Mice in little wagons

If you have ever wondered how young boys entertained themselves in the twelfth century, the contemporary Yorkshire chronicler William of Newburgh gives a clue. In his list of the many sins of Roger, archbishop of York, comes this:

"Instead of selecting persons of eminence, with whom (as though with jewels) the church of York had formerly glittered, he conferred benefices on striplings, or even boys still under discipline of their masters, better calculated from their age to build up childish houses, to yoke mice in little wagons, to play together indiscriminately, and to ride on it long reed, than to sustain the character of dignitaries in the church."

I'm afraid I can't elucidiate what 'to ride on it long reed' means, and google doesn't help. Any ideas?

Cries like dead letters

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day.
What hours, O what black hours we have spent
This night! what sights you, heart, saw; ways you went!
And more must, in yet longer light's delay.

With witness I speak this. But where I say
Hours I mean years, mean life. And my lament
Is cries countless, cries like dead letters sent
To dearest him that lives alas! away.

I am gall, I am heartburn. God's most deep decree
Bitter would have me taste: my taste was me;
Bones built in me, flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse.

Selfyeast of spirit a dull dough sours. I see
The lost are like this, and their scourge to be
As I am mine, their sweating selves but worse.

A January Carol

This is sort of technically a Christmas carol, but in The Oxford Book of Carols it's designated a carol for 'January and February', and frankly these months are so in need of a bit of brightness that it's right they should have their own carol. The third verse is the key, but the whole thing fits very appropriately in this inbetween season of the year: speaking of Christ's birth but with a focus on the conquest of death, it looks back to Christmas and forward to Easter at the same time. It makes a difference to read (or sing) a line like "Gladness and salvation... came on Christmas Day" when Christmas Day was a month ago, rather than on the day itself. I often feel it's a shame that Christmas is the subject of so much superb art and poetry and music and yet we only get to enjoy it for a few days (twelve at the most!). There's enough beauty and theology in one collection of carols to occupy the mind and heart for a whole year - for many years - and we rush through them so fast. For this reason, though it isn't yet Candlemas - the traditional end of the Christmas season - I'm happy to have a carol like this one to keep me going.

In case you can't tell, it's dark and cold right now. But the days get longer, and light wins in the end.

The words to this carol are by J. M. Neale, and you can see the sheet music for the tune here- it's from the sixteenth-century manuscript compilation Piae Cantiones.  I couldn't find a recording on youtube, but there's a kind of improvisation on it here which is very nice.


1. Earth to-day rejoices,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,
Death can hurt no more;
And celestial voices,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,
Tell that sin is o'er.
David's sling destroys the foe:
Samson lays the temple low:
War and strife are done,
God and man are one.

2. Reconciliation,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,
Peace that lasts for aye;
Gladness and salvation,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,
Came on Christmas Day.
Gideon's Fleece is wet with dew:
Solomon is crown'd anew:
War and strife are done.
God and man are one.

3. Though the cold grows stronger,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,
Though the world loves night;
Yet the days grow longer,
Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia,
Christ is born, our Light.
Now the Dial's type is learnt:
Burns the Bush that is not burnt:
War and strife are done;
God and man are one.

The Sense of England

A passage from Henry James' 1890 novel The Tragic Muse. The protagonist is thinking about his ancestral estate; I do like the phrase "the respectable centuries":

'There was another admonition almost equally sure to descend upon his spirit during a stroll in a summer hour about the grand abbey; to sink into it as the light lingered on the rough red walls and the local accent of the children sounded soft in the churchyard. It was simply the sense of England—a sort of apprehended revelation of his country. The dim annals of the place appeared to be in the air (foundations baffingly early, a great monastic life, wars of the Roses, with battles and blood in the streets, and then the long quietude of the respectable centuries, all cornfields and magistrates and vicars) and these things were connected with an emotion that arose from the green country, the rich land so infinitely lived in, and laid on him a hand that was too ghostly to press and yet somehow too urgent to be light. It produced a throb that he could not have spoken of, it was so deep, and that was half imagination and half responsibility.'

St Eysteinn

So, who knows anything interesting about the Norwegian bishop St Eysteinn, whose feast day is today? I do!

'Interesting' is relative, I suppose. But anyway, it's more interesting than anything in his wikipedia article...

My interesting fact is that Eysteinn was one of Thomas Becket's earliest fans - everyone was a fan of Thomas Becket in the 1180s, but Eysteinn took it pretty far. He was Archbishop of Nidaros from 1161, and he corresponded with Becket while the latter was Archbishop of Canterbury. Thomas Becket wrote a lot of letters - he corresponded with everybody! - but there were strong links between the English and Norwegian churches in this period, and Becket's murder in 1170 made almost as big an impression in Scandinavia as it did in England.*  Eysteinn was Archbishop at a period of civil war in Norway, and his support for King Magnus against the rival Sverre brought him into trouble. After a number of battles, Magnus was driven out of the country in 1180, and Eysteinn had to flee to England (pronouncing excommunication on Sverri as he did so).

He stayed in England for three years. We don't know exactly where he was all that time, but he spent nine months staying in the monastery of Bury St. Edmunds, from 9 August 1181 onwards - his stay is mentioned by the chronicler of that house, Jocelin of Brakelond, who was a monk there during Eysteinn's visit. (Jocelin calls him 'Augustine', a Latinising of his Norse name, and notes that he received ten shillings a day - which seems like an awful lot! - from the abbey's funds, at the command of the king).  Eysteinn was the author of a Vita of St Olaf, and perhaps brought it to England with him; a copy was preserved at Fountains Abbey.  He probably went to Canterbury too, to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket, and most likely he also visited Henry II - Henry (who was perhaps in the mood to be nice to persecuted archbishops) gave him support out of the royal coffers.

The parallel between Becket, who had spent time in exile from England because of his disputes with Henry, and Archbishop Eysteinn was fairly obvious. The English chronicler William of Newburgh finds space in his history for Eysteinn's story; he explains it by saying that Sverre, "having abjured the sacred order, and taken in marriage the daughter of the Gaut-king, wished to be solemnly crowned by the archbishop. But he, since he was a great man and not to be induced by prayers or threats to pour sacred ointment on an execrable head, was driven by Sverri from his fatherland." The English chroniclers had presumably got this information from Eysteinn himself (though one hopes he didn't describe himself as a 'great man'!). It was not Eysteinn's fate to be murdered at his own altar, though; he returned to Norway in 1183, was eventually reconciled with Sverre, and died peacefully enough on this day in 1188.

* This seems as good a place as any to note my favourite piece of evidence for northern veneration for Thomas Becket: the story of the Icelander Hrafn Sveinbjarnarson, who caught a narwahl and promised the tusks to St Thomas if the saint helped him bring it in.  His prayer was answered, so he travelled to Canterbury and left the tusks on Thomas’ shrine.  Part of me really hopes they still have a narwahl tusk in a cupboard somewhere in Canterbury Cathedral...

An Evening Hymn

by John Ellerton (1826-1893), whose more famous evening hymn is 'The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, is Ended'. The third verse of this one should appeal to anyone who has ever sung in a church choir. Faint, indeed.


Our day of praise is done;
The evening shadows fall;
But pass not from us with the sun,
True Light that lightenest all.

Around the throne on high,
Where night can never be,
The white-robed harpers of the sky
Bring ceaseless hymns to thee.

Too faint our anthems here;
Too soon of praise we tire;
But O the strains, how full and clear,
Of that eternal choir!

Yet, Lord, to thy dear will
If thou attune the heart,
We in thine angels’ music still
May bear our lower part.

’Tis thine each soul to calm,
Each wayward thought reclaim,
And make our life a daily psalm
Of glory to thy name.

A little while, and then
Shall come the glorious end;
And songs of angels and of men
In perfect praise shall blend.

St Agnes' Eve

XXVII.

Soon, trembling in her soft and chilly nest,
In sort of wakeful swoon, perplex’d she lay,
Until the poppied warmth of sleep oppress’d
Her soothed limbs, and soul fatigued away;
Flown, like a thought, until the morrow-day;
Blissfully haven’d both from joy and pain;
Clasp’d like a missal where swart Paynims pray;
Blinded alike from sunshine and from rain,
As though a rose should shut, and be a bud again.

XXVIII.

Stol’n to this paradise, and so entranced,
Porphyro gazed upon her empty dress,
And listen’d to her breathing, if it chanced
To wake into a slumberous tenderness;
Which when he heard, that minute did he bless,
And breath’d himself: then from the closet crept,
Noiseless as fear in a wide wilderness,
And over the hush’d carpet, silent, stept,
And ’tween the curtains peep’d, where, lo!—-how fast she slept.

XXIX.

Then by the bed-side, where the faded moon
Made a dim, silver twilight, soft he set
A table, and, half anguish’d, threw thereon
A cloth of woven crimson, gold, and jet:—-
O for some drowsy Morphean amulet!
The boisterous, midnight, festive clarion,
The kettle-drum, and far-heard clarionet,
Affray his ears, though but in dying tone:—-
The hall door shuts again, and all the noise is gone.

XXX.

And still she slept an azure-lidded sleep,
In blanched linen, smooth, and lavender’d,
While he from forth the closet brought a heap
Of candied apple, quince, and plum, and gourd;
With jellies soother than the creamy curd,
And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon;
Manna and dates, in argosy transferr’d
From Fez; and spiced dainties, every one,
From silken Samarcand to cedar’d Lebanon.

XXXI.

These delicates he heap’d with glowing hand
On golden dishes and in baskets bright
Of wreathed silver: sumptuous they stand
In the retired quiet of the night,
Filling the chilly room with perfume light.—-
“And now, my love, my seraph fair, awake!
“Thou art my heaven, and I thine eremite:
“Open thine eyes, for meek St. Agnes’ sake,
“Or I shall drowse beside thee, so my soul doth ache.”

XXXII.

Thus whispering, his warm, unnerved arm
Sank in her pillow. Shaded was her dream
By the dusk curtains:—-’twas a midnight charm
Impossible to melt as iced stream:
The lustrous salvers in the moonlight gleam;
Broad golden fringe upon the carpet lies:
It seem’d he never, never could redeem
From such a stedfast spell his lady’s eyes;
So mus’d awhile, entoil’d in woofed phantasies.

XXXIII.

Awakening up, he took her hollow lute,—-
Tumultuous,—-and, in chords that tenderest be,
He play’d an ancient ditty, long since mute,
In Provence call’d, “La belle dame sans mercy:”
Close to her ear touching the melody;—-
Wherewith disturb’d, she utter’d a soft moan:
He ceased—-she panted quick—-and suddenly
Her blue affrayed eyes wide open shone:
Upon his knees he sank, pale as smooth-sculptured stone.

XXXIV.

Her eyes were open, but she still beheld,
Now wide awake, the vision of her sleep:
There was a painful change, that nigh expell’d
The blisses of her dream so pure and deep
At which fair Madeline began to weep,
And moan forth witless words with many a sigh;
While still her gaze on Porphyro would keep;
Who knelt, with joined hands and piteous eye,
Fearing to move or speak, she look’d so dreamingly.

XXXV.

“Ah, Porphyro!” said she, “but even now
“Thy voice was at sweet tremble in mine ear,
“Made tuneable with every sweetest vow;
“And those sad eyes were spiritual and clear:
“How chang’d thou art! how pallid, chill, and drear!
“Give me that voice again, my Porphyro,
“Those looks immortal, those complainings dear!
“Oh leave me not in this eternal woe,
“For if thou diest, my Love, I know not where to go.”

XXXVI.

Beyond a mortal man impassion’d far
At these voluptuous accents, he arose,
Ethereal, flush’d, and like a throbbing star
Seen mid the sapphire heaven’s deep repose;
Into her dream he melted, as the rose
Blendeth its odour with the violet,—-
Solution sweet: meantime the frost-wind blows
Like Love’s alarum pattering the sharp sleet
Against the window-panes; St. Agnes’ moon hath set.

XXXVII.

’Tis dark: quick pattereth the flaw-blown sleet:
“This is no dream, my bride, my Madeline!”
’Tis dark: the iced gusts still rave and beat:
“No dream, alas! alas! and woe is mine!
“Porphyro will leave me here to fade and pine.—-
“Cruel! what traitor could thee hither bring?
“I curse not, for my heart is lost in thine,
“Though thou forsakest a deceived thing;—-
“A dove forlorn and lost with sick unpruned wing.”

XXXVIII.

“My Madeline! sweet dreamer! lovely bride!
“Say, may I be for aye thy vassal blest?
“Thy beauty’s shield, heart-shap’d and vermeil dyed?
“Ah, silver shrine, here will I take my rest
“After so many hours of toil and quest,
“A famish’d pilgrim,—-saved by miracle.
“Though I have found, I will not rob thy nest
“Saving of thy sweet self; if thou think’st well
“To trust, fair Madeline, to no rude infidel.”

XXXIX.

’Hark! ’tis an elfin-storm from faery land,
“Of haggard seeming, but a boon indeed:
“Arise—-arise! the morning is at hand;—-
“The bloated wassaillers will never heed:—-
“Let us away, my love, with happy speed;
“There are no ears to hear, or eyes to see,—-
“Drown’d all in Rhenish and the sleepy mead:
“Awake! arise! my love, and fearless be,
“For o’er the southern moors I have a home for thee.”

XL.

She hurried at his words, beset with fears,
For there were sleeping dragons all around,
At glaring watch, perhaps, with ready spears—-
Down the wide stairs a darkling way they found.—-
In all the house was heard no human sound.
A chain-droop’d lamp was flickering by each door;
The arras, rich with horseman, hawk, and hound,
Flutter’d in the besieging wind’s uproar;
And the long carpets rose along the gusty floor.

XLI.

They glide, like phantoms, into the wide hall;
Like phantoms, to the iron porch, they glide;
Where lay the Porter, in uneasy sprawl,
With a huge empty flaggon by his side;
The wakeful bloodhound rose, and shook his hide,
But his sagacious eye an inmate owns:
By one, and one, the bolts full easy slide:—-
The chains lie silent on the footworn stones;—-
The key turns, and the door upon its hinges groans.

XLII.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago
These lovers fled away into the storm.
That night the Baron dreamt of many a woe,
And all his warrior-guests, with shade and form
Of witch, and demon, and large coffin-worm,
Were long be-nightmar’d. Angela the old
Died palsy-twitch’d, with meagre face deform;
The Beadsman, after thousand aves told,
For aye unsought for slept among his ashes cold.