical numbers despite all the crowd scenes and possibilities for such fanfare. Rather, the creators integrated music into the Smith family’s regular routines: their parties and goodbyes, moments of comfort and joy. The rest of the score is used more like it would be in a non-musical drama as a sort of choral, background send-off. This movie is undoubtedly still a musical, but it's more “natural”, and perhaps more aligned with the folk musical, than the others we’ve analyzed.

@theuncannyprofessoro

[thelatecaptainpierce]

I love your fanvids, so 15 but maybe for your top 5 fave characters instead of just one?

Ah thank you! <3

15. Pick a theme song for one of the characters. Why do you think that song suits them?

For Hawkeye I just have to pick something by Springsteen. I've said before that Born in the USA would be his favourite album and I stand by that, and if I had to narrow it down to a song it'd be Dancing in the Dark. But since I've already made a vid to that song, it feels like cheating, so allow me to overcompensate with reasoning for some other tracks: Cover Me for desiring shelter from a turbulent world and taking comfort/protection from a lover, No Surrender and Bobby Jean for the way they walk the line between male/male friendship and romance, I'm On Fire for horny reasons, aaaand of course the title track because I don't think Hawkeye would like the Vietnam war very much.

Hmmmm is Landslide a really cliche option for Margaret? I think it fits her changing attitudes over the course of the show after initially building her identity around the rigidity of the army (and often her relationships too, most obviously with Frank) and the lines about growing older remind me a lot of her line 'I feel as old as I’m ever going to get, older than I ever intended to be'.

I'm cheating for Klinger since this wasn't my idea but I couldn't possibly come up with a better song than Draft Dodger Rag, this fanvid made me lose my shit the first time I saw it.

Ok the Trapper one is really specific but I think a lot about post-war Trapper adjusting to being at home (while also missing Hawkeye bc I'm biased) in relation to the line ‘I got some colour back, she thinks so too, I laugh like me again, she laughs like you’ from Hozier’s Almost (Sweet Music).  I could make the whole song fit if I really wanted to, like maybe Trapper bonds with his wife by going out dancing but that was also something they all did back in Korea to create a sense of normalcy, including moments specific to Hawkeye and Trapper (hello Yankee Doodle Doctor dancing scene) but tbh it’s mostly that one line I highlighted.

Those are my top 4 characters and I don't have an easy 5th so I think I'm gonna stop there because this response is fucking huge to begin with, thank you for making it to the end :')

[watching-pictures-move]

Movie Review | Blown Away (Hopkins, 1994)

When we first meet Jeff Bridges, he seems like a pretty cool dude. His girlfriend and her daughter love him. He brings a great present. He has a cute dog. He wears a Hawaiian shirt. And he's great at his day job of defusing bombs. But what if he's not actually so cool? What if he's hiding something? What if he's secretly... Irish? In contrast, Tommy Lee Jones gives us bad vibes right away. He's got greasy long prison hair from being in prison for a long time. He also kills a guy in his first scene. And he's unambiguously Irish. No doubt about it.

Before anyone accuses me of bigotry, I am merely articulating the central dynamic of this movie. I do not know if director Stephen Hopkins has hate in his heart. But this is the second movie of his I've seen that has a bizarre hatred of a very specific ethnic group. First Predator 2 offered an inexplicably hateful portrayal of Jamaicans, playing up some pretty ugly stereotypes. (I am not being entirely sarcastic. It's a pretty gross element in a movie I mostly enjoy.) And now this turns its crosshairs against the Irish, positing that they're a crazy, bloodthirsty lot, and only by completely denying their ethnic identity can they overcome their violent nature. (I am not being entirely sarcastic. That the movie hinges on a Fourth of July musical performance for its climax tips the movie into some pretty weird "They hate our freedoms" assimilationist territory.)

There are ways to merge this kind of political and ethnic context into a thriller successfully. Those ways are not evident in this film. Instead we get Bridges attempting an Irish accent in exactly two scenes before giving up, so that one could argue that he's successfully assimilated and hidden his identity except in moments of stress. You know, if we're talking out of our asses. We also get Jones grooving to U2 while making bombs. Because they're Irish. I assume Bridges listens to nothing but James Brown's "Living in America" to blend in as an American. I know it can be done because I once spent an entire workday listening to it on repeat. If the song is around six minutes long and I took approximately one six minute bathroom break each hour, that's nine listens an hour. If I worked nine hours that day (I've excluded the lunch hour but added the overtime I no doubt did at the time) and had maybe two hours of meetings, I would have listened to the song sixty-three times. Let's take off a few listens for breaks and human interaction and put it at fifty listens. Now, if the song were "Gravity" from the same album, I likely would have bailed much earlier. Not nearly as good a song, sorry.

Anyway, the movie is sporadically entertaining due to the specificity of the premise. The villain is a mad bomber, so we get lots of contrived bomb-related scenarios. Bomb in a computer. Bomb in headphones. Lethal Weapon 2 already did bomb under a toilet, otherwise we definitely would have gotten that here too. But the movie struggles with its cat and mouse structure because it doesn't provide enough opportunities for the stars to interact. Bridges has some fun scenes with his real-life father Lloyd, and with a cocky new bomb expert played by Forest Whitaker, the two treating their comparative expertise as a dick-measuring contest, wildly swinging their manhoods as they go about their work. Schlong. Johnson. Yankee doodle. Okay, enough euphemisms. Anyway, both of them disappear for much of the movie, and while the movie attempts to have Bridges match Jones' derangement in a scene where the former drunkenly fires a gun in a hot tub, the latter spends most of his scenes alone, so that his mad bomber shtick is placed in a void and becomes totally inert. But as I alluded to earlier, the scenes where he grooves to U2 are pretty funny.

[jellyfishmaneaters]

My complete list of chapter titles

Idk who did this originally but yeah. Also some of these aren't mine I took them off the internet so credits to the orignal posts. aNYWAY.

How was I supposed to know there would be consequences for my actions?

[insert person] is so funny, I wish gay people were real

Sharknado but with people

My close encounter with death feat. my friends and a fifty-foot-tall fire breathing platypus

When I said “I want more friends,” I didn’t mean ones I had to interact with

The multi-step guide on how to successfully piss off everyone around you

Depression:The musical

What do you mean I can’t bust a move at the white house

There’s at least one reason god shouldn’t have given people free will, and his name’s John

Who let the dogs out? Benny has attachment issues and I didn’t give Lola her meds yet.

Three years of spanish and I still can’t answer when Dora asks me a question

What in the yankee-doodle-damn was that

Obama fucked my mother (Sorry Michelle)

Chapel Roan didn’t die for this bullshit

In the words of Outkast: Heyya

Misfortune isn’t actually my middle name, but people don’t question it when I tell them otherwise

Literally what.

How I found out I was dead

Depresso Espresso

Saving the world from [redacted] and my mother

This is the epitome of fatherless behavior

Contrary to popular belief, zombies don’t only eat brains

What to do when you “accidentally” murder somebody

To the evil entity living in my toaster: I don't care that you're here, but please stop burning my waffles

The fuckery/bullshit chronicles 

I become pregnant with the next baby jesus

J.C and the boys

I should’ve killed myself a long time ago

Turns out becoming a god is way harder than I thought

Shit has hit multiple fans and is shooting across the room like a really gross paintball gun

Trevor learns the meaning of a conscience

I really should’ve thought that through/shouldn’t have done that

Things go horribly right/spectacularly wrong

I refuse to die

Amelia is banned from Chilli’s across the U.S

Task failed successfully

Nobody warned me being an “adult” meant being an adult

Why I’m no longer allowed at Baskin Robbins

Dad jokes about dad jokes

How was I supposed to know murder was illegal?

Things they don’t teach you in school (I’m not talking about taxes)

Shakespear in the park. Literally. We built a time machine.

Plot twist (Kaylie died)

Felt cute, might take over the world later idk

Dr. Doofenshmirtz is my idol

Well I can't not adopt them

That did not play out how it did in my head

Bold of you to assume I have dignity

I am straight up not livin la vida loca right now

Due to personal reasons I will be going completely off the fucking rails

They don't call me a mother fucker for nothing

I'm living proof the American education system has failed us

At least whatever's wrong with me is really really funny

Looks like we can't daydream, disassociate, disappoint our way out of this one boys (death it is then)

You call it a near death experience, I call it a vibe check from God 

I killed Mufasa

Murder but like, aesthetic

Weird flex but ok  

Well, well, well, if it isn't my old friend, crippling anxiety 

Has anyone seen my marbles? No?

Call me Roy G. Biv cuz I'm visibly on the spectrum 

They call me AAA battery: asexual, aromantic, autistic

In light of recent events, fuck 

I'm about to cha cha real smooth off a fucking cliff

On today's episode of Hold The Fuck Up…

Tutant meenage neetle teetles

That's probably illegal 

Idk what I did to spite God but apparently it was really fucked up 

How to do everything wrong

Gosh diddly darn dang it

Bro she lifts bro

Watch me finger-gun my way out of nuclear warfare

I'm the van gogh in the art of bullshitting

Am I high or did you actually just pull a flamethrower out of your purse

No seriously where did the flamethrower come from 

In another life I’m Whitney Houston 

#normalizebitchslappingstrangersforthebit

Ok so I think the whole of Olympus wants me dead

Pretty sure my best friend is the devil reincarnate, but she gives me eggo waffles so she can have my soul any day

The plot gets thicker than the wad of cash in Scrooge Mcducks pocket

Chat is this real

My mother always said this is what happens to pretty boys in the big city

I've come to the realization the entire world wants my head on a stick

I thank Beyonce for the assassination of my entire family tree.

well, fuck

[renaissanceclassics]

Up From Slavery: Part 16

of 18 parts. Chapter XV. The Secret Of Success In Public Speaking

As to how my address at Atlanta was received by the audience in the Exposition building, I think I prefer to let Mr. James Creelman, the noted war correspondent, tell. Mr. Creelman was present, and telegraphed the following account to the New York World:—

Atlanta, September 18.

"While President Cleveland was waiting at Gray Gables to-day, to send the electric spark that started the machinery of the Atlanta Exposition, a Negro Moses stood before a great audience of white people and delivered an oration that marks a new epoch in the history of the South; and a body of Negro troops marched in a procession with the citizen soldiery of Georgia and Louisiana. The whole city is thrilling to-night with a realization of the extraordinary significance of these two unprecedented events. Nothing has happened since Henry Grady's immortal speech before the New England society in New York that indicates so profoundly the spirit of the New South, except, perhaps, the opening of the Exposition itself.

When Professor Booker T. Washington, Principal of an industrial school for coloured people in Tuskegee, Ala. stood on the platform of the Auditorium, with the sun shining over the heads of his auditors into his eyes, and with his whole face lit up with the fire of prophecy, Clark Howell, the successor of Henry Grady, said to me, "That man's speech is the beginning of a moral revolution in America."

It is the first time that a Negro has made a speech in the South on any important occasion before an audience composed of white men and women. It electrified the audience, and the response was as if it had come from the throat of a whirlwind.

Mrs. Thompson had hardly taken her seat when all eyes were turned on a tall tawny Negro sitting in the front row of the platform. It was Professor Booker T. Washington, President of the Tuskegee (Alabama) Normal and Industrial Institute, who must rank from this time forth as the foremost man of his race in America. Gilmore's Band played the "Star-Spangled Banner," and the audience cheered. The tune changed to "Dixie" and the audience roared with shrill "hi-yis." Again the music changed, this time to "Yankee Doodle," and the clamour lessened.

All this time the eyes of the thousands present looked straight at the Negro orator. A strange thing was to happen. A black man was to speak for his people, with none to interrupt him. As Professor Washington strode to the edge of the stage, the low, descending sun shot fiery rays through the windows into his face. A great shout greeted him. He turned his head to avoid the blinding light, and moved about the platform for relief. Then he turned his wonderful countenance to the sun without a blink of the eyelids, and began to talk.

There was a remarkable figure; tall, bony, straight as a Sioux chief, high forehead, straight nose, heavy jaws, and strong, determined mouth, with big white teeth, piercing eyes, and a commanding manner. The sinews stood out on his bronzed neck, and his muscular right arm swung high in the air, with a lead-pencil grasped in the clinched brown fist. His big feet were planted squarely, with the heels together and the toes turned out. His voice range out clear and true, and he paused impressively as he made each point. Within ten minutes the multitude was in an uproar of enthusiasm—handkerchiefs were waved, canes were flourished, hats were tossed in the air. The fairest women of Georgia stood up and cheered. It was as if the orator had bewitched them.

And when he held his dusky hand high above his head, with the fingers stretched wide apart, and said to the white people of the South on behalf of his race, "In all things that are purely social we can be as separate as the fingers, yet one as the hand in all things essential to mutual progress," the great wave of sound dashed itself against the walls, and the whole audience was on its feet in a delirium of applause, and I thought at that moment of the night when Henry Grady stood among the curling wreaths of tobacco-smoke in Delmonico's banquet-hall and said, "I am a Cavalier among Roundheads."

I have heard the great orators of many countries, but not even Gladstone himself could have pleased a cause with most consummate power than did this angular Negro, standing in a nimbus of sunshine, surrounded by the men who once fought to keep his race in bondage. The roar might swell ever so high, but the expression of his earnest face never changed.

A ragged, ebony giant, squatted on the floor in one of the aisles, watched the orator with burning eyes and tremulous face until the supreme burst of applause came, and then the tears ran down his face. Most of the Negroes in the audience were crying, perhaps without knowing just why.

At the close of the speech Governor Bullock rushed across the stage and seized the orator's hand. Another shout greeted this demonstration, and for a few minutes the two men stood facing each other, hand in hand.

So far as I could spare the time from the immediate work at Tuskegee, after my Atlanta address, I accepted some of the invitations to speak in public which came to me, especially those that would take me into territory where I thought it would pay to plead the cause of my race, but I always did this with the understanding that I was to be free to talk about my life-work and the needs of my people. I also had it understood that I was not to speak in the capacity of a professional lecturer, or for mere commercial gain.

In my efforts on the public platform I never have been able to understand why people come to hear me speak. This question I never can rid myself of. Time and time again, as I have stood in the street in front of a building and have seen men and women passing in large numbers into the audience room where I was to speak, I have felt ashamed that I should be the cause of people—as it seemed to me—wasting a valuable hour of their time. Some years ago I was to deliver an address before a literary society in Madison, Wis. An hour before the time set for me to speak, a fierce snow-storm began, and continued for several hours. I made up my mind that there would be no audience, and that I should not have to speak, but, as a matter of duty, I went to the church, and found it packed with people. The surprise gave me a shock that I did not recover from during the whole evening.

People often ask me if I feel nervous before speaking, or else they suggest that, since I speak often, they suppose that I get used to it. In answer to this question I have to say that I always suffer intensely from nervousness before speaking. More than once, just before I was to make an important address, this nervous strain has been so great that I have resolved never again to speak in public. I not only feel nervous before speaking, but after I have finished I usually feel a sense of regret, because it seems to me as if I had left out of my address the main thing and the best thing that I had meant to say.

There is a great compensation, though, for this preliminary nervous suffering, that comes to me after I have been speaking for about ten minutes, and have come to feel that I have really mastered my audience, and that we have gotten into full and complete sympathy with each other. It seems to me that there is rarely such a combination of mental and physical delight in any effort as that which comes to a public speaker when he feels that he has a great audience completely within his control. There is a thread of sympathy and oneness that connects a public speaker with his audience, that is just as strong as though it was something tangible and visible. If in an audience of a thousand people there is one person who is not in sympathy with my views, or is inclined to be doubtful, cold, or critical, I can pick him out. When I have found him I usually go straight at him, and it is a great satisfaction to watch the process of his thawing out. I find that the most effective medicine for such individuals is administered at first in the form of a story, although I never tell an anecdote simply for the sake of telling one. That kind of thing, I think, is empty and hollow, and an audience soon finds it out.

I believe that one always does himself and his audience an injustice when he speaks merely for the sake of speaking. I do not believe that one should speak unless, deep down in his heart, he feels convinced that he has a message to deliver. When one feels, from the bottom of his feet to the top of his head, that he has something to say that is going to help some individual or some cause, then let him say it; and in delivering his message I do not believe that many of the artificial rules of elocution can, under such circumstances, help him very much. Although there are certain things, such as pauses, breathing, and pitch of voice, that are very important, none of these can take the place of soul in an address. When I have an address to deliver, I like to forget all about the rules for the proper use of the English language, and all about rhetoric and that sort of thing, and I like to make the audience forget all about these things, too.

Nothing tends to throw me off my balance so quickly, when I am speaking, as to have some one leave the room. To prevent this, I make up my mind, as a rule, that I will try to make my address so interesting, will try to state so many interesting facts one after another, that no one can leave. The average audience, I have come to believe, wants facts rather than generalities or sermonizing. Most people, I think, are able to draw proper conclusions if they are given the facts in an interesting form on which to base them.

As to the kind of audience that I like best to talk to, I would put at the top of the list an organization of strong, wide-awake, business men, such, for example, as is found in Boston, New York, Chicago, and Buffalo. I have found no other audience so quick to see a point, and so responsive. Within the last few years I have had the privilege of speaking before most of the leading organizations of this kind in the large cities of the United States. The best time to get hold of an organization of business men is after a good dinner, although I think that one of the worst instruments of torture that was ever invented is the custom which makes it necessary for a speaker to sit through a fourteen-course dinner, every minute of the time feeling sure that his speech is going to prove a dismal failure and disappointment.

I rarely take part in one of these long dinners that I do not wish that I could put myself back in the little cabin where I was a slave boy, and again go through the experience there—one that I shall never forget—of getting molasses to eat once a week from the "big house." Our usual diet on the plantation was corn bread and pork, but on Sunday morning my mother was permitted to bring down a little molasses from the "big house" for her three children, and when it was received how I did wish that every day was Sunday! I would get my tin plate and hold it up for the sweet morsel, but I would always shut my eyes while the molasses was being poured out into the plate, with the hope that when I opened them I would be surprised to see how much I had got. When I opened my eyes I would tip the plate in one direction and another, so as to make the molasses spread all over it, in the full belief that there would be more of it and that it would last longer if spread out in this way. So strong are my childish impressions of those Sunday morning feasts that it would be pretty hard for any one to convince me that there is not more molasses on a plate when it is spread all over the plate than when it occupies a little corner—if there is a corner in a plate. At any rate, I have never believed in "cornering" syrup. My share of the syrup was usually about two tablespoonfuls, and those two spoonfuls of molasses were much more enjoyable to me than is a fourteen-course dinner after which I am to speak.

Next to a company of business men, I prefer to speak to an audience of Southern people, of either race, together or taken separately. Their enthusiasm and responsiveness are a constant delight. The "amens" and "dat's de truf" that come spontaneously from the coloured individuals are calculated to spur any speaker on to his best efforts. I think that next in order of preference I would place a college audience. It has been my privilege to deliver addresses at many of our leading colleges including Harvard, Yale, Williams, Amherst, Fisk University, the University of Pennsylvania, Wellesley, the University of Michigan, Trinity College in North Carolina, and many others.

It has been a matter of deep interest to me to note the number of people who have come to shake hands with me after an address, who say that this is the first time they have ever called a Negro "Mister."

When speaking directly in the interests of the Tuskegee Institute, I usually arrange, some time in advance, a series of meetings in important centres. This takes me before churches, Sunday-schools, Christian Endeavour Societies, and men's and women's clubs. When doing this I sometimes speak before as many as four organizations in a single day.

Three years ago, at the suggestion of Mr. Morris K. Jessup, of New York, and Dr. J.L.M. Curry, the general agent of the fund, the trustees of the John F. Slater Fund voted a sum of money to be used in paying the expenses of Mrs. Washington and myself while holding a series of meetings among the coloured people in the large centres of Negro population, especially in the large cities of the ex-slaveholding states. Each year during the last three years we have devoted some weeks to this work. The plan that we have followed has been for me to speak in the morning to the ministers, teachers, and professional men. In the afternoon Mrs. Washington would speak to the women alone, and in the evening I spoke to a large mass-meeting. In almost every case the meetings have been attended not only by the coloured people in large numbers, but by the white people. In Chattanooga, Tenn., for example, there was present at the mass-meeting an audience of not less than three thousand persons, and I was informed that eight hundred of these were white. I have done no work that I really enjoyed more than this, or that I think has accomplished more good.

These meetings have given Mrs. Washington and myself an opportunity to get first-hand, accurate information as to the real condition of the race, by seeing the people in their homes, their churches, their Sunday-schools, and their places of work, as well as in the prisons and dens of crime. These meetings also gave us an opportunity to see the relations that exist between the races. I never feel so hopeful about the race as I do after being engaged in a series of these meetings. I know that on such occasions there is much that comes to the surface that is superficial and deceptive, but I have had experience enough not to be deceived by mere signs and fleeting enthusiasms. I have taken pains to go to the bottom of things and get facts, in a cold, business-like manner.

I have seen the statement made lately, by one who claims to know what he is talking about, that, taking the whole Negro race into account, ninety per cent of the Negro women are not virtuous. There never was a baser falsehood uttered concerning a race, or a statement made that was less capable of being proved by actual facts.

No one can come into contact with the race for twenty years, as I have done in the heart of the South, without being convinced that the race is constantly making slow but sure progress materially, educationally, and morally. One might take up the life of the worst element in New York City, for example, and prove almost anything he wanted to prove concerning the white man, but all will agree that this is not a fair test.

Early in the year 1897 I received a letter inviting me to deliver an address at the dedication of the Robert Gould Shaw monument in Boston. I accepted the invitation. It is not necessary for me, I am sure, to explain who Robert Gould Shaw was, and what he did. The monument to his memory stands near the head of the Boston Common, facing the State House. It is counted to be the most perfect piece of art of the kind to be found in the country.

The exercises connected with the dedication were held in Music Hall, in Boston, and the great hall was packed from top to bottom with one of the most distinguished audiences that ever assembled in the city. Among those present were more persons representing the famous old anti-slavery element that it is likely will ever be brought together in the country again. The late Hon. Roger Wolcott, then Governor of Massachusetts, was the presiding officer, and on the platform with him were many other officials and hundreds of distinguished men. A report of the meeting which appeared in the Boston Transcript will describe it better than any words of mine could do:—

The core and kernel of yesterday's great noon meeting, in honour of the Brotherhood of Man, in Music Hall, was the superb address of the Negro President of Tuskegee. "Booker T. Washington received his Harvard A.M. last June, the first of his race," said Governor Wolcott, "to receive an honorary degree from the oldest university in the land, and this for the wise leadership of his people." When Mr. Washington rose in the flag-filled, enthusiasm-warmed, patriotic, and glowing atmosphere of Music Hall, people felt keenly that here was the civic justification of the old abolition spirit of Massachusetts; in his person the proof of her ancient and indomitable faith; in his strong thought and rich oratory, the crown and glory of the old war days of suffering and strife. The scene was full of historic beauty and deep significance. "Cold" Boston was alive with the fire that is always hot in her heart for righteousness and truth. Rows and rows of people who are seldom seen at any public function, whole families of those who are certain to be out of town on a holiday, crowded the place to overflowing. The city was at her birthright fête in the persons of hundreds of her best citizens, men and women whose names and lives stand for the virtues that make for honourable civic pride.

Battle-music had filled the air. Ovation after ovation, applause warm and prolonged, had greeted the officers and friends of Colonel Shaw, the sculptor, St. Gaudens, the memorial Committee, the Governor and his staff, and the Negro soldiers of the Fifty-fourth Massachusetts as they came upon the platform or entered the hall. Colonel Henry Lee, of Governor Andrew's old staff, had made a noble, simple presentation speech for the committee, paying tribute to Mr. John M. Forbes, in whose stead he served. Governor Wolcott had made his short, memorable speech, saying, "Fort Wagner marked an epoch in the history of a race, and called it into manhood." Mayor Quincy had received the monument for the city of Boston. The story of Colonel Shaw and his black regiment had been told in gallant words, and then, after the singing of Mine eyes have seen the glory Of the coming of the Lord,

Booker Washington arose. It was, of course, just the moment for him. The multitude, shaken out of its usual symphony-concert calm, quivered with an excitement that was not suppressed. A dozen times it had sprung to its feet to cheer and wave and hurrah, as one person. When this man of culture and voice and power, as well as a dark skin, began, and uttered the names of Stearns and of Andrew, feeling began to mount. You could see tears glisten in the eyes of soldiers and civilians. When the orator turned to the coloured soldiers on the platform, to the colour-bearer of Fort Wagner, who smilingly bore still the flag he had never lowered even when wounded, and said, "To you, to the scarred and scattered remnants of the Fifty-fourth, who, with empty sleeve and wanting leg, have honoured this occasion with your presence, to you, your commander is not dead. Though Boston erected no monument and history recorded no story, in you and in the loyal race which you represent, Robert Gould Shaw would have a monument which time could not wear away," then came the climax of the emotion of the day and the hour. It was Roger Wolcott, as well as the Governor of Massachusetts, the individual representative of the people's sympathy as well as the chief magistrate, who had sprung first to his feet and cried, "Three cheers to Booker T. Washington!"

Among those on the platform was Sergeant William H. Carney, of New Bedford, Mass., the brave coloured officer who was the colour-bearer at Fort Wagner and held the American flag. In spite of the fact that a large part of his regiment was killed, he escaped, and exclaimed, after the battle was over, "The old flag never touched the ground."

This flag Sergeant Carney held in his hands as he sat on the platform, and when I turned to address the survivors of the coloured regiment who were present, and referred to Sergeant Carney, he rose, as if by instinct, and raised the flag. It has been my privilege to witness a good many satisfactory and rather sensational demonstrations in connection with some of my public addresses, but in dramatic effect I have never seen or experienced anything which equalled this. For a number of minutes the audience seemed to entirely lose control of itself.

In the general rejoicing throughout the country which followed the close of the Spanish-American war, peace celebrations were arranged in several of the large cities. I was asked by President William R. Harper, of the University of Chicago, who was chairman of the committee of invitations for the celebration to be held in the city of Chicago, to deliver one of the addresses at the celebration there. I accepted the invitation, and delivered two addresses there during the Jubilee week. The first of these, and the principal one, was given in the Auditorium, on the evening of Sunday, October 16. This was the largest audience that I have ever addressed, in any part of the country; and besides speaking in the main Auditorium, I also addressed, that same evening, two overflow audiences in other parts of the city.

It was said that there were sixteen thousand persons in the Auditorium, and it seemed to me as if there were as many more on the outside trying to get in. It was impossible for any one to get near the entrance without the aid of a policeman. President William McKinley attended this meeting, as did also the members of his Cabinet, many foreign ministers, and a large number of army and navy officers, many of whom had distinguished themselves in the war which had just closed. The speakers, besides myself, on Sunday evening, were Rabbi Emil G. Hirsch, Father Thomas P. Hodnett, and Dr. John H. Barrows.

The Chicago Times-Herald, in describing the meeting, said of my address:—

He pictured the Negro choosing slavery rather than extinction; recalled Crispus Attucks shedding his blood at the beginning of the American Revolution, that white Americans might be free, while black Americans remained in slavery; rehearsed the conduct of the Negroes with Jackson at New Orleans; drew a vivid and pathetic picture of the Southern slaves protecting and supporting the families of their masters while the latter were fighting to perpetuate black slavery; recounted the bravery of coloured troops at Port Hudson and Forts Wagner and Pillow, and praised the heroism of the black regiments that stormed El Caney and Santiago to give freedom to the enslaved people of Cuba, forgetting, for the time being, the unjust discrimination that law and custom make against them in their own country.

In all of these things, the speaker declared, his race had chosen the better part. And then he made his eloquent appeal to the consciences of the white Americans: "When you have gotten the full story of the heroic conduct of the Negro in the Spanish-American war, have heard it from the lips of Northern soldier and Southern soldier, from ex-abolitionist and ex-masters, then decide within yourselves whether a race that is thus willing to die for its country should not be given the highest opportunity to live for its country."

The part of the speech which seems to arouse the wildest and most sensational enthusiasm was that in which I thanked the President for his recognition of the Negro in his appointments during the Spanish-American war. The President was sitting in a box at the right of the stage. When I addressed him I turned toward the box, and as I finished the sentence thanking him for his generosity, the whole audience rose and cheered again and again, waving handkerchiefs and hats and canes, until the President arose in the box and bowed his acknowledgements. At that the enthusiasm broke out again, and the demonstration was almost indescribable.

One portion of my address at Chicago seemed to have been misunderstood by the Southern press, and some of the Southern papers took occasion to criticise me rather strongly. These criticisms continued for several weeks, until I finally received a letter from the editor of the Age-Herald, published in Birmingham, Ala., asking me if I would say just what I meant by this part of the address. I replied to him in a letter which seemed to satisfy my critics. In this letter I said that I had made it a rule never to say before a Northern audience anything that I would not say before an audience in the South. I said that I did not think it was necessary for me to go into extended explanations; if my seventeen years of work in the heart of the South had not been explanation enough, I did not see how words could explain. I said that I made the same plea that I had made in my address at Atlanta, for the blotting out of race prejudice in "commercial and civil relations." I said that what is termed social recognition was a question which I never discussed, and then I quoted from my Atlanta address what I had said there in regard to that subject.

In meeting crowds of people at public gatherings, there is one type of individual that I dread. I mean the crank. I have become so accustomed to these people now that I can pick them out at a distance when I see them elbowing their way up to me. The average crank has a long beard, poorly cared for, a lean, narrow face, and wears a black coat. The front of his vest and coat are slick with grease, and his trousers bag at the knees.

In Chicago, after I had spoken at a meeting, I met one of these fellows. They usually have some process for curing all of the ills of the world at once. This Chicago specimen had a patent process by which he said Indian corn could be kept through a period of three or four years, and he felt sure that if the Negro race in the South would, as a whole, adopt his process, it would settle the whole race question. It mattered nothing that I tried to convince him that our present problem was to teach the Negroes how to produce enough corn to last them through one year. Another Chicago crank had a scheme by which he wanted me to join him in an effort to close up all the National banks in the country. If that was done, he felt sure it would put the Negro on his feet.

The number of people who stand ready to consume one's time, to no purpose, is almost countless. At one time I spoke before a large audience in Boston in the evening. The next morning I was awakened by having a card brought to my room, and with it a message that some one was anxious to see me. Thinking that it must be something very important, I dressed hastily and went down. When I reached the hotel office I found a blank and innocent-looking individual waiting for me, who coolly remarked: "I heard you talk at a meeting last night. I rather liked your talk, and so I came in this morning to hear you talk some more."

I am often asked how it is possible for me to superintend the work at Tuskegee and at the same time be so much away from the school. In partial answer to this I would say that I think I have learned, in some degree at least, to disregard the old maxim which says, "Do not get others to do that which you can do yourself." My motto, on the other hand, is, "Do not do that which others can do as well."

One of the most encouraging signs in connection with the Tuskegee school is found in the fact that the organization is so thorough that the daily work of the school is not dependent upon the presence of any one individual. The whole executive force, including instructors and clerks, now numbers eighty-six. This force is so organized and subdivided that the machinery of the school goes on day by day like clockwork. Most of our teachers have been connected with the institutions for a number of years, and are as much interested in it as I am. In my absence, Mr. Warren Logan, the treasurer, who has been at the school seventeen years, is the executive. He is efficiently supported by Mrs. Washington, and by my faithful secretary, Mr. Emmett J. Scott, who handles the bulk of my correspondence and keeps me in daily touch with the life of the school, and who also keeps me informed of whatever takes place in the South that concerns the race. I owe more to his tact, wisdom, and hard work than I can describe.

The main executive work of the school, whether I am at Tuskegee or not, centres in what we call the executive council. This council meets twice a week, and is composed of the nine persons who are at the head of the nine departments of the school. For example: Mrs. B.K. Bruce, the Lady Principal, the widow of the late ex-senator Bruce, is a member of the council, and represents in it all that pertains to the life of the girls at the school. In addition to the executive council there is a financial committee of six, that meets every week and decides upon the expenditures for the week. Once a month, and sometimes oftener, there is a general meeting of all the instructors. Aside from these there are innumerable smaller meetings, such as that of the instructors in the Phelps Hall Bible Training School, or of the instructors in the agricultural department.

In order that I may keep in constant touch with the life of the institution, I have a system of reports so arranged that a record of the school's work reaches me every day of the year, no matter in what part of the country I am. I know by these reports even what students are excused from school, and why they are excused—whether for reasons of ill health or otherwise. Through the medium of these reports I know each day what the income of the school in money is; I know how many gallons of milk and how many pounds of butter come from the dairy; what the bill of fare for the teachers and students is; whether a certain kind of meat was boiled or baked, and whether certain vegetables served in the dining room were bought from a store or procured from our own farm. Human nature I find to be very much the same the world over, and it is sometimes not hard to yield to the temptation to go to a barrel of rice that has come from the store—with the grain all prepared to go in the pot—rather than to take the time and trouble to go to the field and dig and wash one's own sweet potatoes, which might be prepared in a manner to take the place of the rice.

I am often asked how, in the midst of so much work, a large part of which is for the public, I can find time for any rest or recreation, and what kind of recreation or sports I am fond of. This is rather a difficult question to answer. I have a strong feeling that every individual owes it to himself, and to the cause which he is serving, to keep a vigorous, healthy body, with the nerves steady and strong, prepared for great efforts and prepared for disappointments and trying positions. As far as I can, I make it a rule to plan for each day's work—not merely to go through with the same routine of daily duties, but to get rid of the routine work as early in the day as possible, and then to enter upon some new or advance work. I make it a rule to clear my desk every day, before leaving my office, of all correspondence and memoranda, so that on the morrow I can begin a new day of work. I make it a rule never to let my work drive me, but to so master it, and keep it in such complete control, and to keep so far ahead of it, that I will be the master instead of the servant. There is a physical and mental and spiritual enjoyment that comes from a consciousness of being the absolute master of one's work, in all its details, that is very satisfactory and inspiring. My experience teaches me that, if one learns to follow this plan, he gets a freshness of body and vigour of mind out of work that goes a long way toward keeping him strong and healthy. I believe that when one can grow to the point where he loves his work, this gives him a kind of strength that is most valuable.

When I begin my work in the morning, I expect to have a successful and pleasant day of it, but at the same time I prepare myself for unpleasant and unexpected hard places. I prepared myself to hear that one of our school buildings is on fire, or has burned, or that some disagreeable accident has occurred, or that some one has abused me in a public address or printed article, for something that I have done or omitted to do, or for something that he had heard that I had said—probably something that I had never thought of saying.

In nineteen years of continuous work I have taken but one vacation. That was two years ago, when some of my friends put the money into my hands and forced Mrs. Washington and myself to spend three months in Europe. I have said that I believe it is the duty of every one to keep his body in good condition. I try to look after the little ills, with the idea that if I take care of the little ills the big ones will not come. When I find myself unable to sleep well, I know that something is wrong. If I find any part of my system the least weak, and not performing its duty, I consult a good physician. The ability to sleep well, at any time and in any place, I find of great advantage. I have so trained myself that I can lie down for a nap of fifteen or twenty minutes, and get up refreshed in body and mind.

I have said that I make it a rule to finish up each day's work before leaving it. There is, perhaps, one exception to this. When I have an unusually difficult question to decide—one that appeals strongly to the emotions—I find it a safe rule to sleep over it for a night, or to wait until I have had an opportunity to talk it over with my wife and friends.

As to my reading; the most time I get for solid reading is when I am on the cars. Newspapers are to me a constant source of delight and recreation. The only trouble is that I read too many of them. Fiction I care little for. Frequently I have to almost force myself to read a novel that is on every one's lips. The kind of reading that I have the greatest fondness for is biography. I like to be sure that I am reading about a real man or a real thing. I think I do not go too far when I say that I have read nearly every book and magazine article that has been written about Abraham Lincoln. In literature he is my patron saint.

Out of the twelve months in a year I suppose that, on an average, I spend six months away from Tuskegee. While my being absent from the school so much unquestionably has its disadvantages, yet there are at the same time some compensations. The change of work brings a certain kind of rest. I enjoy a ride of a long distance on the cars, when I am permitted to ride where I can be comfortable. I get rest on the cars, except when the inevitable individual who seems to be on every train approaches me with the now familiar phrase: "Isn't this Booker Washington? I want to introduce myself to you." Absence from the school enables me to lose sight of the unimportant details of the work, and study it in a broader and more comprehensive manner than I could do on the grounds. This absence also brings me into contact with the best work being done in educational lines, and into contact with the best educators in the land.

But, after all this is said, the time when I get the most solid rest and recreation is when I can be at Tuskegee, and, after our evening meal is over, can sit down, as is our custom, with my wife and Portia and Baker and Davidson, my three children, and read a story, or each take turns in telling a story. To me there is nothing on earth equal to that, although what is nearly equal to it is to go with them for an hour or more, as we like to do on Sunday afternoons, into the woods, where we can live for a while near the heart of nature, where no one can disturb or vex us, surrounded by pure air, the trees, the shrubbery, the flowers, and the sweet fragrance that springs from a hundred plants, enjoying the chirp of the crickets and the songs of the birds. This is solid rest.

My garden, also, what little time I can be at Tuskegee, is another source of rest and enjoyment. Somehow I like, as often as possible, to touch nature, not something that is artificial or an imitation, but the real thing. When I can leave my office in time so that I can spend thirty or forty minutes in spading the ground, in planting seeds, in digging about the plants, I feel that I am coming into contact with something that is giving me strength for the many duties and hard places that await me out in the big world. I pity the man or woman who has never learned to enjoy nature and to get strength and inspiration out of it.

Aside from the large number of fowls and animals kept by the school, I keep individually a number of pigs and fowls of the best grades, and in raising these I take a great deal of pleasure. I think the pig is my favourite animal. Few things are more satisfactory to me than a high-grade Berkshire or Poland China pig.

Games I care little for. I have never seen a game of football. In cards I do not know one card from another. A game of old-fashioned marbles with my two boys, once in a while, is all I care for in this direction. I suppose I would care for games now if I had had any time in my youth to give to them, but that was not possible.

[nordleuchten]

I know that this was intended as a joke, but ever since reading it, I can not stop asking myself: what was La Fayette’s taste in music?

And to be honest, there is not much to be found in his letters, Memoirs and the writings of his family and friends. I searched for the words song/music/tune/melody/piano/singing/voice/concert/opera and there was not really much turning up.

La Fayette wrote to John Adams on February 22, 1786:

(…) However Strange it Appears, if they will Give up the forts, or let us Have the pleasure to Walk into those formidable Works on our Saratoga tune of Yankee doodle.

“To John Adams from the Marquis de Lafayette, 22 February 1786,” Founders Online, National Archives, https://founders.archives.gov/documents/Adams/06-18-02-0091. [Original source: The Adams Papers, Papers of John Adams, vol. 18, December 1785–January 1787, ed. Gregg L. Lint, Sara Martin, C. James Taylor, Sara Georgini, Hobson Woodward, Sara B. Sikes, Amanda M. Norton. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016, pp. 182–183.] (02/13/2024)

I am pretty sure that I read somewhere else that his son later wrote, that La Fayette liked indeed the popular song “Yankee Doodle” and he even ordered his marching band to strike up the song after the Battle of Yorktown was won.

Jules Germain Cloquet has a passage in his book where he writes:

Whenever an author of his acquaintance had a new dramatic piece represented, Lafayette felt pleasure in going to the theatre with his children. He sometimes attended benefit representations, and always preferred the French national theatre and the Italian opera to any other theatre. He also went to balls or concerts given for the benefit of the poor and of refugees, and made it a point to accept invitations to patriotic banquets (…)

Jules Germain Cloquet, Recollections of the Private Life of General Lafayette, Baldwin and Cradock, London, 1835, p. 251.

Seems like La Fayette most often had a “reason” to go to these sorts of entertainments instead of just enjoying himself. But the opera seems to be something he truly valued. When he was in London as a young man he also attended the Opera and chatted with General Clinton shortly before the performance started. There is also a letter by Emma Willard that, in part, talks about the two of them visiting the opera. Willard wrote to her sister Almira Hart Lincoln Phelps from December 7, 1830:

I must now tell you, how it was that we spent the evening together. It was at the Opera Francais, usually called the Grand Opera. You will remember that he told me he had not been at a theatre since the revolution, and the first time he did go, he would go with me. One evening before had been appointed, and failed from the illness of one of the performers. It was the evening before last that we finally went [December 5]. I expected that the people would have cheered him as he entered. But he was in a citizen's dress, and went with a determination, as it appeared, not to be known.

Emma Willard, Journal and Letters from France and Great-Britain, 1833.

So, opera most likely.

what do you think Lafayette or Hamilton’s favorite music artist/ band would be?

That's a hard one. I'm thinking that Lafayette would love the indie music scene and Hamilton would love the bassy type of music.

[76historylover]

this version of god rest ye merry gentleman is one of the best covers i've ever heard. so whimsical and beautiful at the same time!

[feelssogoodinmyarms]

the only reason i haven’t deleted my tap lecture notes off my notes app is because of titles i came up with

[tallmadgeandtea]

Y’all mind if I just

you will NEVER fucking guess what the first song is on the wikipedia page for “list of diss tracks”

[skarsgard-daydreams]

Know Thyself

Description: When Eric invites you to his dungeon, you get more than you bargained for.

Notes: 5,800 words of kinky Eric Northman smut. Reposted because this hellsite reordered several paragraphs for no reason.

Warnings: 18+, sexual content, bondage, spanking, orgasm control, forced orgasms

"You're not on the schedule tonight," a familiar voice drawled as you arrived at Fangtasia for your shift. Pam stood in front of the mirror in the break room applying her blood red lipstick with razor thin precision. "Boss's orders," she added, her lips curling with an amusement that was frankly disquieting.

You shoved your purse in your locker anyway and gave Pam a skeptical look. "What are you not telling me?"

Pam slid the gold lid back onto the tube of lipstick with a click. "As much as I would love to stand around and answer stupid questions all night, I still have a job to do," she said. Dark, grungy rock music began to blare in the club proper, signaling that Fangtasia would soon be open. Pam closed your locker in the blink of an eye, a wicked grin spreading across her pink lips. "You’re coming with me," she said. She gave you a little push out of the room and steered you downstairs with a firm grip on your shoulder. It would be pointless to argue, so you stumbled along in front of her as Pam’s dagger-like stilettos echoed in the stairwell.

As far as you knew, the basement of Fangtasia was little more than a crammed storage room filled with excess liquor, Halloween decorations, and old VHS tapes from its heyday as a video rental store before vampires came out of the coffin. A set of keys rattled in Pam's hand and she unlocked a metal door that you had always assumed led to the broom closet. She held it open and stared at you with cold eyes.

“Go on.”

The hard edge in Pam’s voice chilled your blood, but you swallowed your nerves and stepped into a long stone corridor dimly lit with torches. You heard nothing except your own heartbeat and the faint crackling of the torches as you stepped inside. Her hand connected with the small of your back and you both proceeded down the passage, which had several alcoves walled off with iron bars that were so dark you couldn’t tell if they were occupied or not. Pam stopped in front of a heavy wooden door at the end of the hall and produced an old-fashioned key that she had tucked into her bodice. She eyed your black Fangtasia t-shirt and pursed her lips.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Pam,” you said nervously, but the rest of your words dried up in your throat as she stared you down. You took off your top and shimmied out of your jeans, feeling the heat of embarrassment rise to your face.

No matter how many times you undressed in front of Pam, you always felt like a piece of merchandise under her scrupulous gaze. She slid her fingers under the elastic waist of your panties and snapped it against your skin. “And these,” she added. You slipped out of your panties and took off your bra as well, adding them to the pile of clothes on the floor.

“Don’t worry,” Pam said in a flat tone that was not even a little bit reassuring as she opened the door and gestured for you to go inside. “You look good enough to eat.”

You crossed the threshold into a spacious stone chamber with vaulted cathedral ceilings and arched doorways leading off in four different directions. But what caught your eye was not the architecture or the flickering candlelight in the rooms beyond. It was the ancient iron maiden that stood in the center of the room, its doors clamped shut and its strange carved face contorted with anguish as it stared wordlessly at the place where you stood.

Behind you, the heavy door creaked shut and you heard the scrape of the bolt sliding back into place, locking you within. Even though you knew this had to be orchestrated by Eric, your veins suddenly iced over with fear. You heard soft footfalls coming from one of the rooms beyond and instinctively took a step back, your heel colliding with the door behind you. A tall figure appeared in the central doorway wearing a wry smile and a plain black tank and jeans.

“Where are your clothes?” Eric asked. You furrowed your brows, realizing that you stripped down in front of Pam for no reason. “Ah,” he said. “Pam.”

“She never misses an opportunity,” you said, embarrassed by your own naiveté.

Eric chuckled and took your hand in his. “I will deal with her later,” he said. “Come with me.”

You followed him into the room to the far left, which reminded you of a Roman bath. A pool of dark water rippled below, its steaming surface scattered with purple flower petals and floating candles. The smell of incense hung in the humid air—something warm and inviting, laced with exotic spices. At the end of the chamber, a reclining skeleton was painted on the wall with two words written in Greek letters below it. Eric retrieved a short silk robe hand painted with peony blossoms from a hook on the wall and held it open while you slid your arms into the sleeves.

"What does that say?" you asked. Eric's lips brushed against your temple as he reached around and tied the robe shut with a decisive motion.

"Know thyself," he said. "It's a replica of the memento mori in the baths of Diocletian in Rome." He kept his arms around your waist and you leaned against him, enjoying how solid he seemed as he held you from behind. It wasn't often you had uninterrupted time alone with your lover. He was always being pulled in one direction or another by whoever was above him in the complicated vampire hierarchy, or he was occupied with the problems his own subordinates brought to him. But tonight you knew you would not be interrupted. You turned in his arms and looked up at Eric, trailing your fingertips over his bare muscled shoulders.

"What do you want to do with me?" you asked with shy smile as Eric inhaled the scent of your hair like a sommelier using all of his senses to sample a fine wine.

"Possess you utterly," Eric murmured. His voice was gravelly and full of desire, and his candor surprised you. He tangled his fingers in your hair and captured your mouth in a languid kiss. You swayed a little, but he held you steady as he tilted your head back and dragged his lips down your throat, savoring your taste. He sucked lightly on your pulse, which seemed to be directly connected to your center. You hummed softly in encouragement and reached for his belt, but he pulled away.

Candlelight reflected in the dark water below, dancing to the syncopated rhythm of your heart. Worry itched at the back of your mind as you watched Eric walk away, his bare feet slapping against the stone floor. Perhaps you had done something wrong. He retrieved a black gift box from a hammered metal table and stood before you again in an instant.

“I have something for you.” Though Eric seemed to possess an endless store of confidence, there was a hint of uncertainty in his voice. He was trying to be careful, you realized, fearing he might scare you away. You summoned a reassuring smile and traced your fingers along the edge of the box.

“You spoil me.”

A slight smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “That’s what Pam keeps saying,” Eric said. He took the lid off the box, revealing a solid metal choker. It was thin but surprisingly sturdy, with a small keyhole on the clasp at the back. A delicate spray of flowers and vines swirled across its surface, carved with such care that they created a sense of motion. You lifted it out of the box and studied the pattern quietly, aware that you were being studied as well.

“It’s beautiful,” you said sincerely. You lifted your eyes and offered it back to Eric, gathering your hair away from the nape of your neck. He turned you to face away from him and opened the clasp on the necklace. After a moment, smooth metal circled your throat. It felt cool against your warm skin and fit snugly into place without being too tight. You heard a tiny click at the back of your neck and realized it had locked when he closed it. Your breath hitched in your chest. Eric’s lips brushed against your ear as he spoke.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

Your mouth felt dry, but you nodded, reaching up to brush your fingers over the floral inlay of the necklace.

“What will you say if it’s not okay?” Eric asked. He placed his large hands on your shoulders and turned you to face him again. You pressed your lips together in thought for a moment. You had never needed a safe word with him before.

“Clementine,” you answered.

“Good.” He trailed his fingers along the edge of your jaw, drawing you closer. “And if you can’t speak, what will you hum?”

Your eyes widened and you forgot every song you’d ever known. “Um...” you said. “Yankee Doodle?”

Eric’s eyes crinkled with amusement, but he made no comment about your song choice. He leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to your lips. “Are you ready, pet?” he asked.

“I think so,” you said, but your voice sounded shaky and small. You weren’t sure what lay in the rooms beyond or what he had in store for the night. The torture device in the foyer had frightened you, but you trusted Eric. You chewed on your lip and tried to summon a playful smile. “Are you going to put me on a leash?”

The arched brow on your lover’s face told you he was now considering it. “Would you like me to?” he asked, always willing to up the ante.

“I...” you stammered. The thought filled you with horror and excitement in equal measure, and you weren’t sure how to answer. But Eric’s blue eyes were full of mischief as he approached a mahogany apothecary cabinet and opened one of the drawers.

“I hadn’t exactly planned on that.” He rifled through the drawer for a moment and took out a fine metal chain. “But I can oblige.”

Eric returned to you and attached the chain to the choker around your throat, testing it with a small tug. The solid metal acted as a collar, and you found yourself stumbling forward, forced to follow his lead. A toothy grin spread across Eric’s face. You wanted to be mad at him, but you were breathless with anticipation. He wrapped the chain around his hand and you trailed after him without resistance as he led you from the room.

“I could get used to this,” he quipped, entering the foyer.

“I’m sure you could.”

Your eyes met the gaze of the iron maiden again, and you were relieved when Eric walked past it without a second glance. “What is that for?” you asked.

Eric looked at the torture device. “Pam liberated it from a museum in Spain, but I doubt it was ever used before she got her claws in it,” he said. “It's more ornamental than practical.”

“So, you’ve never used it.”

“I didn’t say that,” Eric said with an air of mystery. He tugged on the chain, urging you to follow him into a rounded chamber with a circular dais in the center. Thick shackles hung from the walls on massive chains that looked strong enough to secure a vampire, and several human shaped cages were suspended from the ceiling. Your heart leapt into your throat.

“What are those?” you peeped nervously as Eric removed the chain from your choker and untied your robe. His eyes followed yours toward the ceiling.

“Another of Pam’s acquisitions,” he said, pushing the robe off your shoulders. The fabric pooled at your feet and his gaze swept over your naked flesh approvingly. “The English used to hang the corpses of criminals in them after execution as a warning to others.”

You weren’t sure if you wanted to know the answer to your next question, but you blurted it out anyway. “What does Pam use them for?”

Eric shrugged. “I don’t ask.” He took you by the hand and led you to the dais, holding you steady as you stepped onto it. “Stand here,” he said. “I want to get a good look at you.”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other and watched as Eric circled you slowly like a predator stalking its prey. The surface beneath you was rough and uncomfortable to stand on with bare feet. Something told you that was by design. Eric appeared in front of you again, considering you with a steely gaze.

“Kneel,” he commanded in a firm voice.

You lowered yourself to your knees and realized you were trembling slightly. The uneven surface of the dais below you dug into your knees as you sat back on your heels and cast an uncertain glance at your lover. He had never spoken to you in that tone of voice before, and you weren’t sure what it meant.

Eric studied your face with hooded eyes and tucked your hair behind your ear. “You look so lovely on your knees,” he said as though it was a thought he had not intended to say out loud. You tilted your head toward his hand, craving his touch, but he withdrew it and looked at you with a stony expression. “Lift both of your hands as high as you can.”

You did as he instructed and he gave you a small nod of approval. “Good,” he said. “Now, don’t move,” he added. “I will return in a moment.”

In the blink of an eye, he was gone. You sat alone in the strange circular room with your arms stretched above you and the floor digging painfully into your knees. Though you heard no sound from the other rooms, you had the unmistakable feeling that you were being watched. You shifted a little, trying to find a position that was comfortable, but moving only seemed to make your knees hurt even more.

You had no way of knowing how long you waited. Soon the muscles in your shoulders began to ache, but Eric did not return. You wondered if you should call for him. Maybe he had lost track of time.

“Eric?” you called softly. In the empty room, you received no reply. Your knees were stinging now and the muscles in your arms burned with the continued effort to keep them lifted in the air. You knew you would not last much longer. A whimper escaped your lips and you wobbled a little, lowering one of your hands. Eric appeared in front of you instantly, his expression stormy.

“What did I tell you to do?” he asked. His voice was quiet but keen like the blade of a knife.

You looked at him with wide eyes, your heart hammering in your chest. “Keep my hands in the air,” you said.

“And what did you do?”

“I... I lowered them,” you answered. You furrowed your brows together, feeling it was deeply unfair for him to blame you for something you couldn’t help. “But you weren’t here, and I couldn’t do it any longer.”

Eric’s brow arched in warning and his icy blue eyes hardened. Silence fell over you like a spell and you knew it had been a mistake to argue. “I’m sorry,” you mumbled. You lowered your gaze to the floor and took several deep breaths, waiting for him to speak.

“I know you are,” Eric said. “And I will forgive you after you’ve been punished.”

He grabbed both of your wrists and dragged you to your feet. You wobbled as he pulled you off the dais, hauling you out of the room without giving you a chance to catch your balance.

“Eric!” you yelped, staggering after him through the foyer and into another room. He stopped abruptly in front of a wall where countless whips, floggers, canes, paddles, and riding crops were hung.

“Pick one,” Eric said. He released his grip on your arms and sat on the foot of a black four-poster bed covered with a dark velvet quilt, waiting for you to make your selection.

You stared at the array of instruments before you. Some of them looked like the sort of thing you could pick up at any average sex shop, while others seemed to be custom-made or possibly the real thing. You swallowed your fear and reached for a leather riding crop with a narrow tip and a flexible handle. It seemed small enough that it might not inflict too much damage. You approached the foot of the bed and placed it in Eric’s hands. He whipped his open palm with the riding crop and shook his head.

“This one will sting too much,” he said. “Pick one that’s more rigid.”

He waited with patience while you tested several others in search of one that would meet his specifications. The anger that radiated from him before had now dissipated and he seemed set on administering your punishment based on principle rather than wrath. You had the distinct sense that everything was going exactly as planned—that you had been thrust into a labyrinth of impossible choices, and he was the minotaur that would delight in making you suffer. You had half a mind to throw the riding crop in Eric’s face and tell him you were going home, but you had enough faith in him to trust that he would be good to you.

Eric rose to his feet as you held out another riding crop. He tested it on his hand and nodded in approval. You thought he might draw his hand back and strike you at any moment, but he set it on the bed and picked up a silky blindfold, securing it over your eyes.

“Lay on your stomach,” he said in your ear. He grasped the nape of your neck in his hand and guided you down onto the bed so that you were folded over the foot of it with your ass prominently displayed. You turned your head to the side and took a few nervous breaths. The dull ache of desire throbbed in your center even though you had to fight off the urge to bolt. Eric squeezed the rounded flesh of your ass, caressing it appreciatively. “I want you to count for me when I strike you,” he instructed. “I’ll start with my hand, and then switch to the crop. We’ll do five of each.”

“Okay,” you said, your voice barely a whisper.

“Do you remember what to say if it’s not okay, pet?”

You considered the possibility of cashing in your get out of jail free card, but his hand slipped between your legs and stroked the length of your slit, offering you the promise of even greater reward if you played his game. A small gasp escaped from your lips and you pressed yourself into his touch, but his hand was gone. “I remember,” you said breathlessly. “I’m okay.”

“Then count for me,” Eric said. He drew back his open hand and delivered a stinging blow across your ass.

“One,” you managed to say.

“Good girl,” Eric purred. He massaged the sore spot for a moment and then struck you even harder, making you yelp in surprise. Your hips jerked and Eric pressed his left hand into the small of your back, pinning you in place as you gasped for breath. “Count,” he reminded you.

“Two.”

The third blow followed quickly, but Eric’s firm hand held you still. A stinging warmth was spreading over your ass and felt arousal pooling between your legs.

“Three,” you whimpered.

Eric struck you again and kneaded your ass, producing a low moan from your lips.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he asked, his own enjoyment evident in his voice. “What number was that?”

“Four.”

The fifth blow landed harder than the rest. You forgot to count, but Eric didn’t seem to care. He let you lay there panting softly, trying to catch your breath while he massaged your tender skin and teased you between your legs. The adrenaline in your system dulled the pain until it mingled with the sensation of Eric’s fingers stroking you, making your entire bottom radiate with pleasure. You whined needfully and rolled your hips into his touch.

“Oh, we’re not done yet,” Eric said. He withdrew his hand and sucked your arousal off his fingers. “Cross your wrists behind you,” he said. “I don’t want your hands to get in the way.”

You wanted to tell him he could punish you any time he liked if he would just fuck you then and there, but you knew you weren’t in a position to negotiate. You closed your mouth instead and did what you were told. Eric wrapped his hand around both of your wrists, pinning them against your lower back. You always knew he was strong, but you were stunned to realize he could immobilize you completely with just one of his hands. The riding crop made a whooshing sound as he swung it in the air experimentally, making you flinch with anticipation.

“Five more,” Eric reminded you. “Count for me.”

The sharp bite of the riding crop against your flesh stole the air from your lungs. The pain was much more concentrated than before, and the shaft of the instrument seemed to gather momentum easier than a bare hand.

“Breathe for me, pet,” you heard Eric saying. “That was one.”

You inhaled and exhaled, speaking in a shaky voice. “One.”

“Very good,” Eric murmured. “Focus on your breathing.”

He struck you again and dragged the tip of the riding crop over your dripping cunt, making you shiver.

“Two,” you moaned.

“That’s my girl,” he said. “Three more.”

Tears began to sting your eyes with the third blow, wetting the silk fabric that covered them.

“Three,” you whimpered.

“That’s right.”

The fourth blow struck even harder, and Eric held you steady as you bucked your hips. You were crying in earnest now, your tears leaking from the blindfold.

“You’re doing so well, my love,” he said softly. “Just one more.”

“Okay,” you sobbed.

You cried out when he struck you one last time, but an overwhelming sense of relief flooded your body as you realized that was the end. You were shaking all over and you could feel your pulse throbbing between your legs.

“F-five,” you stammered.

Eric released your wrists and trailed his hand over the marks on your ass, massaging it with care. Your hands fell limp at your sides, feeling leaden.

“Do you promise not to disobey me again?” Eric asked. He swirled his fingers around your swollen clit, drawing a low moan from your throat.

“I promise.”

“Then you are forgiven.” His melodic voice filled you with warmth and a moment later his fingers thrusted inside you. A long, breathy gasp escaped your lips and you felt your insides beginning to clench, but he pulled away.

“Don’t,” you pleaded. “Don’t stop.”

“Patience,” Eric said. “The night is young.”

He rolled you over and pulled you to your feet. Your legs felt weak, but he let you lean your full weight against him and bury your face against his chest as he untied the blindfold. It felt good to press yourself against something cool and familiar. A few stray tears leaked from your eyes. Eric wiped them away with the soft pad of his thumb and licked the salty liquid from his finger.

“How are you, pet?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” you mumbled into his shirt. And it was true. Even though the punishment Eric doled out had been painful, he had helped you through each moment. The fear that coursed through your veins earlier in the evening had been released in a kind of catharsis, and you now felt strangely at ease with whatever might happen next.

“Good,” Eric said. There was a hint of pride in his voice as he stroked your hair. “You’re very brave, for a human.”

You pressed a soft kiss against his throat and felt Eric’s hand tighten in your hair. “You’re very tender, for a vampire.”

“Only with you,” he mused. He took you by the hand and kissed your fingers, leading you out of the room. “Come.”

The last room was outfitted with several strange pieces of furniture that you suspected were part of Pam’s collection of authentic medieval torture devices. You recognized a rack in one corner and a set of stocks in another, but what caught your eye was the wooden frame in the shape of an X in the center of the room. It was covered in soft leather and had thick padded cuffs at the end of each arm.

Before you could ask Eric what it was, he spun you around and pinned you against it with his hips, giving you a bruising kiss. You moaned against his mouth as he secured your wrists to the frame. He kicked your feet apart and trailed his hands over the smooth curves of your body, scratching you lightly with his nails. Then he bound your ankles as well.

Your face felt flushed and your pulse roared in your ears as he stepped back and raked his gaze over your body. You knew you were utterly helpless, and every part of you was on display. Your legs were spread wide and your breasts heaved with each panting breath you took, trying to regain control of yourself. A smirk spread across Eric’s face. This was what he had been waiting for all night.

“In all my years, I don't think I've ever seen something so exquisite as you, pet.” He took a step closer and grabbed a fistful of your hair, kissing your throat as he spoke. “You're beautiful,” he said. “And you're mine.”

His words made your whole body resonate with satisfaction. Eric’s fangs scraped against your throat, but he did not bite you. Not yet. He wanted to savor every inch of you before deciding where to sink his teeth in. His tongue licked your throat while his hands roamed your body, pausing when he felt your heart begin to beat faster to lavish attention on the places where you were sensitive.

He smoothed his hand over your stomach and caught your nipples lightly between his teeth, enjoying each whine and whimper that came from your lips. He teased you with agonizing patience. Your body felt like a spring compressed under an enormous amount of pressure, and you were desperate for release. It would not take much now for you to come undone, but each time you were close, Eric ceased his ministrations.

“No, no, no,” Eric murmured against your breast as he stopped circling your clit with his thumb. “I haven't given you permission to come yet.”

You were about to protest when he took hold of a handle on the side of the X and suddenly rotated it upside down. Blood rushed into your face as you hung from your ankles, your arousal on full display. Eric made a small sound of satisfaction at the sight and sank his teeth into the soft flesh of your inner thigh. He thrust his fingers inside of you while he drank, stilling his hand whenever he felt your muscles begin to contract.

“Please,” you begged. “Please, Eric, I want you to fuck me.”

He withdrew his hand and dragged his tongue along the length of your slit. “Do you?” he asked with a surprised inflection. “Hmmm, I don't remember asking what you want, my love.”

Eric pulled away and righted the X before too much blood could rush to your head. Your heart was beating rapidly and your breathing was ragged. You watched his tall form shift out of view and heard him rifling through a drawer to the side as you caught your breath.

“Please,” you whined when he reappeared in front of you. “I need you inside me.”

“I know,” Eric said with mock sympathy. “But it gives me such pleasure to hear you beg.”

You heard the familiar buzz of a vibrator before you felt it. Eric pressed the powerful toy against your sensitive mound and produced a low, guttural moan from your throat. “You're not allowed to come yet, sweet girl,” he reminded you.

“You’re gonna make me,” you panted. “Eric, please.”

Eric lubricated the vibrator with your arousal and guided it over your clit. “I’m warning you,” he said, a slight smile playing at the corner of his lips. “Do not disobey me again.”

“I-I can’t help it,” you whimpered.

He increased the intensity and kissed your throat roughly. “Don’t you dare do it,” he growled in your ear, but you couldn’t hold back anymore. You cried out as your release overwhelmed you, sending shockwaves from your head to your toes. Your sensitive nerves were flooded with a blissful warmth, and you fell limp in the restraints after a moment, breathing shallowly. Eric turned off the vibrator and nipped your ear with his teeth.

“Oh, you’re in so much trouble now, you wicked little thing,” he said in your ear. But he let you recover for a moment while he returned to the cabinet against the wall and searched in another drawer.

Soon he stood in front of you again. He grasped your chin and opened your mouth, pushing a rubber ball gag between your teeth. The surprised sound that came from your throat was muffled by its presence as Eric secured it behind your head. He framed your face with his hands and forced you to look into his intense blue eyes.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Remember what I said about humming?”

“Mmhmm,” you managed to hum, but you didn’t want him to stop. You felt perfectly at ease, caught in a strange liminal state between dreaming and waking. Eric stroked your hair and studied your face.

“Good,” he said. And then the tenderness in his voice was replaced with a hard edge as he curled his fingers around your throat. “Now you're going to come until I decide you can stop,” he growled, switching the vibrator to its highest setting and pressing it ruthlessly against the oversensitive bundle of nerves at your center.

The intense vibration sent sharp rippling aftershocks through your body. You moaned into the gag and felt yourself tensing painfully, but you were too weak to struggle. Eric was telling you to relax. You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to focus on his words, allowing the tension to melt from your body. Soon you felt yourself building to another climax far more intense than the one before.

“That’s right,” Eric said. “Take it like a good girl. Let’s see how many we can get out of you.”

You weren’t sure how much time had passed or how many times Eric had pushed you over the edge before the vibrator finally switched off. The ball gag was removed from your mouth, but you couldn’t formulate the words to ask for what you wanted. You let out a small needy whine instead, begging for him.

Eric captured your lips in a kiss and thrust his length inside you, filling you with what you needed most. He rolled his hips at a slow pace, making sure you felt every movement as he fucked you. You moaned weakly and soon you were clenching around him, pulling him to the edge with you. “Come for me,” Eric said, his voice low and gravelly. “Now.”

You gave a small cry as you came undone again, soaking his cock with your release. Eric groaned against your neck and followed you swiftly, one hand fisted in your hair and the other clutching the side of your face as his hips stuttered to a stop.

He remained inside you for a few moments as you took a few ragged breaths. Then he reached up and released the restraints circling your wrists. You sagged against him, too exhausted to hold yourself up. Your legs felt like they were made of rubber and your head felt woozy, but you were at ease, knowing he would take care of you.

You were vaguely aware of the warm scent of Eric’s cologne as you pressed your face into his chest. Soothing words poured over your consciousness in a language you didn’t understand. You tasted blood on your lips and felt the bruises on your wrists and backside simply melt away.

When you woke again, you were laying between fresh sheets in your own bed. Your hair was still damp from a bath and your legs were tangled with Eric’s as he slept beside you, one arm outstretched so you could lay your head on his chest. The light tight shutters had been sealed over the windows in your bedroom, blotting out the midday sun. Eric had them installed ages ago, but he still was hesitant to sleep above ground. You trailed your fingers over one of the ancient scars on his bare chest and relished the rare treat of waking up beside him.

The alarm clock rolled over to noon, and something reflective glinted on your nightstand. You stretched out your hand and picked up the elegant metal choker. In the darkness, you ran your thumb over the floral inlay and found that the clasp was open. You had forgotten about it by the time the night was over, but Eric had not. You glanced at your lover’s face. He was always eerily still when he slept. You drew your hair over your shoulder and closed the choker around your throat, listening to the soft click as the lock snapped shut.

You laid back down and tucked your head under Eric’s chin, listening to the sound of your own heartbeat. He stirred slightly, circling his arms around you and drawing you to his chest. His fingertips traveled along your spine and paused when they reached the cool metal at the back of your neck. After a moment, he cradled your head in his hand and pressed his lips to your forehead.

“You were so good for me, pet,” he mumbled sleepily.

You hummed in contentment and kissed his chest. “I like being yours,” you whispered.

“That’s good,” Eric said, playing with the ends of your hair. “Because I have no intention of ever giving you up.”

[violetsandfluff]

concept from @princessofguineapigs! playing the piano with Charlie 🥺

When Charlie had long days of interviews and boring, non-musical activities, he often came home in a piano-playing mood. Sometimes you would sit beside him on the bench and watch him. Other days you would sit beneath the piano with your chin on the bench, lips around his cock as he tried to play.

But today was different. He was already on the piano bench, and when you started to join him, he pulled you onto his lap and lined your smaller fingers up on his large ones. He placed his hands comfortably over the cool white legs and began playing.

Silly little melodies drifted off of his fingers first: songs like Yankee Doodle and Three Blind Mice. He played the notes over and over again, faster each time until your hands nearly fell off his.

“My wrists hurt,” you complained and he bent down to kiss her forehead.

“Do they need kisses?” he inquired. “I’d like to keep playing.”

You turned on his lap and held your wrists up for him to kiss. After each joint on your hand was covered in a delicate, particular kiss, he returned to the legs, hands hovering over the notes in the key of D major, where he began playing the ear worm that had been bothering him all day. He was aware that your fingers were slipping off of his, so he made a heroic switch into the simple key of C major.

Her fingers were comfortable there, moving up and down on his like a carousel. It was fun to feel him play, something you could get used to.

After playing the entire song once through, strictly melody and chords, he switched into accompaniment mode. He asked you to help him sing and you did willingly. There was something about singing a wedding song on the lap of your favorite person that seemed inherently intimate.

“Take my hand, take my whole life too…”

You couldn’t help but admire how smoothly Charlie’s fingers glided across the ivory keys, and how well his voice harmonized with yours. It was too much. You stopped singing so you would only hear his voice singing, “I can’t help falling in love with you.”

For the songs next part, Charlie must have thought that it would be nice to see you struggle a bit. He changed the baseline from basic chords (switching from C major to G major, to A major, hen rhythmically from an inversion of G back to C, back to G).

His hands switched positions rapidly, even his fingers were too small to do that cold. He performed arpeggios alternated between E major and F major, across the span of two different octaves. Your left hand fell off his and you sat laughing as he finished the song, his rapid hands calming as he sang.

“Parents said, only irresponsible people rush in, but my cock can’t help wanting to be in you.”

Anyway, TAGLIST! @wayfcharlie @fishingirl12

sorry if the technical parts are confusing, i have a recording if it’s necessary.

[76historylover]

From the east to the west, blow the trumpet to arms,   Tho' the land let the sound of it flee,  Let the far and the near—all unite with a cheer,   In the defence of our Liberty Tree!

[acrossthewavesoftime]

TURN: Washington's Spies the Musical

Okay, so the title is clickbait. Cheap, dirty clickbait. There isn't a musical version of TURN: Washington's Spies, but there is an eerily similar, almost forgotten musical out there fans of the series or American Revolutionary War afictionados who need something new to supplement Hamilton and 1776 in general can turn to.

The fans of the Anna Strong/Edmund Hewlett sub-plot in particular will find the 1925 Broadway musical Dearest Enemy (music by Richard Rodgers, lyrics by Lorenz Hart) eerily familiar.

The history

Essentially, the plot of Dearest Enemy is based on a real incident during the Revolutionary War; in 1776, following the American defeat at the Landing at Kip's Bay, Mary Lindley Murray entertained British General Howe and his officers at her house, allowing General Putnam's American troops to escape in the meantime.

The plot

Knowing the Continental Army to be in danger following the Landing at Kip's Bay, Mary and the young ladies of her household, among them her daughter Jane and her Irish niece Betsy Burke, plan to delay the British forces by inviting their officers to their home, thus giving General Putnam's forces precious time to escape.

The women of the Murray household decide to put on a ball for the British officers to distract them for the night. Despite their allegiances fascinated with the dashing officers, things get flirty between the women and the officers. Unexpectedly, Betsy Burke falls in love with Captain Sir John Copeland (who 'rescued' her earlier that day when she went for a swim and a dog stole her clothes by finding her something else to wear; the only thing he can find is an empty barrel, though). Reluctantly, she accepts her feelings (I'd Like to Hide It), but continues to remain true to her convictions. When her aunt's messenger is captured, Betsy volunteers to deliver a message to General Washington herself and is also put in charge of lighting a lantern in the evening as a signal for Putnam to indicate when it is safe to move. Copeland discovers what Betsy's up to fairly early on (Here In My Arms), causing him to doubt her feelings to him.

Sir John and Betsy talk it out however and decide that their love is bigger than their political differences (Here's a Kiss). Betsy's intervention causes Putnam to be able to escape (while the British are enjoying an anecdote of Peter Stuyvesant (Sweet Peter) and singing Yankee Doodle) and re-join Washington. Shortly after, Sir John is taken prisoner by the Americans.

Betsy grieves the loss of Sir John, thinking she will never see him again (Bye and Bye- Reprise). When General Washington comes to thank the Murrays in person after the war, praising the importance of the women's work and their bravery, he asks Betsy why she is so sad, in reply to which she hints at her broken heart. Washington tells her "My dear little lady, America owes you a great debt; she can never discharge it in full, but she can do something, and she is sending you a gift: a gift we hope you will always prize."

The "gift" is Sir John, released by Washington to be re-united with Betsy (Finale Ultimo).

The remake

To be honest, I didn't know about this fairly obscure gem until @burgoyned posted about it and got curious. Luckily, at least recordings of a 2012 concertante version are available on YouTube.

The parallels to TURN are plenty;

like Betsy, Anna Strong as portrayed on the show has a somewhat Irish-sounding accent

both Betsy and Anna are involved in intelligence-work; both are tasked with conveying secret messages and signalling

In season 1, when Selah escapes across the water and Anna decides to stay behind at the last moment, jumping into the water to swim back, it is Hewlett who gives orders to help Anna back on shore (he doesn't offer her a barrel to 'dress' herself in, though)

like Betsy, Anna initially tries to win Hewlett's trust to aid the rebel cause, then discovers she's genuinely in love with the British officer and is distraught when he is captured to the point she is ready to do almost anything to get him back safe and sound.

like Copeland, Hewlett is being released from captivity on Washington's orders (although he manages to escape before said orders arrive)

both Copeland and Hewlett do not reveal what the women they love are actually doing to their superiors despite knowing it will hurt their own side because they still want to protect them.

A bit of a coincidence, if you ask me....

In my opinion, Dearest Enemy beats TURN if we're looking at this one story line alone; Betsy and Sir John are open about their feelings for another and can accept their different political inclinations, resulting in a happy end. The old-timey music (that sounds even catchier in 1920s recordings) is delightful and although a 21st century audience might not find Betsy clad in a barrel as funny as an audience 100 years ago the message at the end, conveyed by Washington himself is a really good one, stressing the importance and bravery of the women who were involved in the American Revolution.

Despite the textbook-ending of marriage and happily-ever-after, the women are portrayed not as the 'bonny and blithe at bed and board'-type you often get in pieces with a historical setting, but openly interested in making the most of their mission by enjoying the company of their dashing house-guests and, given their overall objective, successful allies to their Cause and the men serving in the Continental Army, eventually even receiving recognition for their success in helping Putnam and his men escape from the c-in-c himself.

While, Dearest Enemy being a product of its time, it is always safe to add that anything historic needs to be approached with the context of the time of its creation in mind, it's a catchy, playful musical that should definitively be performed again.

[wynsnerdyrambles]

You know that little song Mitsuri sang while hanging out with the Kamado kids in the swordsmith village? Is that a real song or just something the author came up with?

First off, I apologize for the delay in getting to this ask. I didn't have an active Shonen Jump subscription, nor did I own the volumes for Swordsmith's Village, so I didn't actually remember the song in question. For those interested, this is where the song is located:

This is the official Viz Translation for the lyrics, and using these lyrics, I was unable to find any song fitting this description. Now, I might have had more luck with the Japanese lyrics, or with the fanslations, however, for personal reasons, I prefer to go through the official outlets, nor can I read Japanese with really any degree of comprehension.

So my two cents are that this is a fictional song, however, I do think it was intended to get the vibe of a folk song across. So, we can actually take a dip into musical analysis, provided we suspend our disbelief and operate with a few assumptions:

1. The official translation is accurate, both in literal terms and in meaning.

2. We read the lyrics assuming that the English lyrics would fit the same rhythm as the original Japanese.

So, here we go. The lyrics go as follows:

Didn't you know it's a brocade standard...

Saying conquer the Emperor's enemy!

Hey- ya- Hey- ya- Hey!

So, what does this mean? Well, brocade is a rich silk fabric, often with elaborate raised patterns in gold or silver. However, the fact that the text characterizes this first line with ellipses means that we are not likely receiving the whole text. But the mentions of brocade would mean that this is a high class song, ripe with the modern sophistication of Mitsuri's upbringing in an urban center, now steeped in modern culture.

the next lines make it clear to me what sort of song this is supposed to be. The mentions of conquering the Emperor's enemies, and the simple, repetitive refrain characterizes this as a marching song, the type historically used by armies to raise morale and keep soldiers marching in unison. Occasionally these sorts of songs have become part of the mainstream (much like how Yankee Doodle was intended as an insult towards the US soldiers in the American Revolution, yet has become a patriotic song in the years since). So, Mitsuri's knowledge of the song needn't imply that her family has military history.

In fact, we can determine the level of common knowledge about this song from the reactions of Tanjiro and Nezuko:

Nezuko in her child-like state, is seemingly marching in tune, while Tanjiro seemingly watches content. While manga panels, especially one off shots like this, have difficulty conveying moving scenes, I think it's fairly clear that Nezuko clearly vibes with the tune, even in her infantile state, and while Tanjiro may simply be happy to see Nezuko so happy, he also lacks any confusion that someone might have upon hearing an unfamiliar melody. I think for any conclusive statements on this matter, precedence should be given to any eventual animated adaptation of this scene, as the ability to see the scene in motion will give context to any potential interpretations.

Once again, I thank you for the ask, and apologize for my delay in responding.