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The exhibit displays the Account Book of Lyman Hoyt, General Household Merchandise and Undertaking.
In urban communities at the time of the Civil War, customs and requirements regarding removal, preparation, and burial of the dead began to change. Formerly, funerals were handled by family, close friends, or fraternal associates. Advances in embalming utilizing formaldehyde and rail transportation facilitated the shipment of both mortuary supplies and bodies. The significant rise in deaths due to disease and war casualties expedited the emergence of a profession known as undertakers. Most proprietors of these establishments combined undertaking with selling of household goods, furniture, china, upholstery, and chair rentals.
Included in the entries of the account book is one dated 4 November 1863, made out to Mrs. Frederick Peck. These are the funerary service expenses for her son Theodore H. Peck. He served as a private in Company A, 28th Regiment Connecticut volunteers. Stricken with fever during the campaign on the Mississippi River, he somehow managed to return home. After lingering illness he died at the age of twenty-seven years. Thus it obliged his widowed mother to make the arrangements.
Editor's Note: from Lyman Hoyt's Son & Co. as of 1892 it seems that Lyman Hoytwas in the undertaking business as early as 1837.
© Stamford Historical Society
Monday, February 26, 2007
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Misc Story Notes
ODB Dec. 18 devotion, Jan 11 07 Jan 17, Jan 18 2007-02-14
Heaven is the heart’s true home.
When my traveling days are over . . .
God uses illness to draw you closer to Him.
One day, when your Lord comes for you, He will heal all your cancer.
You may forget God, but He will never forget you.
Life expectancy in 1901 was 49 years.
The biggest thing to improve life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant. Waterborne diseases included cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. Could wipe out entire communities. (the rule of 3 . . .)
Sodium bicarbonate when heated gives off CO2 which makes cakes and cookies rise during baking.
When we free ourselves from all the things that encumber us, we can begin to build a relationship based on being partners and not a relationship based on dominance or fear.
In 1901 the life expectancy was 49 years. The biggest thing to improve the life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant was first used in ___________. Waterborne diseases include cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. They could wipe out entire communities.
“Whenever science makes a discovery, the devil grabs it while the angels are debating the best way to use it.” -- Alan Valentine.
You win a heart by outshining the competition, not by being jealous.
When people are told something they don’t want to know, they often resent the messenger.
Depression is anger turned inward.
Dead Ringer—The definition of ringer, from which this phrase comes, is “substituted racehorse.” Unscrupulous racehorse owners have a fast horse and a slow horse that are nearly identical in appearance. They run the slow horse until the betting odds reached the desired level, then they substitute the ringer, who can run much faster. Dead in this case means abrupt or exact, like in dead stop, or dead shot.
Dead Ringer—Gangsters with contracts on their lives might hire a person who looked similar to them, a ringer, to appear in a public places. The lookalike would often be convincing enough to fool the contracted killers, you can guess the part about dead.
Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others. ~ Cicero
Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul. ~ Henry Ward Beecher
About 1888, the Office Specialty Manufacturing Co. introduced its Rapid Roller Damp-Leaf Copier which used pressure supplied by rollers to copy letters onto a roll of dampened paper. After copies were pressed onto the paper, the paper entered the cabinet under the copier, where it dried on a large roller. Copies could be made more quickly with a roller copier than with a letter copying press. Roller copiers also competed with carbon paper. A roller copier could make a half dozen copies of a typewritten letter if the letter was run through the copier several times.
Heaven is the heart’s true home.
When my traveling days are over . . .
God uses illness to draw you closer to Him.
One day, when your Lord comes for you, He will heal all your cancer.
You may forget God, but He will never forget you.
Life expectancy in 1901 was 49 years.
The biggest thing to improve life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant. Waterborne diseases included cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. Could wipe out entire communities. (the rule of 3 . . .)
Sodium bicarbonate when heated gives off CO2 which makes cakes and cookies rise during baking.
When we free ourselves from all the things that encumber us, we can begin to build a relationship based on being partners and not a relationship based on dominance or fear.
In 1901 the life expectancy was 49 years. The biggest thing to improve the life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant was first used in ___________. Waterborne diseases include cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. They could wipe out entire communities.
“Whenever science makes a discovery, the devil grabs it while the angels are debating the best way to use it.” -- Alan Valentine.
You win a heart by outshining the competition, not by being jealous.
When people are told something they don’t want to know, they often resent the messenger.
Depression is anger turned inward.
Dead Ringer—The definition of ringer, from which this phrase comes, is “substituted racehorse.” Unscrupulous racehorse owners have a fast horse and a slow horse that are nearly identical in appearance. They run the slow horse until the betting odds reached the desired level, then they substitute the ringer, who can run much faster. Dead in this case means abrupt or exact, like in dead stop, or dead shot.
Dead Ringer—Gangsters with contracts on their lives might hire a person who looked similar to them, a ringer, to appear in a public places. The lookalike would often be convincing enough to fool the contracted killers, you can guess the part about dead.
Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others. ~ Cicero
Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul. ~ Henry Ward Beecher
About 1888, the Office Specialty Manufacturing Co. introduced its Rapid Roller Damp-Leaf Copier which used pressure supplied by rollers to copy letters onto a roll of dampened paper. After copies were pressed onto the paper, the paper entered the cabinet under the copier, where it dried on a large roller. Copies could be made more quickly with a roller copier than with a letter copying press. Roller copiers also competed with carbon paper. A roller copier could make a half dozen copies of a typewritten letter if the letter was run through the copier several times.
HOW TO WRITE GOOD IN 50 WORDS OR LESS by Scott Nicholson
HOW TO WRITE GOOD IN 50 WORDS OR LESS
By Scott Nicholson
Maybe you've been wanting someone to learn you how to write good. Don't listen to all those crusty old salts whose brains are addled by the constant clack of falling typewriter keys. They will tell you to write and rewrite and then repeat as needed for at least ten years. Well, who's got time for that? There are a lot of shortcuts to the bestseller list. Some people will try to sell you books on the subject. But the best things in life are free, and worth what you pay for them. Let me learn you how.
Start by throwing away the rules of thumb. Every person who ever facilitated a writing workshop has echoed the mantra, "Write what you know." That is the worst piece of advice possible in a field where any advice is dubious except mine. I say, write what you DON'T know.
Let's face it. If you're spending two to four hours a day at your word processor, you can't have much of a life to share with you readers. Plus, if your highway of life is like mine, it's pretty boring to everyone but the person in the driver's seat. So the best angle is to lie like the devil and his Hollywood agents.
Only by repeating the lies of others can you become a big-time writer. Just go down to the supermarket and look at the paperback rack. Read the jacket copy. If you find a single original work of fiction on the top shelf, let me know so that I can be the third person to borrow the plot.
You'll have to steal in other areas as well. There's no copyright on stock characters, whether they be spies, glamorous heiresses, or well-meaning lawyers who have a penchant for being swept into widespread conspiracies. Lasso yourself one of them leather-faced hombres in the white hats for your western. Team a wise-cracking dweeb with a tough dame who looks good in suits and have them hunt aliens for the FBI. And there's always that tried-and-true favorite, the ex-cop who finds himself drawn into a perplexing case after bumping into an old love interest who just happens to be a forensic psychologist.
So much for ideas. Now for the nuts and bolts. The last sentence in the preceding paragraph is a run-on sentence. That means you just keep throwing words out there in no order whatsoever but if you're lucky they will fill up the page and maybe the next one and before you know it, you've thrown in a punctuation mark which gives you an excuse to stretch the sentence out a wee bit longer as Hemingway rolls over in his grave until finally you are reluctantly forced to stop and figure out what you just said. Because somewhere, sometime, some editor is going to ask for a rewrite.
My next advice: never rewrite. What the heck do editors know about writing, anyway? They're readers, for the most part. And if you think of all the slush that has flooded their mailboxes, you know their reading experiences haven't always been growth-inspiring. Multiply your own rejections by those of the 100,000 or so other writers, and you'll see why the editor is a gibbering imbecile who long ago lost all grasp of coherent English. In fact, she would quit right now, except she has a three o'clock appointment with her marketing department to explain why publishing a self-help book by Dr. Kevorkian was not an error in editorial judgment.
(I'm disorganizing this article in a precisely illogical order so that some editor's blood pressure will rise ever so slightly. And I know you're still reading, Ms./Mr. Editor, because I am a writer of about 400 words so far, and you probably have a meager 30 years' worth of publishing experience. Plus, because I am a writer, my time is more valuable than yours.)
Another nut (or nougat, if you prefer): Extend those metaphors. This gives the same effect as the run-on sentence. If you have feinted, parried, and thrust with your reader over the course of many pages, you have succeeded in sinking the foil as if it were a hook. You may be out standing in your field of rye. A man may try to catch a fish. With any luck, your words will be pondered over in literary circles. If it is confusing enough, your work may be anointed as "required reading," which promises steady sales at least throughout the tenure of the current crop of English professors. Astute writers will cleverly pre-anoint their own manuscripts until the pages are downright unctuous.
The mixed metaphor is also a useful weapon in making readers think you are a literary genius. Make your buxom heroine passionately pant like a locomotive in an elevator. Dare to let your steely-eyed detective exhale his cigarette smoke as if he were panting like a passionate heroine. Have your writer-protagonist drink like a preacher on shore leave while desperately decrying the stereotyping of both.
Don't you just feel yourself becoming a better writer as your steely eyes scan the page as if it were a horizon? Can't you just see your horizons expanding on out there, just like the unforgettable who's-it-face in LOST HORIZON? (Literary allusion is also a good device. It gives you all the anointment of famous literature with none of the messy bother of having to get out the oil.)
Now you're ready for the next bold step, as I walk you down the plank over the sea of clichés. A good cliché is worth its weight in return postage. Let your misunderstood monster nibble on bones of contention. A character's knock at death's door may be answered by a man named Death. No romance writer worth her salt will pass up an opportunity to have bosoms heaving and manhoods swelling at every turn of the hands of time.
But nothing wows 'em like style. Style is what separates Joe Bricklayer from W. Wallace Wordsmith. Don't spend years at the craft trying to develop a style. Good style is like good breeding: somebody has it, and it ain't you. The secret to style is PRETENDING like you have it. The best trick is to use all three or four of your names as a byline, and toss in a couple of gold-plated initials. If that fails, a juicy nom de plume is inexpensive and sometimes serves as an effective tax dodge.
Uh-oh. I see I've learned you how to write good already. And I ain't even done no double negatives nor dangled a participle out to the edge contemporaneously, or shown you how to have your character's flesh described as being the color of a flesh-colored crayon. Or how to make the gun so small in the criminal's large hand that it seems like a slightly smaller gun.
I know I promised you 50 words or less, but writing good is no piece of cake that you can also eat. Most editors pay by the word, anyway. So take this advice all the way to the bank. If the editor doesn't commit suicide before signing your check, that is.
"Wait a minute," I hear you say. "Is it really this simple? I can pretend just like you do, and call myself a writer?"I'm afraid so.
-Copyright 1998 by Scott Nicholson. Contact for reprint permission.
By Scott Nicholson
Maybe you've been wanting someone to learn you how to write good. Don't listen to all those crusty old salts whose brains are addled by the constant clack of falling typewriter keys. They will tell you to write and rewrite and then repeat as needed for at least ten years. Well, who's got time for that? There are a lot of shortcuts to the bestseller list. Some people will try to sell you books on the subject. But the best things in life are free, and worth what you pay for them. Let me learn you how.
Start by throwing away the rules of thumb. Every person who ever facilitated a writing workshop has echoed the mantra, "Write what you know." That is the worst piece of advice possible in a field where any advice is dubious except mine. I say, write what you DON'T know.
Let's face it. If you're spending two to four hours a day at your word processor, you can't have much of a life to share with you readers. Plus, if your highway of life is like mine, it's pretty boring to everyone but the person in the driver's seat. So the best angle is to lie like the devil and his Hollywood agents.
Only by repeating the lies of others can you become a big-time writer. Just go down to the supermarket and look at the paperback rack. Read the jacket copy. If you find a single original work of fiction on the top shelf, let me know so that I can be the third person to borrow the plot.
You'll have to steal in other areas as well. There's no copyright on stock characters, whether they be spies, glamorous heiresses, or well-meaning lawyers who have a penchant for being swept into widespread conspiracies. Lasso yourself one of them leather-faced hombres in the white hats for your western. Team a wise-cracking dweeb with a tough dame who looks good in suits and have them hunt aliens for the FBI. And there's always that tried-and-true favorite, the ex-cop who finds himself drawn into a perplexing case after bumping into an old love interest who just happens to be a forensic psychologist.
So much for ideas. Now for the nuts and bolts. The last sentence in the preceding paragraph is a run-on sentence. That means you just keep throwing words out there in no order whatsoever but if you're lucky they will fill up the page and maybe the next one and before you know it, you've thrown in a punctuation mark which gives you an excuse to stretch the sentence out a wee bit longer as Hemingway rolls over in his grave until finally you are reluctantly forced to stop and figure out what you just said. Because somewhere, sometime, some editor is going to ask for a rewrite.
My next advice: never rewrite. What the heck do editors know about writing, anyway? They're readers, for the most part. And if you think of all the slush that has flooded their mailboxes, you know their reading experiences haven't always been growth-inspiring. Multiply your own rejections by those of the 100,000 or so other writers, and you'll see why the editor is a gibbering imbecile who long ago lost all grasp of coherent English. In fact, she would quit right now, except she has a three o'clock appointment with her marketing department to explain why publishing a self-help book by Dr. Kevorkian was not an error in editorial judgment.
(I'm disorganizing this article in a precisely illogical order so that some editor's blood pressure will rise ever so slightly. And I know you're still reading, Ms./Mr. Editor, because I am a writer of about 400 words so far, and you probably have a meager 30 years' worth of publishing experience. Plus, because I am a writer, my time is more valuable than yours.)
Another nut (or nougat, if you prefer): Extend those metaphors. This gives the same effect as the run-on sentence. If you have feinted, parried, and thrust with your reader over the course of many pages, you have succeeded in sinking the foil as if it were a hook. You may be out standing in your field of rye. A man may try to catch a fish. With any luck, your words will be pondered over in literary circles. If it is confusing enough, your work may be anointed as "required reading," which promises steady sales at least throughout the tenure of the current crop of English professors. Astute writers will cleverly pre-anoint their own manuscripts until the pages are downright unctuous.
The mixed metaphor is also a useful weapon in making readers think you are a literary genius. Make your buxom heroine passionately pant like a locomotive in an elevator. Dare to let your steely-eyed detective exhale his cigarette smoke as if he were panting like a passionate heroine. Have your writer-protagonist drink like a preacher on shore leave while desperately decrying the stereotyping of both.
Don't you just feel yourself becoming a better writer as your steely eyes scan the page as if it were a horizon? Can't you just see your horizons expanding on out there, just like the unforgettable who's-it-face in LOST HORIZON? (Literary allusion is also a good device. It gives you all the anointment of famous literature with none of the messy bother of having to get out the oil.)
Now you're ready for the next bold step, as I walk you down the plank over the sea of clichés. A good cliché is worth its weight in return postage. Let your misunderstood monster nibble on bones of contention. A character's knock at death's door may be answered by a man named Death. No romance writer worth her salt will pass up an opportunity to have bosoms heaving and manhoods swelling at every turn of the hands of time.
But nothing wows 'em like style. Style is what separates Joe Bricklayer from W. Wallace Wordsmith. Don't spend years at the craft trying to develop a style. Good style is like good breeding: somebody has it, and it ain't you. The secret to style is PRETENDING like you have it. The best trick is to use all three or four of your names as a byline, and toss in a couple of gold-plated initials. If that fails, a juicy nom de plume is inexpensive and sometimes serves as an effective tax dodge.
Uh-oh. I see I've learned you how to write good already. And I ain't even done no double negatives nor dangled a participle out to the edge contemporaneously, or shown you how to have your character's flesh described as being the color of a flesh-colored crayon. Or how to make the gun so small in the criminal's large hand that it seems like a slightly smaller gun.
I know I promised you 50 words or less, but writing good is no piece of cake that you can also eat. Most editors pay by the word, anyway. So take this advice all the way to the bank. If the editor doesn't commit suicide before signing your check, that is.
"Wait a minute," I hear you say. "Is it really this simple? I can pretend just like you do, and call myself a writer?"I'm afraid so.
-Copyright 1998 by Scott Nicholson. Contact for reprint permission.
Writing How Tos - by Scott Nicholson
The Joy Of Telling Lies
By Scott Nicholson
If you are a new writer, or early in your career, you might feel that you have to produce highly-polished literary work, in which each metaphor drips with timeless truth. You may have been taught there's only one field worth seriously pursuing, and that is the angst-ridden type of modern fiction where you exorcise your demons and translate them into a universal experience. Perhaps you have heard that you are worthless as a writer unless your material is getting published in The New Yorker, or at least in the little publication produced by the English Department at the local university. This may be especially true if you take college writing classes or attend a certain brand of popular but expensive workshop.
All that may be fine, if that's what makes you happy. But don't turn your eyes and keyboard and heart away from other fields which are ripe with opportunity: those of speculative fiction. What I call "speculative" fiction (science fiction, fantasy, and horror) is usually called "genre" fiction by others, but to my mind every work can be forced into a genre. Indeed, a genre may well be nothing but the Twentieth-Century creation of publishers who needed marketing categories for their books.
My dictionary defines "speculative" as "giving a wide perspective or view; prying; inquisitive; curious." In other words, the kind of stuff that a lot of people are interested in reading. Several hundred people may read and drool over your work in that little literary magazine, but the magazine is more likely to end up as a blotter down at the coffee shop. Meanwhile, several hundred thousand people bought magazines that same month in order to visit Titan, look a ghost in the vacant eyes, or cavort with elves in a strange land.
For those readers who are pooh-poohing me and brushing speculative fiction off as kiddie stuff that a writer is supposed to outgrow, let me assure you that you can be just as literary with the unreal as you can with the real. I submit for your approval Ursula K. LeGuin and Edgar Allan Poe, whose sentences weep with craft and beauty. I dare any literary writer to "outwrite" Ray Bradbury.
"Oh, but those stories are all plot and no theme, and the plot is predictable, at that," go the nay-sayers. Allow me to point you toward Orson Scott Card and Arthur C. Clarke, who can speak entire volumes about the human condition in the space of a single book. If you want character, read a few paragraphs of Stephen King and see if you don't know those two-dimensional people.
"But I'll be pigeonholed," comes the now-smaller but still-uneasy chorus. "I'll never be able to write the Great American Novel if I'm cranking out commercial work." Shirley Jackson could (and did) write both humorous parenting guides and bone-chilling, haunting work that will resonate for centuries. William Faulkner survived "A Rose For Emily" just fine. Mark Twain didn't mind taking the devil's viewpoint.
"What's in it for me?" grumble the last few unconvinced, who are clinging to composition books and tattered copies of James Joyce decoder manuals. Well, (excuse me while I grin, because this is my favorite part) what's in it for you is money.
Collective gasps. A coffee mug shatters on the floor. Somewhere, an old master rolls over in a forgotten grave.
Money. That bane of all serious writers, that enemy of beauty and angst and poetics, oh my.
Yes, money. Don't get me wrong here. Any writing career hobbles forward on a long and painful road, and the odds are against you no matter the route you tread. I'm serious when I advise writers not to quit their day jobs, and I take my own advice to heart. Don't suffer for art to the point of starvation.
But the speculative fiction fields feature at least fifteen different magazines that pay a minimum professional rate, and probably a hundred more that offer a token payment of a penny a word. At any given time, a dozen different anthologies are in the works and in need of stories. Oh, and for those with patience and persistence, you might be glad to know that speculative fiction novels are purchased at a steady rate, and you usually don't need an agent to submit them for you.
Another benefit is that you don't have to follow the time-honored but dubious rule of "writing what you know." Most of us have not been abducted by aliens, poltergeisted, or forced to endure the blazing halitosis of a dragon. But each of us has dreamed, imagined, heard that magical phrase "Once upon a time." We all know how to lie, even if we profess not to practice that particular sin in our daily dealings.
When you sit down to write a speculative story, the keyboard or page is as wide as eternity. Paint the canvas as black as your worst nightmare, or be a little bold and go beyond that nebulous border. Instead of recalling the map of veins on your dead uncle's hand and reproducing it in painstaking exactitude, stick a sword in the old boy's hand and let him quest about for a chapter or two. Who cares if he was a stubborn cuss in real life? You now have permission to lie, and absolutely no one is looking over your shoulder (unless it's a horror story and the fellow's ghost is hanging around), so make him heroic enough to rival Sir Lancelot or Bilbo Baggins.
In case the evidence is not yet compelling enough, let me add that speculative fiction editors have a reputation for seeking out and nurturing new talent. They are hungry, and so is their audience, for fresh names, fresh ideas, and fresh product. They compete to get certain writers in their stables, and, believe it or not, there's always a shortage of people who are reliable, can write effectively, and have the stamina to keep churning out stories.
You will also be invited into some close-knit and welcoming communities. The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Horror Writers Association, and Mystery Writers of America are glad to open up their ranks to new members. Various on-line newsgroups and bulletin boards help you keep in touch, pick up on market news, and watch for emerging trends. In this electronic age, you can learn of a market, send a submission via e-mail, and have your acceptance in the space of three days or less. If you submit to some of the many speculative fiction webzines that are burgeoning in cyberspace, you might even see your work published within hours of its acceptance.
So come and join us, the dreamers, the pretenders, the enemies of sleep. Tell us a lie, give us a person with an unbelievable problem, and don't be afraid to take us away from this familiar, everyday world. Make it up as you go along. You might be surprised where you wind up.
RESOURCES
An excellent place to start your journey into speculative fiction is to enter the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. There's no entry fee, and the only requirement is that you have three or fewer professional stories in print. With prizes ranging from $500 to $5,000, you may get a boost to your pocketbook as well. For contest rules, visit http://www.writersofthefuture.com/ or write for details at PO Box 1630, Los Angeles CA 90078.
Two market magazines give out sample copies. Speculations and Hellnotes, both distributed in electronic form, will each give you a no-cost look at what they offer. You can request Speculations at PMB 400, 111 West El Camino Real, Suite 109, Sunnyvale CA 94087-1057 or by sending an e-mail to kent@speculations.com. Jobs In Hell is geared toward horror writers, while Planet Pulp focuses on professional publishing information, such as interviews with agents and editors, rather than story markets.
Free on-line market listings and webzines are so numerous that you can spend weeks clicking through them. Some of my favorites are Spicy Green Iguana, Paula Fleming's List, and Ralan's Webstravaganza.
--copyright 2001. Originally published in Writer's Journal, March 2001. Contact for reprint permission.
By Scott Nicholson
If you are a new writer, or early in your career, you might feel that you have to produce highly-polished literary work, in which each metaphor drips with timeless truth. You may have been taught there's only one field worth seriously pursuing, and that is the angst-ridden type of modern fiction where you exorcise your demons and translate them into a universal experience. Perhaps you have heard that you are worthless as a writer unless your material is getting published in The New Yorker, or at least in the little publication produced by the English Department at the local university. This may be especially true if you take college writing classes or attend a certain brand of popular but expensive workshop.
All that may be fine, if that's what makes you happy. But don't turn your eyes and keyboard and heart away from other fields which are ripe with opportunity: those of speculative fiction. What I call "speculative" fiction (science fiction, fantasy, and horror) is usually called "genre" fiction by others, but to my mind every work can be forced into a genre. Indeed, a genre may well be nothing but the Twentieth-Century creation of publishers who needed marketing categories for their books.
My dictionary defines "speculative" as "giving a wide perspective or view; prying; inquisitive; curious." In other words, the kind of stuff that a lot of people are interested in reading. Several hundred people may read and drool over your work in that little literary magazine, but the magazine is more likely to end up as a blotter down at the coffee shop. Meanwhile, several hundred thousand people bought magazines that same month in order to visit Titan, look a ghost in the vacant eyes, or cavort with elves in a strange land.
For those readers who are pooh-poohing me and brushing speculative fiction off as kiddie stuff that a writer is supposed to outgrow, let me assure you that you can be just as literary with the unreal as you can with the real. I submit for your approval Ursula K. LeGuin and Edgar Allan Poe, whose sentences weep with craft and beauty. I dare any literary writer to "outwrite" Ray Bradbury.
"Oh, but those stories are all plot and no theme, and the plot is predictable, at that," go the nay-sayers. Allow me to point you toward Orson Scott Card and Arthur C. Clarke, who can speak entire volumes about the human condition in the space of a single book. If you want character, read a few paragraphs of Stephen King and see if you don't know those two-dimensional people.
"But I'll be pigeonholed," comes the now-smaller but still-uneasy chorus. "I'll never be able to write the Great American Novel if I'm cranking out commercial work." Shirley Jackson could (and did) write both humorous parenting guides and bone-chilling, haunting work that will resonate for centuries. William Faulkner survived "A Rose For Emily" just fine. Mark Twain didn't mind taking the devil's viewpoint.
"What's in it for me?" grumble the last few unconvinced, who are clinging to composition books and tattered copies of James Joyce decoder manuals. Well, (excuse me while I grin, because this is my favorite part) what's in it for you is money.
Collective gasps. A coffee mug shatters on the floor. Somewhere, an old master rolls over in a forgotten grave.
Money. That bane of all serious writers, that enemy of beauty and angst and poetics, oh my.
Yes, money. Don't get me wrong here. Any writing career hobbles forward on a long and painful road, and the odds are against you no matter the route you tread. I'm serious when I advise writers not to quit their day jobs, and I take my own advice to heart. Don't suffer for art to the point of starvation.
But the speculative fiction fields feature at least fifteen different magazines that pay a minimum professional rate, and probably a hundred more that offer a token payment of a penny a word. At any given time, a dozen different anthologies are in the works and in need of stories. Oh, and for those with patience and persistence, you might be glad to know that speculative fiction novels are purchased at a steady rate, and you usually don't need an agent to submit them for you.
Another benefit is that you don't have to follow the time-honored but dubious rule of "writing what you know." Most of us have not been abducted by aliens, poltergeisted, or forced to endure the blazing halitosis of a dragon. But each of us has dreamed, imagined, heard that magical phrase "Once upon a time." We all know how to lie, even if we profess not to practice that particular sin in our daily dealings.
When you sit down to write a speculative story, the keyboard or page is as wide as eternity. Paint the canvas as black as your worst nightmare, or be a little bold and go beyond that nebulous border. Instead of recalling the map of veins on your dead uncle's hand and reproducing it in painstaking exactitude, stick a sword in the old boy's hand and let him quest about for a chapter or two. Who cares if he was a stubborn cuss in real life? You now have permission to lie, and absolutely no one is looking over your shoulder (unless it's a horror story and the fellow's ghost is hanging around), so make him heroic enough to rival Sir Lancelot or Bilbo Baggins.
In case the evidence is not yet compelling enough, let me add that speculative fiction editors have a reputation for seeking out and nurturing new talent. They are hungry, and so is their audience, for fresh names, fresh ideas, and fresh product. They compete to get certain writers in their stables, and, believe it or not, there's always a shortage of people who are reliable, can write effectively, and have the stamina to keep churning out stories.
You will also be invited into some close-knit and welcoming communities. The Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers of America, Horror Writers Association, and Mystery Writers of America are glad to open up their ranks to new members. Various on-line newsgroups and bulletin boards help you keep in touch, pick up on market news, and watch for emerging trends. In this electronic age, you can learn of a market, send a submission via e-mail, and have your acceptance in the space of three days or less. If you submit to some of the many speculative fiction webzines that are burgeoning in cyberspace, you might even see your work published within hours of its acceptance.
So come and join us, the dreamers, the pretenders, the enemies of sleep. Tell us a lie, give us a person with an unbelievable problem, and don't be afraid to take us away from this familiar, everyday world. Make it up as you go along. You might be surprised where you wind up.
RESOURCES
An excellent place to start your journey into speculative fiction is to enter the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future contest. There's no entry fee, and the only requirement is that you have three or fewer professional stories in print. With prizes ranging from $500 to $5,000, you may get a boost to your pocketbook as well. For contest rules, visit http://www.writersofthefuture.com/ or write for details at PO Box 1630, Los Angeles CA 90078.
Two market magazines give out sample copies. Speculations and Hellnotes, both distributed in electronic form, will each give you a no-cost look at what they offer. You can request Speculations at PMB 400, 111 West El Camino Real, Suite 109, Sunnyvale CA 94087-1057 or by sending an e-mail to kent@speculations.com. Jobs In Hell is geared toward horror writers, while Planet Pulp focuses on professional publishing information, such as interviews with agents and editors, rather than story markets.
Free on-line market listings and webzines are so numerous that you can spend weeks clicking through them. Some of my favorites are Spicy Green Iguana, Paula Fleming's List, and Ralan's Webstravaganza.
--copyright 2001. Originally published in Writer's Journal, March 2001. Contact for reprint permission.
Writing How Tos -- Writing Rules
TEN OR FEWER WRITING RULES
Or: Writing Mistakes That Can Be Avoided (Such As Passive Tense And Verbose Subtitles)
By Scott Nicholson
First, get out while you can.
Second, nobody knows more than anybody else.
Except me.
So I'm going to give you some rules to live by, some rules to write by. Some rules to break, if you find better ones.
Because nobody knows nothing, especially me.
Our rule of law shall be:
Clarity.
Say what you mean. Tell what happens, then what happens next. Tell it that way until the story ends, then stop.
Anytime you can say the same thing in fewer words, do it. In other words, fewer words is best.
Master punctuation. It's a shame that possessive "its" is so often saddled with the evil apostrophe. Simple rule of thumb: say "it is" or "it has" in your head anytime you write the apostrophed version.
Don't make any comma interruptions, unless necessary, but it’s (it is) often better to rewrite the sentence. The reader has a rough enough road without your tripping act.
Use the words "lithe" and "serpentine" as often as needed, which means once a lifetime.
By the fourth paragraph, establish character and conflict and engage at least three of the senses.
Never use the word "very," unless you're using it for a very special effect, unlike this example. Sometimes it can be used in conversation to identify a character who is "very boorish."
Don't think of paragraphs as those bulky, four-sentence things you used in term papers. Think of them as "idea blocks," whether the blocks take twelve sentences or three words.
Or a space.
Because every pause, every carriage return, every comma, every word matters. Especially every word.
Word is your currency.
Spend it wisely.
(Copyright 2003. Contact Scott for reprint permission)
Or: Writing Mistakes That Can Be Avoided (Such As Passive Tense And Verbose Subtitles)
By Scott Nicholson
First, get out while you can.
Second, nobody knows more than anybody else.
Except me.
So I'm going to give you some rules to live by, some rules to write by. Some rules to break, if you find better ones.
Because nobody knows nothing, especially me.
Our rule of law shall be:
Clarity.
Say what you mean. Tell what happens, then what happens next. Tell it that way until the story ends, then stop.
Anytime you can say the same thing in fewer words, do it. In other words, fewer words is best.
Master punctuation. It's a shame that possessive "its" is so often saddled with the evil apostrophe. Simple rule of thumb: say "it is" or "it has" in your head anytime you write the apostrophed version.
Don't make any comma interruptions, unless necessary, but it’s (it is) often better to rewrite the sentence. The reader has a rough enough road without your tripping act.
Use the words "lithe" and "serpentine" as often as needed, which means once a lifetime.
By the fourth paragraph, establish character and conflict and engage at least three of the senses.
Never use the word "very," unless you're using it for a very special effect, unlike this example. Sometimes it can be used in conversation to identify a character who is "very boorish."
Don't think of paragraphs as those bulky, four-sentence things you used in term papers. Think of them as "idea blocks," whether the blocks take twelve sentences or three words.
Or a space.
Because every pause, every carriage return, every comma, every word matters. Especially every word.
Word is your currency.
Spend it wisely.
(Copyright 2003. Contact Scott for reprint permission)
How to write short stories
Don't Sweat The Short Stuff
By Scott Nicholson
Most writers are notorious procrastinators, and besides Kevin J. Anderson, Mary Higgins Clark, and Stephen King, many of them would rather be doing anything besides sitting at a computer and looking for truth, beauty, and elegant grammar. So how does your average writer overcome the invisible barriers that make "The End" seem like a faraway dream?
I’ve been fairly productive, though much of my output can be attributed to consistency rather than anything approaching genius. When I tackle a short story, I plunge in heart first and ride a rocket to the end. I’m not the only writer who believes a story should take only one or two sittings and a small handful of hours. But others who have been far more successful take a more steady approach to the story at hand, honing each detail until the product sparkles. It all depends on the individual writer, the degree of perfectionism, and the particular subject matter, but we all set our different courses by the same stars.
Ideas are the easiest pieces of the puzzle. At the annual Writers of the Future workshop, one of the exercises involves taking an ordinary object in the room and writing a story about it during the week. At the 1998 workshop, Amy Sterling Casil was assigned an Altoids breath mint box. Over two days, Casil wrote "Mad for the Mints," a novelette based around Mad King George, a talking horse, and aliens, all inspired by the advertising copy "by order of His Majesty in 1775." The workshop leader, Dave Wolverton, had tears of laughter rolling down his eyes when he read it, and said, "There’s no editor on Earth that would not buy this story."Casil’s novelette made the cover of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Because of her teaching commitments, Casil relies on bursts of high productivity for her fiction. She once wrote a 16,000 word novella in one sitting, live on the Internet as an "electronic storefront" project.
Mark McLaughlin is one of the most prolific short story writers in speculative fiction. He’s published hundreds of stories, in addition to writing poems and articles and tackling various editing tasks. He usually carries a pad with him and writes in longhand at a coffee shop, drawing inspiration from the activity around him.
Sometimes McLaughlin thinks up a funny title and then works backward, creating a story line to fit the name. Some examples include "Attack of the Fifty-Foot Prison Bitch" and a tale of ancient, eldritch rabbit gods, "The Hopper in the Hayfield." He also disproves the proverb of brevity being the sole of wit by employing a title like "Dead Cat Matches Wits with Ratnarokh, the Ultimate Sentient Super-Computer, on the Blood-Red Planet of the Porn-Bots."
"I do write regularly," McLaughlin said. "That’s important. And I let a story sit a few days before I send it out, so that I can come back to it and see if it needs any further editing. While I’m letting a story sit, I'll usually work on another story. Or two. Or three."
James Van Pelt also uses daily discipline to pile up the credits. Since his first story sale in 1991, he’s sold 46 stories to professional magazines and another 30 to semi-pro publications. Most of those have come in the last few years, along with numerous accolades and "Year’s Best" listings.
"Since Sept. 20, 1999, I have written at least 200 words a day without missing a day," Van Pelt said. "Two-hundred isn't a bunch, but never missing piles them up pretty quickly. Also, lots of days I do more than 200, but 200 is the bar I have to clear."Van Pelt usually works on one story at a time, but also has an "idea file" for which he jots notes. By the time he gets around to the next story, he has had time to think about it. Very rarely does he finish a story in one sitting. Most take a week or two and get sent through a critique group before hitting the mail.Michael Bracken may the ultimate role model for short story productivity. He’s published works in almost every genre, under a variety of pen names, in everything from "True Confession" magazines to mystery and science fiction publications. He’s written over 800 short pieces, four novels and four collections, and edited five anthologies. This versatility has helped him gain a realistic view of the publishing industry."Persistence is probably the single most important trait I have as a writer," Bracken said. "I keep manuscripts circulating until they sell, and some of them don't sell until years after they were written. There's no such thing as writer's block. If I'm working on a project and find myself stumped, I immediately switch gears and work on another project."Bracken usually has at least 30 different stories and a novel or two in progress, working on his writing career every day. He aims for the best-paying markets, but money isn’t the sole reason he’ll try a specific editor. He also explores overseas publications and is a promotional consultant. When he’s not at the keyboard, he’s doing a book signing, researching new story markets, or mailing out publicity materials. This year, he made the move to full-time freelance writing and editing.Other writers find ways to hang around the written word for a steady income even if they are not yet able to live off their story and novel sales. Van Pelt teaches college and high school English, Casil teaches writing for colleges and online workshops, and McLaughlin works in advertising, graphic design, art, and marketing, which are handy if not essential skills for the modern writer. I work as a newspaper reporter, where facts are the meat and potatoes but real human behavior proves itself to be an unfailingly unpredictable spice.Research is an important tool not only for adding veracity to a tale, but for spawning new story ideas. Casil revised her "Mad For The Mints" using period historical detail, and over the past few years has increasingly relied on research to produce accurate backgrounds and settings. Van Pelt has researched everything from the tunes that ice cream trucks play to what the world was like on Nov. 26, 1942. I once wrote two stories using the set of events from different viewpoints, based on personal accounts and court martial reports of prisoner mistreatment at the Civil War camp in Andersonville. One sold on its first submission and the next sold on its second submission, both to professional markets.Most prolific authors tend to have awe-inspiring stacks of rejection slips. A Van Pelt story was rejected 48 times before a pro magazine took it, and the story ended up getting an honorable mention in a "Year’s Best" anthology. Van Pelt carefully tracks all his submissions, but McLaughlin discards his rejection slips immediately, figuring there’s no point in dwelling on the negative. Casil said, "They pile up with other unfortunate mail and get thrown out periodically." My own pile measures in the hundreds, and one of my stories found a pro market on its 20th trip through the postal system.It’s easier to locate the right market or editor for a specific story after you’ve been around the block a little. McLaughlin now targets his stories to markets he thinks will fit, so he has a high percentage of acceptances. Bracken keeps all his rejection slips, but now sells most of what he writes, though not always on the first try. 2002 was the first year he received more acceptances than rejections. And it only took him 20 years to get there."What rejections help me do is improve my marketing skills," Bracken said. "If an editor provides a personal note or checks something on a checklist, it helps me learn what that editor likes and dislikes about my work. Sometimes I learn to submit a different type of story, sometimes I learn the market is completely inappropriate for my work, and sometimes all I learn is that an editor is overstocked and that I should wait a few months before sending another manuscript to that market."Van Pelt admits the process looks pretty simple to those who see only the long bibliography of accepted stories and not the daily acts of discipline. He added, "What you don't see is the hours hunched over the keyboard while my fingers do nothing and my forehead is as furrowed as a Kansas cornfield."My most successful stories have been written on automatic pilot, and I can’t recall any short story that has taken me longer than a week. Most are done in a single day, because the emotion is often more important than logic to me, and stories by their nature should be limited to a single conflict. I can’t say I’m a top example of the craft, but I have won a few awards and manage to get published fairly steadily. While I wouldn’t become an editor at gun point, Bracken’s experience as an editor has taught him even more appreciation of the craft, and he’s discovered a probable secret to long-term sanity in a business that offers no guarantees."I learned a long, long time ago that there are only two people I have to please with my writing: myself and one editor," Bracken said. "I have to like what I write well enough that I'm willing to spend money to mail it to someone else. And one editor has to like that manuscript well enough to devote part of her publication to my words. If I please anyone else in the process, it's pure gravy."Sure, we’ve all heard the story of how Ernest Hemingway rewrote the last line of a novel thirty-something times before he was satisfied, but I’d bet you the line he ended up using was remarkably similar to his first try. Besides, he blew his own brains out with a shotgun. So whether you get keyboard blisters from rapid-fire verbal regurgitation or prowl the dusty columns of a thesaurus seeking the perfect word, remember that the end goal is the same. Get it done, and get it out there.
(Originally appeared in Hellnotes, April 2004. Copyright 2004 by Scott Nicholson)
By Scott Nicholson
Most writers are notorious procrastinators, and besides Kevin J. Anderson, Mary Higgins Clark, and Stephen King, many of them would rather be doing anything besides sitting at a computer and looking for truth, beauty, and elegant grammar. So how does your average writer overcome the invisible barriers that make "The End" seem like a faraway dream?
I’ve been fairly productive, though much of my output can be attributed to consistency rather than anything approaching genius. When I tackle a short story, I plunge in heart first and ride a rocket to the end. I’m not the only writer who believes a story should take only one or two sittings and a small handful of hours. But others who have been far more successful take a more steady approach to the story at hand, honing each detail until the product sparkles. It all depends on the individual writer, the degree of perfectionism, and the particular subject matter, but we all set our different courses by the same stars.
Ideas are the easiest pieces of the puzzle. At the annual Writers of the Future workshop, one of the exercises involves taking an ordinary object in the room and writing a story about it during the week. At the 1998 workshop, Amy Sterling Casil was assigned an Altoids breath mint box. Over two days, Casil wrote "Mad for the Mints," a novelette based around Mad King George, a talking horse, and aliens, all inspired by the advertising copy "by order of His Majesty in 1775." The workshop leader, Dave Wolverton, had tears of laughter rolling down his eyes when he read it, and said, "There’s no editor on Earth that would not buy this story."Casil’s novelette made the cover of the Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction. Because of her teaching commitments, Casil relies on bursts of high productivity for her fiction. She once wrote a 16,000 word novella in one sitting, live on the Internet as an "electronic storefront" project.
Mark McLaughlin is one of the most prolific short story writers in speculative fiction. He’s published hundreds of stories, in addition to writing poems and articles and tackling various editing tasks. He usually carries a pad with him and writes in longhand at a coffee shop, drawing inspiration from the activity around him.
Sometimes McLaughlin thinks up a funny title and then works backward, creating a story line to fit the name. Some examples include "Attack of the Fifty-Foot Prison Bitch" and a tale of ancient, eldritch rabbit gods, "The Hopper in the Hayfield." He also disproves the proverb of brevity being the sole of wit by employing a title like "Dead Cat Matches Wits with Ratnarokh, the Ultimate Sentient Super-Computer, on the Blood-Red Planet of the Porn-Bots."
"I do write regularly," McLaughlin said. "That’s important. And I let a story sit a few days before I send it out, so that I can come back to it and see if it needs any further editing. While I’m letting a story sit, I'll usually work on another story. Or two. Or three."
James Van Pelt also uses daily discipline to pile up the credits. Since his first story sale in 1991, he’s sold 46 stories to professional magazines and another 30 to semi-pro publications. Most of those have come in the last few years, along with numerous accolades and "Year’s Best" listings.
"Since Sept. 20, 1999, I have written at least 200 words a day without missing a day," Van Pelt said. "Two-hundred isn't a bunch, but never missing piles them up pretty quickly. Also, lots of days I do more than 200, but 200 is the bar I have to clear."Van Pelt usually works on one story at a time, but also has an "idea file" for which he jots notes. By the time he gets around to the next story, he has had time to think about it. Very rarely does he finish a story in one sitting. Most take a week or two and get sent through a critique group before hitting the mail.Michael Bracken may the ultimate role model for short story productivity. He’s published works in almost every genre, under a variety of pen names, in everything from "True Confession" magazines to mystery and science fiction publications. He’s written over 800 short pieces, four novels and four collections, and edited five anthologies. This versatility has helped him gain a realistic view of the publishing industry."Persistence is probably the single most important trait I have as a writer," Bracken said. "I keep manuscripts circulating until they sell, and some of them don't sell until years after they were written. There's no such thing as writer's block. If I'm working on a project and find myself stumped, I immediately switch gears and work on another project."Bracken usually has at least 30 different stories and a novel or two in progress, working on his writing career every day. He aims for the best-paying markets, but money isn’t the sole reason he’ll try a specific editor. He also explores overseas publications and is a promotional consultant. When he’s not at the keyboard, he’s doing a book signing, researching new story markets, or mailing out publicity materials. This year, he made the move to full-time freelance writing and editing.Other writers find ways to hang around the written word for a steady income even if they are not yet able to live off their story and novel sales. Van Pelt teaches college and high school English, Casil teaches writing for colleges and online workshops, and McLaughlin works in advertising, graphic design, art, and marketing, which are handy if not essential skills for the modern writer. I work as a newspaper reporter, where facts are the meat and potatoes but real human behavior proves itself to be an unfailingly unpredictable spice.Research is an important tool not only for adding veracity to a tale, but for spawning new story ideas. Casil revised her "Mad For The Mints" using period historical detail, and over the past few years has increasingly relied on research to produce accurate backgrounds and settings. Van Pelt has researched everything from the tunes that ice cream trucks play to what the world was like on Nov. 26, 1942. I once wrote two stories using the set of events from different viewpoints, based on personal accounts and court martial reports of prisoner mistreatment at the Civil War camp in Andersonville. One sold on its first submission and the next sold on its second submission, both to professional markets.Most prolific authors tend to have awe-inspiring stacks of rejection slips. A Van Pelt story was rejected 48 times before a pro magazine took it, and the story ended up getting an honorable mention in a "Year’s Best" anthology. Van Pelt carefully tracks all his submissions, but McLaughlin discards his rejection slips immediately, figuring there’s no point in dwelling on the negative. Casil said, "They pile up with other unfortunate mail and get thrown out periodically." My own pile measures in the hundreds, and one of my stories found a pro market on its 20th trip through the postal system.It’s easier to locate the right market or editor for a specific story after you’ve been around the block a little. McLaughlin now targets his stories to markets he thinks will fit, so he has a high percentage of acceptances. Bracken keeps all his rejection slips, but now sells most of what he writes, though not always on the first try. 2002 was the first year he received more acceptances than rejections. And it only took him 20 years to get there."What rejections help me do is improve my marketing skills," Bracken said. "If an editor provides a personal note or checks something on a checklist, it helps me learn what that editor likes and dislikes about my work. Sometimes I learn to submit a different type of story, sometimes I learn the market is completely inappropriate for my work, and sometimes all I learn is that an editor is overstocked and that I should wait a few months before sending another manuscript to that market."Van Pelt admits the process looks pretty simple to those who see only the long bibliography of accepted stories and not the daily acts of discipline. He added, "What you don't see is the hours hunched over the keyboard while my fingers do nothing and my forehead is as furrowed as a Kansas cornfield."My most successful stories have been written on automatic pilot, and I can’t recall any short story that has taken me longer than a week. Most are done in a single day, because the emotion is often more important than logic to me, and stories by their nature should be limited to a single conflict. I can’t say I’m a top example of the craft, but I have won a few awards and manage to get published fairly steadily. While I wouldn’t become an editor at gun point, Bracken’s experience as an editor has taught him even more appreciation of the craft, and he’s discovered a probable secret to long-term sanity in a business that offers no guarantees."I learned a long, long time ago that there are only two people I have to please with my writing: myself and one editor," Bracken said. "I have to like what I write well enough that I'm willing to spend money to mail it to someone else. And one editor has to like that manuscript well enough to devote part of her publication to my words. If I please anyone else in the process, it's pure gravy."Sure, we’ve all heard the story of how Ernest Hemingway rewrote the last line of a novel thirty-something times before he was satisfied, but I’d bet you the line he ended up using was remarkably similar to his first try. Besides, he blew his own brains out with a shotgun. So whether you get keyboard blisters from rapid-fire verbal regurgitation or prowl the dusty columns of a thesaurus seeking the perfect word, remember that the end goal is the same. Get it done, and get it out there.
(Originally appeared in Hellnotes, April 2004. Copyright 2004 by Scott Nicholson)
How to write -- another Scott Nicholson article
Nurture Your Inner Hack
By Scott Nicholson
Most aspiring writers, and even all those millions who are going to get around to being writers someday, have the idea that the Great American Novel is sleeping in their brains and all they need to do is sit down and type. Or maybe they’ll wait for voice recognition software to advance far enough that they can babble it out while they drive to New York to pick up their checks. Even Europeans and South Americans want to write the Great American Novel, because nobody has a better chance to win the Nobel Prize for Literature than a foreigner who writes a Great American Novel. Hollywood might even buy it, sight unseen, if enough people who haven’t read the book start talking about it.
The only fly in this ointment is all those maggots out there who could care less whether you win big literary prizes. For most readers, your being compared to Faulkner and Gunter Grass are actually turn-offs rather than selling points. As hard as it is to believe, not everybody analyzes the New York Times Book Review for hip clues about what to stick on the shelves. And the highbrow Fifth Avenue secret is not all that many people buy these intelligent books. The secret is now being exposed by BookScan, which reports the actual number of sales with the precision of a computer rather than with the exuberance of an in-house publicist.
What does this mean to you as a writer? Or, for those few of us who still crack a book now and then rather than leave it on the coffee table as a trendy conversation piece, what does it mean to you as a reader?
It means keeping it simple, stupid. Around the campfire, you have the advantage of no electricity, no satellite television, no Internet access, and usually an ice chest full of beer to help keep your audience’s attention, although you may have to roast a cell phone or two. You are also relaxed and spontaneous and can pour out your tale in a straightforward manner. “Here is what happened, and here is what happened next.” You don’t have time for any high-falutin tricks or your audience members will decide they’d rather take their chances with poison ivy in the dark, or go to their tents and play shadow games with flashlights.
It means you’d better learn how to tell a story. And you need to be a hack. I say “hack” with all due reverence, and I believe it is the highest literary ambition possible. The popular image of a hack is someone who grinds out cheap paperbacks every three months, writes in multiple genres, and borrows and steals from every cliched plot possible. To me, a hack is someone who is writing so freely and unself-consciously that the material is flowing from some deep inner fountain, a place where true beliefs and feelings dwell. Such a story will automatically have resonance if you have learned enough of the basic writing skills to communicate your soul.
In journalism, reporters are taught to get to the four W’s right away: who, what, when, where. That’s good advice for fiction as well. As you grow more sophisticated, you can sneak in some “why” here and there, but first you have to hook the reader. They won’t care what happens to your characters if they know nothing about them. Conversely, if your characters aren’t in the middle of doing something when the reader meets them, the reader may not stick around long enough to make an emotional investment. “When” and “where” should be revealed in tiny doses while the characters are engaged in the business of the plot.
Yes, the successful writer must do all of these things at the same time. The good news is, it’s the most natural form of storytelling. If you can avoid the grammatical bog of trying to wow English professors with your sentences, then you’re well on your way to getting the reader to turn one page and then the next. If you’re slamming a thesaurus over the reader’s head with every paragraph, a lot of your books will go in the recycling bin, no matter how heavily the publisher promotes them. Not that you shouldn’t occasionally challenge the reader, but most of us work plenty hard enough at our day jobs and the last thing we want is to sweat blood during our leisure time.
One high-profile literary novel got a lot of attention last year mostly due to the fact that the author was fairly young and fresh out of medical school. The book was of the sort that Robert Redford will probably adapt into a vapid movie. Out of curiosity, I read an excerpt that was posted online. The author used a strange third-person omniscient viewpoint that had little consistency.
n the first couple of paragraphs, the main character meets a secondary character and an entire paragraph is devoted to describing the secondary character’s appearance and dress, presumably through the main character’s eyes. Several paragraphs later, the secondary character is mentally describing the main character’s appearance and dress with hardly a speed bump to note the point-of-view transition. The author made much of the secondary character’s mustache, and for the next two pages, which is as far as I cared to read, the fellow could hardly speak without his mustache twitching or curling. We knew the characters’ sartorial and hirsute habits, but didn’t learn a thing about their feelings.
Okay, I’ll admit I am jealous, because this author is younger, richer, and better looking than I am. He has some talent for stringing words together. But he broke what to me is the most basic rule of all: don’t confuse the reader. I would assume any book receiving a six-figure advance would be carefully edited by an experienced professional. But most editors I know would have rejected this book after that first clumsy transition, which reflects that this celebrated author has not mastered one of the core elements of storytelling. And, as a reader, I rejected it the minute my curiosity was satisfied.
Pick up any popular hack novel, and I need not mention any names, because there are probably several dozen in your immediate vicinity. Open it and read the first page. By the third paragraph, something is happening. Nine times out of ten, it is something important, life and death, love or loss, something that makes you want to know more. Something that makes you—GOTCHA—turn the page.
As writers, we are often tempted to impress other writers with our stylistic genius. Believe me, I’m still enough of an average reader to know that we don’t care about your genius. We want a story, we want it fast, and we want it to teach us something about being human. We don’t care what you mean to New York. All we care about is what your story means to us. The greatest form of genius is that which isn’t noticed. We want a hack, and if you deliver the goods, we’ll keep coming back to gather around your campfire again and again.
And we may even keep the flames roaring with some of those oh-so-smart hardcovers that tried to be the Great American Novel.
(Scott Nicholson is the author of four novels, a story collection, three screenplays, and over 40 short stories. His website at www.hauntedcomputer.com contains news, writing advice, and interviews. Originally published in Writers Journal, Vol. 25, No. 5. Copyright 2004)
By Scott Nicholson
Most aspiring writers, and even all those millions who are going to get around to being writers someday, have the idea that the Great American Novel is sleeping in their brains and all they need to do is sit down and type. Or maybe they’ll wait for voice recognition software to advance far enough that they can babble it out while they drive to New York to pick up their checks. Even Europeans and South Americans want to write the Great American Novel, because nobody has a better chance to win the Nobel Prize for Literature than a foreigner who writes a Great American Novel. Hollywood might even buy it, sight unseen, if enough people who haven’t read the book start talking about it.
The only fly in this ointment is all those maggots out there who could care less whether you win big literary prizes. For most readers, your being compared to Faulkner and Gunter Grass are actually turn-offs rather than selling points. As hard as it is to believe, not everybody analyzes the New York Times Book Review for hip clues about what to stick on the shelves. And the highbrow Fifth Avenue secret is not all that many people buy these intelligent books. The secret is now being exposed by BookScan, which reports the actual number of sales with the precision of a computer rather than with the exuberance of an in-house publicist.
What does this mean to you as a writer? Or, for those few of us who still crack a book now and then rather than leave it on the coffee table as a trendy conversation piece, what does it mean to you as a reader?
It means keeping it simple, stupid. Around the campfire, you have the advantage of no electricity, no satellite television, no Internet access, and usually an ice chest full of beer to help keep your audience’s attention, although you may have to roast a cell phone or two. You are also relaxed and spontaneous and can pour out your tale in a straightforward manner. “Here is what happened, and here is what happened next.” You don’t have time for any high-falutin tricks or your audience members will decide they’d rather take their chances with poison ivy in the dark, or go to their tents and play shadow games with flashlights.
It means you’d better learn how to tell a story. And you need to be a hack. I say “hack” with all due reverence, and I believe it is the highest literary ambition possible. The popular image of a hack is someone who grinds out cheap paperbacks every three months, writes in multiple genres, and borrows and steals from every cliched plot possible. To me, a hack is someone who is writing so freely and unself-consciously that the material is flowing from some deep inner fountain, a place where true beliefs and feelings dwell. Such a story will automatically have resonance if you have learned enough of the basic writing skills to communicate your soul.
In journalism, reporters are taught to get to the four W’s right away: who, what, when, where. That’s good advice for fiction as well. As you grow more sophisticated, you can sneak in some “why” here and there, but first you have to hook the reader. They won’t care what happens to your characters if they know nothing about them. Conversely, if your characters aren’t in the middle of doing something when the reader meets them, the reader may not stick around long enough to make an emotional investment. “When” and “where” should be revealed in tiny doses while the characters are engaged in the business of the plot.
Yes, the successful writer must do all of these things at the same time. The good news is, it’s the most natural form of storytelling. If you can avoid the grammatical bog of trying to wow English professors with your sentences, then you’re well on your way to getting the reader to turn one page and then the next. If you’re slamming a thesaurus over the reader’s head with every paragraph, a lot of your books will go in the recycling bin, no matter how heavily the publisher promotes them. Not that you shouldn’t occasionally challenge the reader, but most of us work plenty hard enough at our day jobs and the last thing we want is to sweat blood during our leisure time.
One high-profile literary novel got a lot of attention last year mostly due to the fact that the author was fairly young and fresh out of medical school. The book was of the sort that Robert Redford will probably adapt into a vapid movie. Out of curiosity, I read an excerpt that was posted online. The author used a strange third-person omniscient viewpoint that had little consistency.
n the first couple of paragraphs, the main character meets a secondary character and an entire paragraph is devoted to describing the secondary character’s appearance and dress, presumably through the main character’s eyes. Several paragraphs later, the secondary character is mentally describing the main character’s appearance and dress with hardly a speed bump to note the point-of-view transition. The author made much of the secondary character’s mustache, and for the next two pages, which is as far as I cared to read, the fellow could hardly speak without his mustache twitching or curling. We knew the characters’ sartorial and hirsute habits, but didn’t learn a thing about their feelings.
Okay, I’ll admit I am jealous, because this author is younger, richer, and better looking than I am. He has some talent for stringing words together. But he broke what to me is the most basic rule of all: don’t confuse the reader. I would assume any book receiving a six-figure advance would be carefully edited by an experienced professional. But most editors I know would have rejected this book after that first clumsy transition, which reflects that this celebrated author has not mastered one of the core elements of storytelling. And, as a reader, I rejected it the minute my curiosity was satisfied.
Pick up any popular hack novel, and I need not mention any names, because there are probably several dozen in your immediate vicinity. Open it and read the first page. By the third paragraph, something is happening. Nine times out of ten, it is something important, life and death, love or loss, something that makes you want to know more. Something that makes you—GOTCHA—turn the page.
As writers, we are often tempted to impress other writers with our stylistic genius. Believe me, I’m still enough of an average reader to know that we don’t care about your genius. We want a story, we want it fast, and we want it to teach us something about being human. We don’t care what you mean to New York. All we care about is what your story means to us. The greatest form of genius is that which isn’t noticed. We want a hack, and if you deliver the goods, we’ll keep coming back to gather around your campfire again and again.
And we may even keep the flames roaring with some of those oh-so-smart hardcovers that tried to be the Great American Novel.
(Scott Nicholson is the author of four novels, a story collection, three screenplays, and over 40 short stories. His website at www.hauntedcomputer.com contains news, writing advice, and interviews. Originally published in Writers Journal, Vol. 25, No. 5. Copyright 2004)
Writing How Tos: Choices
Ask Nicholson: Choices
By Scott Nicholson
(Ever wanted to be a writer? Sign up for my free occasional newsletter and learn the good, the bad, and the ugly. My writing advice is free and worth what you pay for it. Just send an email to hauntedcomputer-subscribe@yahoogroups.com, then reply to the initial message. This is an example of one of the topics.)
Choices.
Do you make them, or do they make you?
Every story, or any work of art, or any human undertaking, is nothing more than the sum of a series of choices. Often, our most significant life choices are not the result of measured consideration; instead, they are the haphazard impulses that doom or save us--the love letter never sent, the spontaneous affair, the one drunken time that "safe sex" seems too restrictive, the trip not taken, the reckless financial gamble, the passionate moment of violence, the decision to go an extra five miles per hour on an icy road, the blinding tantrum that compels us to walk away from our jobs or families.For the author, the choices usually begin with the idea. Since the universe is brimming with ideas, the problem is not in finding them but in selecting one, or combining two or three, and committing to their development. After that, the characters are built and set in motion. While the author is making decisions about these characters, they are also bringing themselves to life, spawning their own motivations, and blazing their own trail so that even the most diligent outliner can be surprised or ambushed by their own plot. Simultaneously, the author is making hundreds of structural and grammatical choices, settling on specific words that mark the author's "voice" or "style." Most of these decisions are subconscious--the worst writers rely on a thesaurus and use words beyond their understanding rather than go for the common language of their own lives and hearts.
Just as a fool "goes for it" when under the bizarre delusion of love at first sight, or the zealot with blind faith, the author is wire-walking without a net, building a new reality underfoot with each step. The sum of the choices builds that fictional world, and those who trust their instincts will almost always find solid ground. It doesn't matter whether the choices are the will of the author or imposed by some aloof Muse, whether the characters take turns in the driver's seat or whether a "formula" provides a map.
In the end, the choices will not only make the story, they will be the story. A story is simply a person with a problem. If you have a problem, you have a choice to make. If you make a choice, things happen and other things don't happen. While things happen, other choices become necessary. Really, when you think about it, the wonder isn't that there are so many plot possibilities; the wonder is that anyone can ever type "The End."
By Scott Nicholson
(Ever wanted to be a writer? Sign up for my free occasional newsletter and learn the good, the bad, and the ugly. My writing advice is free and worth what you pay for it. Just send an email to hauntedcomputer-subscribe@yahoogroups.com, then reply to the initial message. This is an example of one of the topics.)
Choices.
Do you make them, or do they make you?
Every story, or any work of art, or any human undertaking, is nothing more than the sum of a series of choices. Often, our most significant life choices are not the result of measured consideration; instead, they are the haphazard impulses that doom or save us--the love letter never sent, the spontaneous affair, the one drunken time that "safe sex" seems too restrictive, the trip not taken, the reckless financial gamble, the passionate moment of violence, the decision to go an extra five miles per hour on an icy road, the blinding tantrum that compels us to walk away from our jobs or families.For the author, the choices usually begin with the idea. Since the universe is brimming with ideas, the problem is not in finding them but in selecting one, or combining two or three, and committing to their development. After that, the characters are built and set in motion. While the author is making decisions about these characters, they are also bringing themselves to life, spawning their own motivations, and blazing their own trail so that even the most diligent outliner can be surprised or ambushed by their own plot. Simultaneously, the author is making hundreds of structural and grammatical choices, settling on specific words that mark the author's "voice" or "style." Most of these decisions are subconscious--the worst writers rely on a thesaurus and use words beyond their understanding rather than go for the common language of their own lives and hearts.
Just as a fool "goes for it" when under the bizarre delusion of love at first sight, or the zealot with blind faith, the author is wire-walking without a net, building a new reality underfoot with each step. The sum of the choices builds that fictional world, and those who trust their instincts will almost always find solid ground. It doesn't matter whether the choices are the will of the author or imposed by some aloof Muse, whether the characters take turns in the driver's seat or whether a "formula" provides a map.
In the end, the choices will not only make the story, they will be the story. A story is simply a person with a problem. If you have a problem, you have a choice to make. If you make a choice, things happen and other things don't happen. While things happen, other choices become necessary. Really, when you think about it, the wonder isn't that there are so many plot possibilities; the wonder is that anyone can ever type "The End."
How to write mystery and horror
Spirited Inquiry: Where Mystery and Horror Meet
By Scott Nicholson
(Ever wanted to be a writer? Sign up for my free occasional newsletter and learn the good, the bad, and the ugly. My writing advice is free and worth what you pay for it. Just send an email to hauntedcomputer-subscribe@yahoogroups.com. This article is free and uncopyrighted, meaning you can publish it in your blog, journal, newsletter, webzine, etc., as long as you include my byline and web address.)
The connection between the genres of mystery and horror has always been strong, appealing to the inquisitive and the thrill seeker alike. The genres are closely linked in virtually every aspect except the actual marketing and bookstore shelving. While the spectrum is broad, with Rita Mae Brown and Agatha Christie on one end, and Skipp and Spector and Edward Lee on the other, the emotional territory is often similar. Even the coziest mystery usually involves a death, and sometimes a haunting supernatural novel contains no more bloodshed than your average Tupperware party.
Two of the hallmarks of mystery are the puzzle and its subsequent solution. Usually, the reader and writer need a sleuth as a viewpoint character, someone to assemble the different clues and filter the actions and behavior of the other characters. In the good stuff, there is a rise in tension as the story progresses, until the perpetrator is revealed in a surprising and satisfactory manner. And, unless the author has pulled off a miracle in cliché-busting deception, it had better not be the butler.
The hallmarks of horror are the emotional and psychological overtones. Many readers, those who don’t believe in ghosts, read a supernatural work as a psychological allegory. A haunted house is a symbol for the troubled human mind. A spirit is a living reflection and projection of the one who is witnessing the phenomena. A demon or devil is the personification of despair or lost faith.
The genres would probably be joined in their proper union if not for the publishing practices of the last century. Indeed, ghost and detective fiction were often lumped together in the pulp magazines under labels such as “suspense” and “terror.” As publishing became a big business, and the mass market reached a critical mass, marketing experts moved in and decided that the products would be simpler to match with the intended consumer if a set of stereotypes could be imposed. It was cheaper and easier to sell an entire category of books than it was to promote a single book or single author.
Most authors defy the labels but get stuck with them anyway. As proof, one need look no further than the venerable personage of Edgar Allan Poe. He is widely regarded as one of America’s finest horror writers, on the strength of stories of claustrophobic terror like “The Pit and the Pendulum” and “The Tell-Tale Heart.” He embraced the supernatural in such work as “Annabel Lee” and “The Black Cat.” Alternately, he is credited with the invention of the modern detective story by penning “Murders in The Rue Morgue” and “Mystery of Marie Roget,” the latter apparently inspired by an actual case.
The Mystery Writers of America adopted Edgar as the namesake of its annual awards and uses his trademark forehead, curly hair, and mustache in its logo, and the Horror Writers of America would almost certainly have named its own awards for the absinthe-swilling genius if that claim hadn’t already been staked.
Above all else, Poe took advantage of the psychology of terror and mystery. And that psychology, the frailty of the human mind and strength of the human heart, the wonder of language and the shortcomings of communication, the miracle of thought and the fallibility of emotion, is a dark cavern mined by the best explorers in both fields.
Numerous works have crossed the lines or walked the gray shadow land between the two genres: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Ed McBain’s “Ghosts,” Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” Daphne Du Maurier’s “Rebecca,” William Goldman’s “Magic,” even titles in the Nancy Drew, Hardee Boys, Scooby Doo, and Goosebumps series. Authors such as Ira Levin, Barbara Michaels, Rudyard Kipling, Sharyn McCrumb, Ed Gorman, Michael Slade, Edo van Belkom, Douglas Clegg, and Tom Piccirilli have worn the skins of both beasts. Phil Rickman coined the term “spiritual procedural” to describe his series featuring a Diocesan Deliverance Consultant. Most notably, Dean Koontz has blended many of the elements of mystery and horror (and a few other genres as well) into a compelling and best-selling mix.
My twenty-pound dictionary lists as the first definition of mystery, “Something that has not been, or cannot be, explained; hence, something beyond human comprehension; a mysterious sacred thing.” Sounds like a pretty good definition of supernatural horror fiction to me. The dictionary was published in 1934, so its definition for “horror” fails miserably, as least in the way horror is now regarded as a genre. After some archaic references to “horror” as a corporeal medical state between rigor and algor, the final definition comes close: “Awe; fear mingled with reverence.”
Reverence.
Horror isn’t about scaring readers any more than mystery is about solving crimes. It’s all about the people. It’s about the emotional stakes, the spiritual implications, the bizarre antics of the human race. It’s about us.
At the scene of every real crime is a motive that is often beyond belief to the average person. Every haunted structure has a mystery surrounding the dead people who allegedly pay those afterlife visits, as well as the living people who “see” them. Fiction is one way we face these unexplainable sacred things, and the written word provides a safe place in which to vent our awe and fear. Fiction is the lie that speaks a greater truth.
The real mystery resides in the human soul.
The real horror resides in the human soul.
Open your soul and read on.
(Scott Nicholson is the author of seven books, including the recently released The Farm and They Hunger in April, 2007. He is a freelance editor as well as a published writer. Email him at harvestbook AT yahoo.com to inquire about his editing services. His web site is http://www.hauntedcomputer.com)
By Scott Nicholson
(Ever wanted to be a writer? Sign up for my free occasional newsletter and learn the good, the bad, and the ugly. My writing advice is free and worth what you pay for it. Just send an email to hauntedcomputer-subscribe@yahoogroups.com. This article is free and uncopyrighted, meaning you can publish it in your blog, journal, newsletter, webzine, etc., as long as you include my byline and web address.)
The connection between the genres of mystery and horror has always been strong, appealing to the inquisitive and the thrill seeker alike. The genres are closely linked in virtually every aspect except the actual marketing and bookstore shelving. While the spectrum is broad, with Rita Mae Brown and Agatha Christie on one end, and Skipp and Spector and Edward Lee on the other, the emotional territory is often similar. Even the coziest mystery usually involves a death, and sometimes a haunting supernatural novel contains no more bloodshed than your average Tupperware party.
Two of the hallmarks of mystery are the puzzle and its subsequent solution. Usually, the reader and writer need a sleuth as a viewpoint character, someone to assemble the different clues and filter the actions and behavior of the other characters. In the good stuff, there is a rise in tension as the story progresses, until the perpetrator is revealed in a surprising and satisfactory manner. And, unless the author has pulled off a miracle in cliché-busting deception, it had better not be the butler.
The hallmarks of horror are the emotional and psychological overtones. Many readers, those who don’t believe in ghosts, read a supernatural work as a psychological allegory. A haunted house is a symbol for the troubled human mind. A spirit is a living reflection and projection of the one who is witnessing the phenomena. A demon or devil is the personification of despair or lost faith.
The genres would probably be joined in their proper union if not for the publishing practices of the last century. Indeed, ghost and detective fiction were often lumped together in the pulp magazines under labels such as “suspense” and “terror.” As publishing became a big business, and the mass market reached a critical mass, marketing experts moved in and decided that the products would be simpler to match with the intended consumer if a set of stereotypes could be imposed. It was cheaper and easier to sell an entire category of books than it was to promote a single book or single author.
Most authors defy the labels but get stuck with them anyway. As proof, one need look no further than the venerable personage of Edgar Allan Poe. He is widely regarded as one of America’s finest horror writers, on the strength of stories of claustrophobic terror like “The Pit and the Pendulum” and “The Tell-Tale Heart.” He embraced the supernatural in such work as “Annabel Lee” and “The Black Cat.” Alternately, he is credited with the invention of the modern detective story by penning “Murders in The Rue Morgue” and “Mystery of Marie Roget,” the latter apparently inspired by an actual case.
The Mystery Writers of America adopted Edgar as the namesake of its annual awards and uses his trademark forehead, curly hair, and mustache in its logo, and the Horror Writers of America would almost certainly have named its own awards for the absinthe-swilling genius if that claim hadn’t already been staked.
Above all else, Poe took advantage of the psychology of terror and mystery. And that psychology, the frailty of the human mind and strength of the human heart, the wonder of language and the shortcomings of communication, the miracle of thought and the fallibility of emotion, is a dark cavern mined by the best explorers in both fields.
Numerous works have crossed the lines or walked the gray shadow land between the two genres: Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s “The Hound of the Baskervilles,” Ed McBain’s “Ghosts,” Shakespeare’s “Hamlet,” Daphne Du Maurier’s “Rebecca,” William Goldman’s “Magic,” even titles in the Nancy Drew, Hardee Boys, Scooby Doo, and Goosebumps series. Authors such as Ira Levin, Barbara Michaels, Rudyard Kipling, Sharyn McCrumb, Ed Gorman, Michael Slade, Edo van Belkom, Douglas Clegg, and Tom Piccirilli have worn the skins of both beasts. Phil Rickman coined the term “spiritual procedural” to describe his series featuring a Diocesan Deliverance Consultant. Most notably, Dean Koontz has blended many of the elements of mystery and horror (and a few other genres as well) into a compelling and best-selling mix.
My twenty-pound dictionary lists as the first definition of mystery, “Something that has not been, or cannot be, explained; hence, something beyond human comprehension; a mysterious sacred thing.” Sounds like a pretty good definition of supernatural horror fiction to me. The dictionary was published in 1934, so its definition for “horror” fails miserably, as least in the way horror is now regarded as a genre. After some archaic references to “horror” as a corporeal medical state between rigor and algor, the final definition comes close: “Awe; fear mingled with reverence.”
Reverence.
Horror isn’t about scaring readers any more than mystery is about solving crimes. It’s all about the people. It’s about the emotional stakes, the spiritual implications, the bizarre antics of the human race. It’s about us.
At the scene of every real crime is a motive that is often beyond belief to the average person. Every haunted structure has a mystery surrounding the dead people who allegedly pay those afterlife visits, as well as the living people who “see” them. Fiction is one way we face these unexplainable sacred things, and the written word provides a safe place in which to vent our awe and fear. Fiction is the lie that speaks a greater truth.
The real mystery resides in the human soul.
The real horror resides in the human soul.
Open your soul and read on.
(Scott Nicholson is the author of seven books, including the recently released The Farm and They Hunger in April, 2007. He is a freelance editor as well as a published writer. Email him at harvestbook AT yahoo.com to inquire about his editing services. His web site is http://www.hauntedcomputer.com)
words to google for pictures
Yoke
Broom making
Wheelwright
Draft horse
Timber frame
Animal logging
Ox driving
Maple sugaring
Soap making
Woodstove cooking
Beekeeping
Blacksmithing
Coopering
Butter churns
Cart wrighting
Wooden wheelbarrows
Hitching post
Harness
Ox drover
Barn raising
Pike pole
Oak pegs
Willow tree
Tragic
Sensitive
Nurture
Relationship
Anoint
Friendship
Promise
Walking
Roaring fire
Recognition
Appreciation
Candlelight dinner
Fortune teller
Seer
Childhood
Porcelain doll
Rag doll
Exhort
Culprit
Oak tree
Gunsmith
Tinsmith
Hanging rope
Noose
Hanging tree
Bank teller
Slink
Sly
Silky
Stalker
Sulk
Perfect victim
Long legs
Brutal
Web of deceit
Nylon leg
Welcome banner
buttons
divider
Broom making
Wheelwright
Draft horse
Timber frame
Animal logging
Ox driving
Maple sugaring
Soap making
Woodstove cooking
Beekeeping
Blacksmithing
Coopering
Butter churns
Cart wrighting
Wooden wheelbarrows
Hitching post
Harness
Ox drover
Barn raising
Pike pole
Oak pegs
Willow tree
Tragic
Sensitive
Nurture
Relationship
Anoint
Friendship
Promise
Walking
Roaring fire
Recognition
Appreciation
Candlelight dinner
Fortune teller
Seer
Childhood
Porcelain doll
Rag doll
Exhort
Culprit
Oak tree
Gunsmith
Tinsmith
Hanging rope
Noose
Hanging tree
Bank teller
Slink
Sly
Silky
Stalker
Sulk
Perfect victim
Long legs
Brutal
Web of deceit
Nylon leg
Welcome banner
buttons
divider
Inflation calculator
The inflation calculator at http://www.westegg.com/inflation/ will calculate prices for the years 1800 through 2006.
What cost $100 in 2006 would cost $4.62 in 1888.
Also, if you were to buy exactly the same products in 1888 and 2006, they would cost you $100 and $2164.02 respectively.
What cost $.50 in 2006 would cost $0.02 in 1888.
Also, if you were to buy exactly the same products in 1888 and 2006, they would cost you $.50 and $10.82 respectively.
What cost $100 in 2006 would cost $4.62 in 1888.
Also, if you were to buy exactly the same products in 1888 and 2006, they would cost you $100 and $2164.02 respectively.
What cost $.50 in 2006 would cost $0.02 in 1888.
Also, if you were to buy exactly the same products in 1888 and 2006, they would cost you $.50 and $10.82 respectively.
My Life In The War
by Scott Nicholson
My first taste of battle left me largely disoriented, but at least I was still standing at the end, though I lost my pencil along the way.
Tudd Dean, a member of the Blue Ridge Living History Society and one of the organizers of the Stoneman’s Raid Civil War re-enactment, recruited me to join the fun. I was to play a civilian reporter during the event held at the Horn In the West grounds in Boone, NC, last weekend.
Tudd and another soldier loaned me clothes from the period, a top hat and top coat and cotton shirt and pants. My only nods to the 21st Century were the rubber soles of my shoes and the rayon in my shoelaces.
My role in the event was as a local reporter in the town where the "battle" was taking place. This year, the event was staged as a battle centered around Westchester, Virginia. Since that town changed hands more times than a utility infielder, the script could take many different directions.
When I asked Tudd what I was supposed to do, I learned that there actually was no script. Over a hundred troops in both blue and gray, more than a dozen horses, a large contingent of civilian women and children, and one reporter were taking the field with only the vaguest notion of what would happen.
I asked Newland’s Tim Townsend, who was depicting a Sergeant in the Watauga Home Guard, what I should do. He said I should get out of the way when the action started, to run in the cabin and get captured along with the women and children.
"I won’t lie to you," he said. "This is a dangerous hobby."
That’s when I realized that I was going to be the only unarmed male in the battle, a cowardly reporter who runs around with a pencil and a piece of paper. This is a role I was born for. Whoever said, "The pen is mightier than the sword" was probably never in a duel.
Tim and I worked up a little scenario where I would come down during the drill and ask him how the "boys" were doing, what the state of the war was, and if the Yankees would ever show up here. Warming up, I tipped my hat to the ladies and engaged in polite conversation, not an unpleasant job by any means. The Union cavalry rode into town before I had a chance to deliver my lines to the Sergeant, though.
When the firing broke out from replica powder rifles, I gentlemanly assisted the women and children into one of the cabins. I watched from the safety of the back porch as the Union troops drove back the home guard.
One of the first Rebel casualties fell about fifteen feet from where I was hiding. He was a television news cameraman in his day job, and I’d talked with him earlier. I fought down an impulse to go out and help him, especially as a horse trampled excruciatingly near his head. But that would not have fit my role. No civilian alive back then, even a reporter, would be dumb enough to run between two battle lines.
The Union soldiers drove back the Boys in Gray, and Yankee foot soldiers stormed the cabin and captured us. On the front porch, the soldiers began robbing the women and menacing the children. When one got overly aggressive while taking a cup from a woman, I was driven to defend her honor and have it out with the blue-belly.
The soldier got a little enthusiastic, shoving me around with his rifle, and I hit the deck and lost my wonderful top hat. I stood up and delivered my best line of the day: "Don’t you mess with my hat."
As we prisoners were shepherded to another cabin, some of the children were crying, frightened by the realism of the event. Rigged blasts from cannon went off every couple of minutes, and the ladies pelted the Yanks with pine cones, shouted insults, and cheered the Rebel counterattack.
Meanwhile, our captors called us "traitors" and worse, though the language was generally kept in check for the benefit of the several hundred people in the audience. A couple of the soldiers wore big grins despite their "wounded" condition, and most of the victims managed to prop themselves against trees or fall out of the way of the cavalry.
The air was thick with powder smoke, the smell of horses, and noise of gunfire and shouts. As the Rebs began to push back the invaders, the prisoners were released, and I counted Yankee bodies. I reported 25 casualties to the Sergeant, who asked, "Are they all dead?" I answered something like "Not enough of them, sir."
I "interviewed" one wounded soldier who said he was gut shot and could do with a pint of whiskey. I told him he was done for anyway, so he might as well enjoy himself. I’d seen the staged field hospital, and there were far too many bloody limbs lying around to afford much hope.
I rolled another soldier out of the way so the captured Yankees could be collected and marched through town. Another of my lines, perhaps spawned by bravery in the face of victory, was to shout at the Yankee prisoners, "You shoulda stayed in New York."
"We’re from North Carolina," one of them answered, while my rifle-shoving friend pointed his finger at me in a "I’ll get you next time" gesture. Too bad for him he was marched to the Confederate military prison in Salisbury, where his chances of surviving disease were much lower than his chances of dodging bullets in combat.
Then the war was over, the crowd came down to take pictures, historians brushed off the dust and collected their weapons, and the Yankees and Rebels headed for the camps for a little relaxation and food together before the next event.
I was most impressed by the camaraderie among the re-enactors, and their mutual passion for history. Most of the re-enactors have the equipment and uniforms to switch sides and fight for either army. In the Civil War, "neighbor against neighbor" was too often true, but not in the modern version of it.
While I am ashamed to say that I discovered a streak of stubborn Rebel pride coursing through my veins, the real lesson I learned was that it’s not about us and them. Because, back then as now, it’s all us.
--copyright 2001 by Scott Nicholson
My first taste of battle left me largely disoriented, but at least I was still standing at the end, though I lost my pencil along the way.
Tudd Dean, a member of the Blue Ridge Living History Society and one of the organizers of the Stoneman’s Raid Civil War re-enactment, recruited me to join the fun. I was to play a civilian reporter during the event held at the Horn In the West grounds in Boone, NC, last weekend.
Tudd and another soldier loaned me clothes from the period, a top hat and top coat and cotton shirt and pants. My only nods to the 21st Century were the rubber soles of my shoes and the rayon in my shoelaces.
My role in the event was as a local reporter in the town where the "battle" was taking place. This year, the event was staged as a battle centered around Westchester, Virginia. Since that town changed hands more times than a utility infielder, the script could take many different directions.
When I asked Tudd what I was supposed to do, I learned that there actually was no script. Over a hundred troops in both blue and gray, more than a dozen horses, a large contingent of civilian women and children, and one reporter were taking the field with only the vaguest notion of what would happen.
I asked Newland’s Tim Townsend, who was depicting a Sergeant in the Watauga Home Guard, what I should do. He said I should get out of the way when the action started, to run in the cabin and get captured along with the women and children.
"I won’t lie to you," he said. "This is a dangerous hobby."
That’s when I realized that I was going to be the only unarmed male in the battle, a cowardly reporter who runs around with a pencil and a piece of paper. This is a role I was born for. Whoever said, "The pen is mightier than the sword" was probably never in a duel.
Tim and I worked up a little scenario where I would come down during the drill and ask him how the "boys" were doing, what the state of the war was, and if the Yankees would ever show up here. Warming up, I tipped my hat to the ladies and engaged in polite conversation, not an unpleasant job by any means. The Union cavalry rode into town before I had a chance to deliver my lines to the Sergeant, though.
When the firing broke out from replica powder rifles, I gentlemanly assisted the women and children into one of the cabins. I watched from the safety of the back porch as the Union troops drove back the home guard.
One of the first Rebel casualties fell about fifteen feet from where I was hiding. He was a television news cameraman in his day job, and I’d talked with him earlier. I fought down an impulse to go out and help him, especially as a horse trampled excruciatingly near his head. But that would not have fit my role. No civilian alive back then, even a reporter, would be dumb enough to run between two battle lines.
The Union soldiers drove back the Boys in Gray, and Yankee foot soldiers stormed the cabin and captured us. On the front porch, the soldiers began robbing the women and menacing the children. When one got overly aggressive while taking a cup from a woman, I was driven to defend her honor and have it out with the blue-belly.
The soldier got a little enthusiastic, shoving me around with his rifle, and I hit the deck and lost my wonderful top hat. I stood up and delivered my best line of the day: "Don’t you mess with my hat."
As we prisoners were shepherded to another cabin, some of the children were crying, frightened by the realism of the event. Rigged blasts from cannon went off every couple of minutes, and the ladies pelted the Yanks with pine cones, shouted insults, and cheered the Rebel counterattack.
Meanwhile, our captors called us "traitors" and worse, though the language was generally kept in check for the benefit of the several hundred people in the audience. A couple of the soldiers wore big grins despite their "wounded" condition, and most of the victims managed to prop themselves against trees or fall out of the way of the cavalry.
The air was thick with powder smoke, the smell of horses, and noise of gunfire and shouts. As the Rebs began to push back the invaders, the prisoners were released, and I counted Yankee bodies. I reported 25 casualties to the Sergeant, who asked, "Are they all dead?" I answered something like "Not enough of them, sir."
I "interviewed" one wounded soldier who said he was gut shot and could do with a pint of whiskey. I told him he was done for anyway, so he might as well enjoy himself. I’d seen the staged field hospital, and there were far too many bloody limbs lying around to afford much hope.
I rolled another soldier out of the way so the captured Yankees could be collected and marched through town. Another of my lines, perhaps spawned by bravery in the face of victory, was to shout at the Yankee prisoners, "You shoulda stayed in New York."
"We’re from North Carolina," one of them answered, while my rifle-shoving friend pointed his finger at me in a "I’ll get you next time" gesture. Too bad for him he was marched to the Confederate military prison in Salisbury, where his chances of surviving disease were much lower than his chances of dodging bullets in combat.
Then the war was over, the crowd came down to take pictures, historians brushed off the dust and collected their weapons, and the Yankees and Rebels headed for the camps for a little relaxation and food together before the next event.
I was most impressed by the camaraderie among the re-enactors, and their mutual passion for history. Most of the re-enactors have the equipment and uniforms to switch sides and fight for either army. In the Civil War, "neighbor against neighbor" was too often true, but not in the modern version of it.
While I am ashamed to say that I discovered a streak of stubborn Rebel pride coursing through my veins, the real lesson I learned was that it’s not about us and them. Because, back then as now, it’s all us.
--copyright 2001 by Scott Nicholson
Monday, February 19, 2007
Totally random thoughts
Heaven is the heart’s true home.
When my traveling days are over . . .
God uses illness to draw you closer to Him.
One day, when your Lord comes for you, He will heal all your cancer.
You may forget God, but He will never forget you.
Life expectancy in 1901 was 49 years.
The biggest thing to improve life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant. Waterborne diseases included cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. Could wipe out entire communities. (the rule of 3 . . .)
Sodium bicarbonate when heated gives off CO2 which makes cakes and cookies rise during baking.
When we free ourselves from all the things that encumber us, we can begin to build a relationship based on being partners and not a relationship based on dominance or fear.
In 1901 the life expectancy was 49 years. The biggest thing to improve the life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant was first used in ___________.
Waterborne diseases include cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. They could wipe out entire communities.
“Whenever science makes a discovery, the devil grabs it while the angels are debating the best way to use it.” -- Alan Valentine.
You win a heart by outshining the competition, not by being jealous.
When people are told something they don’t want to know, they often resent the messenger.
Depression is anger turned inward.
Dead Ringer—The definition of ringer, from which this phrase comes, is “substituted racehorse.” Unscrupulous racehorse owners have a fast horse and a slow horse that are nearly identical in appearance. They run the slow horse until the betting odds reached the desired level, then they substitute the ringer, who can run much faster. Dead in this case means abrupt or exact, like in dead stop, or dead shot.
Dead Ringer—Gangsters with contracts on their lives might hire a person who looked similar to them, a ringer, to appear in a public places. The lookalike would often be convincing enough to fool the contracted killers, you can guess the part about dead.
Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others. ~ Cicero
Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul. ~ Henry Ward Beecher
About 1888, the Office Specialty Manufacturing Co. introduced its Rapid Roller Damp-Leaf Copier which used pressure supplied by rollers to copy letters onto a roll of dampened paper. After copies were pressed onto the paper, the paper entered the cabinet under the copier, where it dried on a large roller. Copies could be made more quickly with a roller copier than with a letter copying press. Roller copiers also competed with carbon paper. A roller copier could make a half dozen copies of a typewritten letter if the letter was run through the copier several times.
When my traveling days are over . . .
God uses illness to draw you closer to Him.
One day, when your Lord comes for you, He will heal all your cancer.
You may forget God, but He will never forget you.
Life expectancy in 1901 was 49 years.
The biggest thing to improve life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant. Waterborne diseases included cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. Could wipe out entire communities. (the rule of 3 . . .)
Sodium bicarbonate when heated gives off CO2 which makes cakes and cookies rise during baking.
When we free ourselves from all the things that encumber us, we can begin to build a relationship based on being partners and not a relationship based on dominance or fear.
In 1901 the life expectancy was 49 years. The biggest thing to improve the life expectancy was clean water. Chlorine as a disinfectant was first used in ___________.
Waterborne diseases include cholera, typhoid fever, dysentery. They could wipe out entire communities.
“Whenever science makes a discovery, the devil grabs it while the angels are debating the best way to use it.” -- Alan Valentine.
You win a heart by outshining the competition, not by being jealous.
When people are told something they don’t want to know, they often resent the messenger.
Depression is anger turned inward.
Dead Ringer—The definition of ringer, from which this phrase comes, is “substituted racehorse.” Unscrupulous racehorse owners have a fast horse and a slow horse that are nearly identical in appearance. They run the slow horse until the betting odds reached the desired level, then they substitute the ringer, who can run much faster. Dead in this case means abrupt or exact, like in dead stop, or dead shot.
Dead Ringer—Gangsters with contracts on their lives might hire a person who looked similar to them, a ringer, to appear in a public places. The lookalike would often be convincing enough to fool the contracted killers, you can guess the part about dead.
Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all the others. ~ Cicero
Gratitude is the fairest blossom which springs from the soul. ~ Henry Ward Beecher
About 1888, the Office Specialty Manufacturing Co. introduced its Rapid Roller Damp-Leaf Copier which used pressure supplied by rollers to copy letters onto a roll of dampened paper. After copies were pressed onto the paper, the paper entered the cabinet under the copier, where it dried on a large roller. Copies could be made more quickly with a roller copier than with a letter copying press. Roller copiers also competed with carbon paper. A roller copier could make a half dozen copies of a typewritten letter if the letter was run through the copier several times.
Aspects of the Antebellum Christmas
By 1860 many of the elements of our modern “traditional” Christmas were easily discernible. Although some customs found during the antebellum era have long since vanished, many more may be recognized instantly. Some, such as the use of a christmas tree, were in their nascent stages, while others, like the concepts of gift-bringers, were in mid-passage. No matter what stage of development, the modern reveler transported to antebellum America would be able to look upon familiar scenes. For, as one source contends, Santa Claus and ornamented trees were becoming more common “to the whole country.”1
Perhaps the most important of the changing elements was the country’s attitude toward Christmas. By the coming of the Civil War the antipathy shown toward the celebration by some religious groups and like-minded individuals was rapidly softening. Indeed, “by 1859, the general attitude towards Christmas had changed sufficiently for the Sunday School Union” to accept the holiday to such a degree that it published hymns and accounts of celebrations.2 This was emblematic of a general acceptance of Christmas by many denominations. This changing of views combined with another ongoing force to further shape and help define the American Christmas.
The continuing popularity of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and its “carol” philosophy added yet another element by synthesizing “certain religious and secular attitudes... into a humanitarian pattern.” Its assertion that brotherhood, kindness, and charity should be a part of life—especially at Christmas—was quickly accepted and added to American tradition.3
It was within such an atmosphere that Christmas as we know it began to manifest itself. This essay will look at various aspects of Christmas celebrations during the 1830-1860 period, both those that reach down to us today and those which are but memories.
The Christmas TreeThe Godey’s Magazine publication, in 1850, of an article and illustrations depicting the British royal family’s celebrating around the christmas tree is generally seen as a seminal event in the ultimate American adoption of this German (Prince Albert, of course, was German) custom. Although the article did much to popularize the use of trees, it must be said that it was a custom that had already begun to take root across the United States. In fact, some historians argue that American adoption of the Christmas tree predated that of the British.4 There would seem to be support for this assertion. Successive waves of German immigrants probably packed in their cultural baggage the custom of adorning their homes with a small tree. As they spread through the nation, so too did the decorated tree.5
Some sources credit Hessian mercenaries with the introduction of the tree during the Revolutionary War.6 However, as there is no direct, extant evidence to prove this oft-told tale, it may be apocryphal. The likely source was probably a now forgotten German immigrant seeking to recreate a bit of his homeland in his new surroundings. No matter the originator, the christmas tree graced more than a few homes prior to 1850 and nearly every area was witness to its use.7 Perhaps the first American illustration of this was seen in an 1810 Krimmel painting executed in Pennsylvania.8 The Dictionary of Americanisms’ (1828) inclusion of a definition of “christmas tree” and the publication of Kris Kringle’s Christmas Tree in 1845 are indicative that the custom was more widespread than previously thought.9
With this background it is not surprising that the tree had become established by 1860. So established, in fact, that a “German tree” was placed at the White House by President Franklin Pierce in 1856.10 Whether the tree was placed upon a table as German customs prescribed or on the floor as Americans were wont to do is uncertain. Trees of the period were decorated with various edibles and home-crafted ornaments, but by 1860 glass trinkets made in Germany were becoming available to adorn the branches. Most, however, were decorated with fruits, strands, and candles. Although, some people were more creative, like the German immigrant in 1847 Ohio who had the local blacksmith pound out a metal star for his spruce, where it was placed alongside paper decorations.11
MusicMusic exclusively associated with Christmas was added to songbooks during this period. Caroling became increasingly practiced. The type of music, however, belied the burgeoning secularization of the season, as most of it was of a “sacred” nature or rampant with allusions to Christ’s birth. “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” 1851), “See Amid the Winter’s Snow” (also 1851), “There Came A Little Child to Earth “ (1856), and “We Three Kings of Orient Are” (1859) all were composed before the Civil War.12
Legal RecognitionGovernments recognized the growing importance of Christmas by dealing with it as they knew best: by passing a law. The first state to make Christmas a legal holiday was Alabama in 1836. Between 1850 and 1861, fifteen states (including Illinois, Ohio, Wisconsin, and Minnesota) followed suit.13 A significant result of this “legislation” was the states’ recognition of December 25th as Christmas Day. This helped standardize the date for celebration. Previously, celebrations took place at varying times during the month (particularly December 6th, St. Nicholas’s day), or on January 6th, Epiphany. Thus, events during the period helped cement the date used today.14
The original impetus for legal recognition seems to have come from the business community. The initial legislation forbade the collection of promissory notes on Christmas day and some judicial activities were suspended. Provisions for the closing of schools, banks, and government offices generally did not appear until after the Civil War.15
Christmas CardsOne modern element all but unknown during this period was the christmas card. They were relatively well-known in England by 1860, but the custom had yet to make inroads on this side of the Atlantic. The first such Christmas greetings in the United States are thought to be those issued by a New York engraver in 1851. Richard Pease printed cards, showing a family dinner scene, that read “A Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year, to: From: .”16 However, it was not until Louis Prang of Boston introduced a line of cards in 1875 that they became widely used. 17
CommercializationAnother “tradition” rapidly coalescing during the period—and decried still—was the commercialization of the holiday. As early as the 1830s newspapers were filled with blandishments designed with “Christmas shoppers” in mind.18 Every thing from raisins for baked goods to pianofortes for the parlor to uplifting books for the mind and soul were pushed via the papers.19 Merchants were quick to realize the potential of the gift-giving season and capitalize on the growing importance of Christmas. Santa Clauses had begun to appear on street corners and in stores by 1850. Philadelphia storeowners were among the first to offer seasonal employment to those willing to impersonate Santa.20
The trend did not go unnoticed. A Terre Haute (Ind) newspaper editor commented on the frivolity associated with the 1855 season. He was bemused by the “gambol,” gift exchanges, and the person of “Santa Clause” that seemed to dominate the holiday. He wondered if such behavior was the proper way of celebrating the birth of Christ. In a telling comment, he noted that it was probably already too late to change things, as the trend was already well established. 21
Bearers of GiftsA major difference between the antebellum celebration and that of today was the variety of gift-bringers dotting the landscape. Of varying ethnic or national backgrounds, they scurried across the land on their mission to reward or punish. Already by 1860, though, one was beginning to overshadow the others. With the coming of the war and the enlistment of Thomas Nast to his side he would come to dominate, but in pre-Civil war America he had competition.
Santa ClausThe greatest of all modern Christmas icons, Santa Claus, was evolving during the period. Although it was to be several years before Nast was to give the jolly, round one his most enduring form, “Santa Claus” of 1860 would be easily recognizable to the modern child. “Santa,” of course did not spring full-blown upon America, but was born of legend and centuries of permutation. He was the amalgamation of the traditions of gift-givers of many cultures, a bishop legendary for his kindness, and the pens of several early 19th-century American writers.
His most likely ancestor was St. Nicholas, a 4th-century Bishop of Myra in Asia Minor. Hard facts about Nicholas are difficult to come by (not even a Papal Council could burn away much of time’s fog), but over the centuries the legend of this kindly, charitable man grew apace.22 By 1,000 c.e. Nicholas was arguably one of the most important and beloved saints in Christendom, having become the patron saint of people as diverse as pawnbrokers and spinsters in search of husbands. Most of all, he became identified as the patron of children.23
Nicholas first became associated with Christmas during the Middle Ages. An agent of this transformation may have been a 13th-century French nun who left gifts for the poor on the eve of St. Nicholas’ Day (December 6th). Thus he became linked to gift-giving.24
Not even the Reformation’s hostility toward Catholic saints could dim Nicholas’ luster in the eyes of his followers. Children still looked forward to his gifts, or dreaded the switches he might leave behind to punish transgressors. As the latter indicates, the Nicholas legend also had its darker side. As an arbiter of behavior he could reward or punish. It is likely he was used a weapon by parents in the age-old struggle of wills. Eventually, these disciplinary duties fell to a companion, known variously Knecht Ruprecht, Schwarze Peter (Black Peter), Krampus, or Belznichol. This bearer of punishment was usually portrayed as a shaggy, dark-visaged bogeyman.25
St. Nicholas’ first appearance in the New World was in 1492, when Columbus named a bay after him.26 Times became rather lean for the saint after that, partly because America’s mainly Protestant settlers disdained saints and the rituals associated with them. Doubtless, private celebrations based upon the Nicholas legend occurred, usually among Moravians or Dutch settlers. The fact that laws were passed prohibiting is evidence enough. the above notwithstanding, St. Nicholas entered a quiescent period that was to last until the 19th century.27
The Nicholas who reemerged in the early 19th century was soon transformed into a secular saint who was to play a central role in what was to become a folk festival instead of a purely religious occasion. This revitalization came through the confluence of American literary efforts and the increased immigration of Germans and others wont to celebrate Christmas.
John Pintard, his brother-in-law Washington Irving, Clement Moore, and the anonymous author of Kriss Kringle’s Book were the literary pioneers who helped establish Santa Claus. Pintard, an early light in the in the New York Historical Society, was among the first to resurrect Nicholas, who was to become the patron saint of the society. At a society dinner in 1810 Pintard unveiled a broadside showing Nicholas, two children, and stockings hung from a fireplace. Beneath those now familiar elements of the Christmas story was the phrase “Sancta Claus, Goed Heylig Man” (Saint Nicholas, Good Holy Man).28
Irving was the next to take up Nicholas’ cause and his inclusion (twenty-three times) of him in Knickerbocker History did much to bring the old saint before the public. Clement Moore’s now universal “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (“The Night before Christmas”) was published in 1823. Its synthesis of many elements of the legend was a boon to the Christmas celebration and the exaltation of Nicholas. Another major influence was Kriss Kringle’s Book, offered in 1842. The book told of St. Nicholas, or Kris Kringle, a “nice, fat, good humored man” who brought gifts for good children.29 The descriptions of Santa Claus in these and other books and the illustrations of Robert Weir, brought about the change in image from a thin ascetic to a robust character.
As is clear from the above, St. Nicholas, Kris Kringle, and Santa Claus had all become synonymous by mid-century. As such, it is appropriate to discuss the evolution of terms. Santa Claus is, of course, a corruption of St. Nicholas. Popular thinking has it that the Dutch were responsible for this alteration, but this appears to be untrue. Linguists view it as having originated in Switzerland where such phonetic changes were consistent with normal usage. The analogue Dutch term “Sinterklaes” postdates the original corruption.30 Kriss Kringle was a corruption of Krist-Kindl, or Christ-Child (see below), that came to be associated with the jolly, fat man instead of a cherubic child.31 Exactly when these variations occurred is impossible to pinpoint, but they were well in place by 1860.
Santa Claus, then, was well with us by 1860. A thin, ascetic saint had added much poundage, undergone a secularization process, and a name change. In the process he was becoming the center of a folk festival that was to overawe all others.
WeinachtsmannBut there were still other contenders about. The Weinachtsmann was a German secular version of St. Nicholas who had made his appearance by 1800. He, too, travelled about on Christmas Eve, walking from place to place with a sack or basket of gifts. Though usually viewed as of kindly disposition, he also carried in one hand sticks meant for bad children. He was normally portrayed as a thin, stooped old man. He made a minor appearance in America among the Pennsylvania Dutch.32
Father ChristmasFather Christmas was the English equivalent of Santa, with some differences. He was not descended from the Nicholas tradition, but filtered from the pagan mists as the descendant of a character from a medieval mummers’ play. Initially, he was more concerned with wassail and mistletoe than gifts for well behaved children. However, he grew into the role of kindly gift-giver. He was transplanted to America by British immigrants. By this period he had come to more closely resemble Santa Claus in attitude and bulk.33
Pere NoelPere (Papa) Noel was a French gift-giver who showed up in America, mainly in Louisiana, during the period. He was a version of Santa Claus with a Gallic twist—especially among the Creole. Often he had the same fat stomach, but with the addition of a twinkling wit and an eye for the ladies. He would arrive at celebrations, joke with all present, and hand out small gifts (New Years was the time for major gifts).34
Krist-Kindl, or Christ-ChildThe concept of the Christ-Child as a gift-giver evolved in Germany. The Krist- Kindl appeared as a substitute for St. Nicholas partially because, some historians argue, the old gent was too redolent of Rome for some Protestant reformers.35 At any rate, the Krist-Kindl was portrayed as a cherubic child (boy or girl) who travelled by mule carrying gifts. Children set out a basket, filled with hay for the mule, to receive their gifts. The Krist-kindl concept was adopted by some Pennsylvania Germans.36 By 1860, however, he/she was rarely a part of Christmas; the role having been overtaken by the jolly elf who had appropriated the name.
Timothy CrumrinHistorianConner Prairie
Notes
1. Time-Life Book of Christmas, (New York: Prentice-Hall, 1987) p.7.
2. James Barnett, The American Christmas: A Study in National Culture, (New York: Arno Press, 1976), p.7; see also Katharine Rockwell, How Christmas Came to the Sunday-schools, (New York: Dood, Mead, 1934).
3. Barnett, p.4.
4. Barnett, p.11.
5. F.X. Weiser, The Christmas Book, (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1953), pp.120-121..
6. Ken Brooks, “How Christmas Traditions Began,” Friends (Dec., 1979).
7. Barnett, p.11; Philip Snyder, December 25th, (New York: Dood, Mead, 1985), pp.121-132.
8. Irene Chalmers, The Great American Christmas (New York: Viking Press, 1988), p.22.
9. Alfred Shoemaker, Christmas in Pennsylvania, A Folk-Cultural Study, (Kurtztown, PA: Pennsylvania Folklore Society, 1959), pp.43,56.
10. Karen Cure, An Old Fashioned Christmas, (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1979), p.127.
11. WPA, Ohio Guide, p.161.
12. Snyder, pp.172-181; Rockwell, p.143; William Henry Husk, Songs of the Nativity, (London: John Camden Hotten, 1868).
13. Barnett, pp.19-20.
14. Barnett, pp.11.
15. Barnett, pp.19-20.
16. Snyder, p 256.
17. Lynne Cheney, “You can thank Louis Prang for all those cards,” Smithsonian, (December, 1977), pp.120-126.
18. Barnett, pp.187-189.
19. See, for example, Indiana Journal, (December 3, 20, 1841).
20. Shoemaker, p.46.
21. Wabash Express, (December 26, 1855).
22. Snyder, pp. 210-211.
23. Brian McGinty, “Santa Claus,” Early American Life (December, 1979), p.50.
24. E. Willis Jones, The Santa Claus Book, (New York: Walker & Co., 1976), p.6.
25. Snyder, p.212.
26. McGinty, p.51.
27. Snyder, pp.211-212; McGinty, pp.51-52.
28. McGinty, p.53; Charles W. Jones, “Knickerbocker Santa Claus,” The New York Historical Society Quarterly, (October, 1954), 370-371.
29. Shoemaker, pp.43-47.
30. Jones, P.366.
31. Shoemaker, 43.
32. Shoemaker, 213.
33. Snyder, p.213; Gerard and Patricia Del Re, Christmas Almanack, (New York: Doubleday & Co., 1979), pp.69-70.
34. Harriet Kane, The Southern Cristmas Book, (New York: Bonanza Books, 1968), pp.222-229.
35. William Sanson, A Book of Christmas, (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1968), 105.
36. Shoemaker, p.43; Barnett, p.11.
Perhaps the most important of the changing elements was the country’s attitude toward Christmas. By the coming of the Civil War the antipathy shown toward the celebration by some religious groups and like-minded individuals was rapidly softening. Indeed, “by 1859, the general attitude towards Christmas had changed sufficiently for the Sunday School Union” to accept the holiday to such a degree that it published hymns and accounts of celebrations.2 This was emblematic of a general acceptance of Christmas by many denominations. This changing of views combined with another ongoing force to further shape and help define the American Christmas.
The continuing popularity of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and its “carol” philosophy added yet another element by synthesizing “certain religious and secular attitudes... into a humanitarian pattern.” Its assertion that brotherhood, kindness, and charity should be a part of life—especially at Christmas—was quickly accepted and added to American tradition.3
It was within such an atmosphere that Christmas as we know it began to manifest itself. This essay will look at various aspects of Christmas celebrations during the 1830-1860 period, both those that reach down to us today and those which are but memories.
The Christmas TreeThe Godey’s Magazine publication, in 1850, of an article and illustrations depicting the British royal family’s celebrating around the christmas tree is generally seen as a seminal event in the ultimate American adoption of this German (Prince Albert, of course, was German) custom. Although the article did much to popularize the use of trees, it must be said that it was a custom that had already begun to take root across the United States. In fact, some historians argue that American adoption of the Christmas tree predated that of the British.4 There would seem to be support for this assertion. Successive waves of German immigrants probably packed in their cultural baggage the custom of adorning their homes with a small tree. As they spread through the nation, so too did the decorated tree.5
Some sources credit Hessian mercenaries with the introduction of the tree during the Revolutionary War.6 However, as there is no direct, extant evidence to prove this oft-told tale, it may be apocryphal. The likely source was probably a now forgotten German immigrant seeking to recreate a bit of his homeland in his new surroundings. No matter the originator, the christmas tree graced more than a few homes prior to 1850 and nearly every area was witness to its use.7 Perhaps the first American illustration of this was seen in an 1810 Krimmel painting executed in Pennsylvania.8 The Dictionary of Americanisms’ (1828) inclusion of a definition of “christmas tree” and the publication of Kris Kringle’s Christmas Tree in 1845 are indicative that the custom was more widespread than previously thought.9
With this background it is not surprising that the tree had become established by 1860. So established, in fact, that a “German tree” was placed at the White House by President Franklin Pierce in 1856.10 Whether the tree was placed upon a table as German customs prescribed or on the floor as Americans were wont to do is uncertain. Trees of the period were decorated with various edibles and home-crafted ornaments, but by 1860 glass trinkets made in Germany were becoming available to adorn the branches. Most, however, were decorated with fruits, strands, and candles. Although, some people were more creative, like the German immigrant in 1847 Ohio who had the local blacksmith pound out a metal star for his spruce, where it was placed alongside paper decorations.11
MusicMusic exclusively associated with Christmas was added to songbooks during this period. Caroling became increasingly practiced. The type of music, however, belied the burgeoning secularization of the season, as most of it was of a “sacred” nature or rampant with allusions to Christ’s birth. “It Came Upon a Midnight Clear” 1851), “See Amid the Winter’s Snow” (also 1851), “There Came A Little Child to Earth “ (1856), and “We Three Kings of Orient Are” (1859) all were composed before the Civil War.12
Legal RecognitionGovernments recognized the growing importance of Christmas by dealing with it as they knew best: by passing a law. The first state to make Christmas a legal holiday was Alabama in 1836. Between 1850 and 1861, fifteen states (including Illinois, Ohio, Wisconsin, and Minnesota) followed suit.13 A significant result of this “legislation” was the states’ recognition of December 25th as Christmas Day. This helped standardize the date for celebration. Previously, celebrations took place at varying times during the month (particularly December 6th, St. Nicholas’s day), or on January 6th, Epiphany. Thus, events during the period helped cement the date used today.14
The original impetus for legal recognition seems to have come from the business community. The initial legislation forbade the collection of promissory notes on Christmas day and some judicial activities were suspended. Provisions for the closing of schools, banks, and government offices generally did not appear until after the Civil War.15
Christmas CardsOne modern element all but unknown during this period was the christmas card. They were relatively well-known in England by 1860, but the custom had yet to make inroads on this side of the Atlantic. The first such Christmas greetings in the United States are thought to be those issued by a New York engraver in 1851. Richard Pease printed cards, showing a family dinner scene, that read “A Merry Christmas and A Happy New Year, to: From: .”16 However, it was not until Louis Prang of Boston introduced a line of cards in 1875 that they became widely used. 17
CommercializationAnother “tradition” rapidly coalescing during the period—and decried still—was the commercialization of the holiday. As early as the 1830s newspapers were filled with blandishments designed with “Christmas shoppers” in mind.18 Every thing from raisins for baked goods to pianofortes for the parlor to uplifting books for the mind and soul were pushed via the papers.19 Merchants were quick to realize the potential of the gift-giving season and capitalize on the growing importance of Christmas. Santa Clauses had begun to appear on street corners and in stores by 1850. Philadelphia storeowners were among the first to offer seasonal employment to those willing to impersonate Santa.20
The trend did not go unnoticed. A Terre Haute (Ind) newspaper editor commented on the frivolity associated with the 1855 season. He was bemused by the “gambol,” gift exchanges, and the person of “Santa Clause” that seemed to dominate the holiday. He wondered if such behavior was the proper way of celebrating the birth of Christ. In a telling comment, he noted that it was probably already too late to change things, as the trend was already well established. 21
Bearers of GiftsA major difference between the antebellum celebration and that of today was the variety of gift-bringers dotting the landscape. Of varying ethnic or national backgrounds, they scurried across the land on their mission to reward or punish. Already by 1860, though, one was beginning to overshadow the others. With the coming of the war and the enlistment of Thomas Nast to his side he would come to dominate, but in pre-Civil war America he had competition.
Santa ClausThe greatest of all modern Christmas icons, Santa Claus, was evolving during the period. Although it was to be several years before Nast was to give the jolly, round one his most enduring form, “Santa Claus” of 1860 would be easily recognizable to the modern child. “Santa,” of course did not spring full-blown upon America, but was born of legend and centuries of permutation. He was the amalgamation of the traditions of gift-givers of many cultures, a bishop legendary for his kindness, and the pens of several early 19th-century American writers.
His most likely ancestor was St. Nicholas, a 4th-century Bishop of Myra in Asia Minor. Hard facts about Nicholas are difficult to come by (not even a Papal Council could burn away much of time’s fog), but over the centuries the legend of this kindly, charitable man grew apace.22 By 1,000 c.e. Nicholas was arguably one of the most important and beloved saints in Christendom, having become the patron saint of people as diverse as pawnbrokers and spinsters in search of husbands. Most of all, he became identified as the patron of children.23
Nicholas first became associated with Christmas during the Middle Ages. An agent of this transformation may have been a 13th-century French nun who left gifts for the poor on the eve of St. Nicholas’ Day (December 6th). Thus he became linked to gift-giving.24
Not even the Reformation’s hostility toward Catholic saints could dim Nicholas’ luster in the eyes of his followers. Children still looked forward to his gifts, or dreaded the switches he might leave behind to punish transgressors. As the latter indicates, the Nicholas legend also had its darker side. As an arbiter of behavior he could reward or punish. It is likely he was used a weapon by parents in the age-old struggle of wills. Eventually, these disciplinary duties fell to a companion, known variously Knecht Ruprecht, Schwarze Peter (Black Peter), Krampus, or Belznichol. This bearer of punishment was usually portrayed as a shaggy, dark-visaged bogeyman.25
St. Nicholas’ first appearance in the New World was in 1492, when Columbus named a bay after him.26 Times became rather lean for the saint after that, partly because America’s mainly Protestant settlers disdained saints and the rituals associated with them. Doubtless, private celebrations based upon the Nicholas legend occurred, usually among Moravians or Dutch settlers. The fact that laws were passed prohibiting is evidence enough. the above notwithstanding, St. Nicholas entered a quiescent period that was to last until the 19th century.27
The Nicholas who reemerged in the early 19th century was soon transformed into a secular saint who was to play a central role in what was to become a folk festival instead of a purely religious occasion. This revitalization came through the confluence of American literary efforts and the increased immigration of Germans and others wont to celebrate Christmas.
John Pintard, his brother-in-law Washington Irving, Clement Moore, and the anonymous author of Kriss Kringle’s Book were the literary pioneers who helped establish Santa Claus. Pintard, an early light in the in the New York Historical Society, was among the first to resurrect Nicholas, who was to become the patron saint of the society. At a society dinner in 1810 Pintard unveiled a broadside showing Nicholas, two children, and stockings hung from a fireplace. Beneath those now familiar elements of the Christmas story was the phrase “Sancta Claus, Goed Heylig Man” (Saint Nicholas, Good Holy Man).28
Irving was the next to take up Nicholas’ cause and his inclusion (twenty-three times) of him in Knickerbocker History did much to bring the old saint before the public. Clement Moore’s now universal “A Visit From St. Nicholas” (“The Night before Christmas”) was published in 1823. Its synthesis of many elements of the legend was a boon to the Christmas celebration and the exaltation of Nicholas. Another major influence was Kriss Kringle’s Book, offered in 1842. The book told of St. Nicholas, or Kris Kringle, a “nice, fat, good humored man” who brought gifts for good children.29 The descriptions of Santa Claus in these and other books and the illustrations of Robert Weir, brought about the change in image from a thin ascetic to a robust character.
As is clear from the above, St. Nicholas, Kris Kringle, and Santa Claus had all become synonymous by mid-century. As such, it is appropriate to discuss the evolution of terms. Santa Claus is, of course, a corruption of St. Nicholas. Popular thinking has it that the Dutch were responsible for this alteration, but this appears to be untrue. Linguists view it as having originated in Switzerland where such phonetic changes were consistent with normal usage. The analogue Dutch term “Sinterklaes” postdates the original corruption.30 Kriss Kringle was a corruption of Krist-Kindl, or Christ-Child (see below), that came to be associated with the jolly, fat man instead of a cherubic child.31 Exactly when these variations occurred is impossible to pinpoint, but they were well in place by 1860.
Santa Claus, then, was well with us by 1860. A thin, ascetic saint had added much poundage, undergone a secularization process, and a name change. In the process he was becoming the center of a folk festival that was to overawe all others.
WeinachtsmannBut there were still other contenders about. The Weinachtsmann was a German secular version of St. Nicholas who had made his appearance by 1800. He, too, travelled about on Christmas Eve, walking from place to place with a sack or basket of gifts. Though usually viewed as of kindly disposition, he also carried in one hand sticks meant for bad children. He was normally portrayed as a thin, stooped old man. He made a minor appearance in America among the Pennsylvania Dutch.32
Father ChristmasFather Christmas was the English equivalent of Santa, with some differences. He was not descended from the Nicholas tradition, but filtered from the pagan mists as the descendant of a character from a medieval mummers’ play. Initially, he was more concerned with wassail and mistletoe than gifts for well behaved children. However, he grew into the role of kindly gift-giver. He was transplanted to America by British immigrants. By this period he had come to more closely resemble Santa Claus in attitude and bulk.33
Pere NoelPere (Papa) Noel was a French gift-giver who showed up in America, mainly in Louisiana, during the period. He was a version of Santa Claus with a Gallic twist—especially among the Creole. Often he had the same fat stomach, but with the addition of a twinkling wit and an eye for the ladies. He would arrive at celebrations, joke with all present, and hand out small gifts (New Years was the time for major gifts).34
Krist-Kindl, or Christ-ChildThe concept of the Christ-Child as a gift-giver evolved in Germany. The Krist- Kindl appeared as a substitute for St. Nicholas partially because, some historians argue, the old gent was too redolent of Rome for some Protestant reformers.35 At any rate, the Krist-Kindl was portrayed as a cherubic child (boy or girl) who travelled by mule carrying gifts. Children set out a basket, filled with hay for the mule, to receive their gifts. The Krist-kindl concept was adopted by some Pennsylvania Germans.36 By 1860, however, he/she was rarely a part of Christmas; the role having been overtaken by the jolly elf who had appropriated the name.
Timothy CrumrinHistorianConner Prairie
Notes
1. Time-Life Book of Christmas, (New York: Prentice-Hall, 1987) p.7.
2. James Barnett, The American Christmas: A Study in National Culture, (New York: Arno Press, 1976), p.7; see also Katharine Rockwell, How Christmas Came to the Sunday-schools, (New York: Dood, Mead, 1934).
3. Barnett, p.4.
4. Barnett, p.11.
5. F.X. Weiser, The Christmas Book, (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1953), pp.120-121..
6. Ken Brooks, “How Christmas Traditions Began,” Friends (Dec., 1979).
7. Barnett, p.11; Philip Snyder, December 25th, (New York: Dood, Mead, 1985), pp.121-132.
8. Irene Chalmers, The Great American Christmas (New York: Viking Press, 1988), p.22.
9. Alfred Shoemaker, Christmas in Pennsylvania, A Folk-Cultural Study, (Kurtztown, PA: Pennsylvania Folklore Society, 1959), pp.43,56.
10. Karen Cure, An Old Fashioned Christmas, (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1979), p.127.
11. WPA, Ohio Guide, p.161.
12. Snyder, pp.172-181; Rockwell, p.143; William Henry Husk, Songs of the Nativity, (London: John Camden Hotten, 1868).
13. Barnett, pp.19-20.
14. Barnett, pp.11.
15. Barnett, pp.19-20.
16. Snyder, p 256.
17. Lynne Cheney, “You can thank Louis Prang for all those cards,” Smithsonian, (December, 1977), pp.120-126.
18. Barnett, pp.187-189.
19. See, for example, Indiana Journal, (December 3, 20, 1841).
20. Shoemaker, p.46.
21. Wabash Express, (December 26, 1855).
22. Snyder, pp. 210-211.
23. Brian McGinty, “Santa Claus,” Early American Life (December, 1979), p.50.
24. E. Willis Jones, The Santa Claus Book, (New York: Walker & Co., 1976), p.6.
25. Snyder, p.212.
26. McGinty, p.51.
27. Snyder, pp.211-212; McGinty, pp.51-52.
28. McGinty, p.53; Charles W. Jones, “Knickerbocker Santa Claus,” The New York Historical Society Quarterly, (October, 1954), 370-371.
29. Shoemaker, pp.43-47.
30. Jones, P.366.
31. Shoemaker, 43.
32. Shoemaker, 213.
33. Snyder, p.213; Gerard and Patricia Del Re, Christmas Almanack, (New York: Doubleday & Co., 1979), pp.69-70.
34. Harriet Kane, The Southern Cristmas Book, (New York: Bonanza Books, 1968), pp.222-229.
35. William Sanson, A Book of Christmas, (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1968), 105.
36. Shoemaker, p.43; Barnett, p.11.
1888 Blizzard
Blizzard of 1888Dec 3, 1888
The “Blizzard of ‘88” began without warning on March 12, 1888. March 10 had been warm and sunny, and on Sunday, March 11, rain fell in New York City, but around midnight the rain changed to heavy snow, which then fell uninterrupted for the next 36 hours. Many early commuters were caught, unaware that they were heading into the teeth of a storm that would last for two more days. Across the Northeast trains became trapped by the increasingly heavy snow, which knocked down power and telegraph poles by the score. Passengers were trapped in the railroad cars. With the shutdown of the railroad, many towns soon ran out of coal, their primary heating fuel. The storm put its heaviest load in the Hudson River Valley, where a swath from Saratoga and Hudson, New York to Bennington, Vermont received nearly 50” of snow. New Haven, Connecticut, too, got nearly 50”. Western Massachusetts was also hard hit, with Pittsfield receiving 36” of snow. The total in Worcester, east of the Connecticut River, was 32”. New York City was hit with 50 mph winds which swirled and drifted the 21” if snow. All of the towns and cities of the Northeast suffered similar fates: the snow lay 8’ deep in the main street of Northampton, Massachusetts. So many power poles were knocked down that after the storm many cities on the East Coast made a concerted effort to bury those lines. Overall, 400 people died during the three days of the storm, 200 in New York City alone, and at sea, nearly 200 vessels were forced aground, were sunk, or had to be abandoned due to storm damage.
Angus Macdonald, a telephone lineman, worked through the blizzard of 1888 to keep open the only long distance telephone circuits between New York and Boston.
Nearly a hundred years ago . . . ... a tradition so evident in Pioneering was born when the outdoor plant of our infant telephone industry met and passed its first service test. “The Spirit of Service” commemorates that historical event. It was during the great blizzard that began in New York before dawn on March 12, 1888, when all other means of communication failed between Boston and New York, that the toll line remained in service, thanks to the foresight of the builders and the courage and dedication of the men who watched over it. The storm was the worst to hit this nation in a century. It paralyzed the Northeast, piling drifts as high as houses, blocking every highway, knocking out all telegraph and train service, and almost—but not quite -eliminating telephone service. These, of course, were the days of open wire construction, when the telephone system was subject to the worst the elements could offer. The telephone industry was inits infancy—Bell had invented the phone just 12 years earlier.
Angus Macdonald was a 23-year-old lineman in 1888. He was part of a crew that worked through that blinding storm—patrolling the lines and repairing breaks wherever they found them—to keep open the last remaining long distance line between New York and Boston.
Thanks to the dedication of Macdonald and his fellow workers, New York was never without at least some long distance telephone service. But, for several days, the telephone was New York’s onlymeans of communication with the rest of the world.
Because of his part in this historic event, Macdonald was asked to pose for the painting that was commissioned in honor of the dedication of those brave workers. It would come to be known as”The Spirit of Service” and would serve as a tribute to generations of dedicated telephone people. Macdonald was an active Telephone Pioneer as well as a dedicated telephone man. In fact,he, along with Alexander Graham Bell and 243 other telephone people, attended the very first Pioneer meeting in Boston in 1911. Macdonald retired from the Long Lines department in the ‘30s after more than 48 years of service. He belonged to the Life Member Club of the Edward J. Hall Chapter in New York at the time of his death in 1958 at age 94.
Whereas today a blizzard means school closings and overtimes for the plow drivers, in the 19th century blizzards were often deadly, burying houses, catching people suddenly who had no means of getting quickly to shelter. Livestock froze to death where it stood in the stockades, and sub-zero temperatures meant frostbite and the loss of toes, fingers, noses, and more. Long periods of isolation also took their toll, with some families being buried to subsist on stored fuel and goods for weeks or even months before they could leave their homes. Of these privations, running out of food or fuel meant certain death and was the most dreaded. While there was certainly winter recreation as there is now (skating, sledding, building snow forts, hockey, and tobogganing were as popular then as they are now), most winter activities in places as remote as Minnesota beyond the few cities involved hunting and ice-fishing ~ which were simply things vital to survival. People who survived hard winters were rightly proud of their adaptability and their ingenuity.
The “Blizzard of ‘88” began without warning on March 12, 1888. March 10 had been warm and sunny, and on Sunday, March 11, rain fell in New York City, but around midnight the rain changed to heavy snow, which then fell uninterrupted for the next 36 hours. Many early commuters were caught, unaware that they were heading into the teeth of a storm that would last for two more days. Across the Northeast trains became trapped by the increasingly heavy snow, which knocked down power and telegraph poles by the score. Passengers were trapped in the railroad cars. With the shutdown of the railroad, many towns soon ran out of coal, their primary heating fuel. The storm put its heaviest load in the Hudson River Valley, where a swath from Saratoga and Hudson, New York to Bennington, Vermont received nearly 50” of snow. New Haven, Connecticut, too, got nearly 50”. Western Massachusetts was also hard hit, with Pittsfield receiving 36” of snow. The total in Worcester, east of the Connecticut River, was 32”. New York City was hit with 50 mph winds which swirled and drifted the 21” if snow. All of the towns and cities of the Northeast suffered similar fates: the snow lay 8’ deep in the main street of Northampton, Massachusetts. So many power poles were knocked down that after the storm many cities on the East Coast made a concerted effort to bury those lines. Overall, 400 people died during the three days of the storm, 200 in New York City alone, and at sea, nearly 200 vessels were forced aground, were sunk, or had to be abandoned due to storm damage.
Angus Macdonald, a telephone lineman, worked through the blizzard of 1888 to keep open the only long distance telephone circuits between New York and Boston.
Nearly a hundred years ago . . . ... a tradition so evident in Pioneering was born when the outdoor plant of our infant telephone industry met and passed its first service test. “The Spirit of Service” commemorates that historical event. It was during the great blizzard that began in New York before dawn on March 12, 1888, when all other means of communication failed between Boston and New York, that the toll line remained in service, thanks to the foresight of the builders and the courage and dedication of the men who watched over it. The storm was the worst to hit this nation in a century. It paralyzed the Northeast, piling drifts as high as houses, blocking every highway, knocking out all telegraph and train service, and almost—but not quite -eliminating telephone service. These, of course, were the days of open wire construction, when the telephone system was subject to the worst the elements could offer. The telephone industry was inits infancy—Bell had invented the phone just 12 years earlier.
Angus Macdonald was a 23-year-old lineman in 1888. He was part of a crew that worked through that blinding storm—patrolling the lines and repairing breaks wherever they found them—to keep open the last remaining long distance line between New York and Boston.
Thanks to the dedication of Macdonald and his fellow workers, New York was never without at least some long distance telephone service. But, for several days, the telephone was New York’s onlymeans of communication with the rest of the world.
Because of his part in this historic event, Macdonald was asked to pose for the painting that was commissioned in honor of the dedication of those brave workers. It would come to be known as”The Spirit of Service” and would serve as a tribute to generations of dedicated telephone people. Macdonald was an active Telephone Pioneer as well as a dedicated telephone man. In fact,he, along with Alexander Graham Bell and 243 other telephone people, attended the very first Pioneer meeting in Boston in 1911. Macdonald retired from the Long Lines department in the ‘30s after more than 48 years of service. He belonged to the Life Member Club of the Edward J. Hall Chapter in New York at the time of his death in 1958 at age 94.
Whereas today a blizzard means school closings and overtimes for the plow drivers, in the 19th century blizzards were often deadly, burying houses, catching people suddenly who had no means of getting quickly to shelter. Livestock froze to death where it stood in the stockades, and sub-zero temperatures meant frostbite and the loss of toes, fingers, noses, and more. Long periods of isolation also took their toll, with some families being buried to subsist on stored fuel and goods for weeks or even months before they could leave their homes. Of these privations, running out of food or fuel meant certain death and was the most dreaded. While there was certainly winter recreation as there is now (skating, sledding, building snow forts, hockey, and tobogganing were as popular then as they are now), most winter activities in places as remote as Minnesota beyond the few cities involved hunting and ice-fishing ~ which were simply things vital to survival. People who survived hard winters were rightly proud of their adaptability and their ingenuity.
The "From Hell" Letter of 1888
The “From Hell” Letter postmarked 15 October 1888.
The reason this letter stands out more than any other is that it was delivered with a small box containing half of what doctors later determined was a human kidney, preserved in alcohol. One of Catherine Eddowes’ kidneys had been removed by the killer. Medical opinion at the time was split on whether the kidney was likely to have been the same as the one taken from Eddowes. Some officials thought the organ could have been acquired by medical students and sent with the letter as part of a hoax.
The text of the letter reads:
From hell.
Mr Lusk,SorI send you half the Kidne I took from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longersignedCatch me when you can Mishter Lusk
The original letter, as well as the kidney that accompanied it, have subsequently been lost along with other items that were originally contained within the Ripper police files. It is possible that one or both was kept by an official as a souvenir of the case. The image shown here is from a photograph taken before the loss of the letter.
The reason this letter stands out more than any other is that it was delivered with a small box containing half of what doctors later determined was a human kidney, preserved in alcohol. One of Catherine Eddowes’ kidneys had been removed by the killer. Medical opinion at the time was split on whether the kidney was likely to have been the same as the one taken from Eddowes. Some officials thought the organ could have been acquired by medical students and sent with the letter as part of a hoax.
The text of the letter reads:
From hell.
Mr Lusk,SorI send you half the Kidne I took from one woman prasarved it for you tother piece I fried and ate it was very nise. I may send you the bloody knif that took it out if you only wate a whil longersignedCatch me when you can Mishter Lusk
The original letter, as well as the kidney that accompanied it, have subsequently been lost along with other items that were originally contained within the Ripper police files. It is possible that one or both was kept by an official as a souvenir of the case. The image shown here is from a photograph taken before the loss of the letter.
Devotional
Heartlight Daily Verse by Phil Ware
January 17
Philippians 2:14-16Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life.
Thoughts on today’s verse
Stars. They’ve always been a source of constant hope for God’s people. “Your descendants will be like the stars,” God told Abraham. “When I see the stars, what is man that you are mindful of him?” the Psalms ask. The Wisemen from the East followed a star to Jesus. Luke reminds us that Jesus was a bright star come to us from heaven to shine God’s light to those in darkness. And now, we’re stars. God’s points of light in the dark sky of the universe. So let’s make today a day where our light shines God’s glory to a dark world around us.
Prayer: Almighty God, the incredible expanse of your universe, with its billions of stars, exceeds my limited comprehension. But I thank you for calling me to be a light in the dark world around me and I pledge to shine your light today in the lives of all those I can. Through the name of the Bright and Morning Star I pray. Amen.
After receiving his shiny new Bible, my son headed back to the pews. For the next thirty minutes, he admired his Bible; he held it close to him; he caressed it; he flipped through all the pages looking for pictures of the Bible stories he knew about; and he even kissed his Bible over and over. Later that day, he picked up his Bible and said, “Mom, did you know that I have God’s holy word right here in my hands?”
My son reminded me just how precious God’s word should be to us, and I was almost envious of his genuine love for the most holy book of all. Although he is too young to understand all of the lessons that the Bible teaches us or what that book will eventually mean to his spiritual growth, he knew in his innocent little heart just how precious God’s word really is.
One method I use to discover the treasure in my personal trials is to write on a piece of paper a list of my past trials and what possible benefits have come from each of them.
January 17
Philippians 2:14-16Do everything without complaining or arguing, so that you may become blameless and pure, children of God without fault in a crooked and depraved generation, in which you shine like stars in the universe as you hold out the word of life.
Thoughts on today’s verse
Stars. They’ve always been a source of constant hope for God’s people. “Your descendants will be like the stars,” God told Abraham. “When I see the stars, what is man that you are mindful of him?” the Psalms ask. The Wisemen from the East followed a star to Jesus. Luke reminds us that Jesus was a bright star come to us from heaven to shine God’s light to those in darkness. And now, we’re stars. God’s points of light in the dark sky of the universe. So let’s make today a day where our light shines God’s glory to a dark world around us.
Prayer: Almighty God, the incredible expanse of your universe, with its billions of stars, exceeds my limited comprehension. But I thank you for calling me to be a light in the dark world around me and I pledge to shine your light today in the lives of all those I can. Through the name of the Bright and Morning Star I pray. Amen.
After receiving his shiny new Bible, my son headed back to the pews. For the next thirty minutes, he admired his Bible; he held it close to him; he caressed it; he flipped through all the pages looking for pictures of the Bible stories he knew about; and he even kissed his Bible over and over. Later that day, he picked up his Bible and said, “Mom, did you know that I have God’s holy word right here in my hands?”
My son reminded me just how precious God’s word should be to us, and I was almost envious of his genuine love for the most holy book of all. Although he is too young to understand all of the lessons that the Bible teaches us or what that book will eventually mean to his spiritual growth, he knew in his innocent little heart just how precious God’s word really is.
One method I use to discover the treasure in my personal trials is to write on a piece of paper a list of my past trials and what possible benefits have come from each of them.
Talk the Talk: Film Crew Speak
If you’ve ever sat through a movie’s closing credits, you know that film crews have their own funny language. Credits are filled with mysterious job titles like “best boy,” “key grip” and “gaffer.”
Visit a movie set, and you’ll be even more confused. It seems like movie people have an odd name for every worker, piece of equipment and shot involved in film production.
Here are a few of our favorite film crew words:
Dolly: A wheeled cart that rides on tracks (basically, miniature railroad tracks). The camera crew uses the dolly to move the camera carefully through the scene, creating a smooth motion shot. The dolly carries the camera, the camera crew, and sometimes even the director.
Grip: Anybody in charge of adjusting or maintaining production equipment, especially camera equipment, such as dollies. The “key grip” is the leader of a group of grips.
Best Boy: The second-in-command for a particular technical team. For example, the Best Boy Grip is the second in command for a grip team. The term comes from early sailing and whaler speak - sailors would often get extra work setting up rigging and building theater sets, and they brought their special language with them.
Squib: A tiny explosive, generally used to represent a bullet hitting something. The special effects crew has to time squib detonations precisely so they correspond with the action in the scene. Squibs are sometimes combined with packets of fake blood to create gory gunshot wounds.
Gaffer: The head of the lighting/electrical crew. The term comes from the natural lighting system used in many early silent movies. In those days, the film crew would adjust lighting by opening and closing large flaps over skylight windows. They used long sticks, called gaffs, to adjust the flaps. Sailors, working as stagehands, took the term from a type of pole used on ships.
Boom Microphone: A microphone connected to a long pole. The boom operator holds the boom microphone over the actors in a scene to record the dialogue. A good boom operator will hold the boom microphone just out of view of the camera. Every once in a while, you’ll see a film flub where the boom microphone dips into the scene.
Swing Gang: The team that builds and demolishes sets.
Dailies: Rough film prints, developed quickly after filming a scene. The director, crew and actors will watch dailies to make sure the acting and camera work were good in each shot.
Cowboy Shot: A shot showing an actor from mid-thigh up, commonly used in cowboy gunfight standoffs.
Breakdown Script: A list of every single actor, crew member, piece of camera equipment, costume and prop needed for a particular day of shooting.
Call Sheet: A list of all the actors required for each movie scene, with an estimate of when the director will need them.
Foley Artist: A sound mixer who records basic film sound effects, such as creaking doors, footsteps, and punches. The foley artist has to find a way to recreate each sound in the recording studio and then synch the sound effect with the action on the screen.
Visit a movie set, and you’ll be even more confused. It seems like movie people have an odd name for every worker, piece of equipment and shot involved in film production.
Here are a few of our favorite film crew words:
Dolly: A wheeled cart that rides on tracks (basically, miniature railroad tracks). The camera crew uses the dolly to move the camera carefully through the scene, creating a smooth motion shot. The dolly carries the camera, the camera crew, and sometimes even the director.
Grip: Anybody in charge of adjusting or maintaining production equipment, especially camera equipment, such as dollies. The “key grip” is the leader of a group of grips.
Best Boy: The second-in-command for a particular technical team. For example, the Best Boy Grip is the second in command for a grip team. The term comes from early sailing and whaler speak - sailors would often get extra work setting up rigging and building theater sets, and they brought their special language with them.
Squib: A tiny explosive, generally used to represent a bullet hitting something. The special effects crew has to time squib detonations precisely so they correspond with the action in the scene. Squibs are sometimes combined with packets of fake blood to create gory gunshot wounds.
Gaffer: The head of the lighting/electrical crew. The term comes from the natural lighting system used in many early silent movies. In those days, the film crew would adjust lighting by opening and closing large flaps over skylight windows. They used long sticks, called gaffs, to adjust the flaps. Sailors, working as stagehands, took the term from a type of pole used on ships.
Boom Microphone: A microphone connected to a long pole. The boom operator holds the boom microphone over the actors in a scene to record the dialogue. A good boom operator will hold the boom microphone just out of view of the camera. Every once in a while, you’ll see a film flub where the boom microphone dips into the scene.
Swing Gang: The team that builds and demolishes sets.
Dailies: Rough film prints, developed quickly after filming a scene. The director, crew and actors will watch dailies to make sure the acting and camera work were good in each shot.
Cowboy Shot: A shot showing an actor from mid-thigh up, commonly used in cowboy gunfight standoffs.
Breakdown Script: A list of every single actor, crew member, piece of camera equipment, costume and prop needed for a particular day of shooting.
Call Sheet: A list of all the actors required for each movie scene, with an estimate of when the director will need them.
Foley Artist: A sound mixer who records basic film sound effects, such as creaking doors, footsteps, and punches. The foley artist has to find a way to recreate each sound in the recording studio and then synch the sound effect with the action on the screen.
Google + wireless = God?
From Thomas Friedman’s New York Times op/ed today:
Says Alan Cohen, a V.P. of Airespace, a new Wi-Fi provider: “If I can operate Google, I can find anything. And with wireless, it means I will be able to find anything, anywhere, anytime. Which is why I say that Google, combined with Wi-Fi, is a little bit like God. God is wireless, God is everywhere and God sees and knows everything. Throughout history, people connected to God without wires. Now, for many questions in the world, you ask Google, and increasingly, you can do it without wires, too.”
In other words, once Wi-Fi is in place, with one little Internet connection I can download anything from anywhere and I can spread anything from anywhere. That is good news for both scientists and terrorists, pro-Americans and anti-Americans. And that brings me to the point of this column: While we may be emotionally distancing ourselves from the world, the world is getting more integrated. That means that what people think of us, as Americans, will matter more, not less. Because people outside America will be able to build alliances more efficiently in the world we are entering and they will be able to reach out and touch us—whether with computer viruses or anthrax recipes downloaded from the Internet—more than ever.
Link to NYT column (registration required), Discuss
posted by Xeni Jardin at 01:27:46 PM permalink Other blogs’ comments
Honoring Your Wife...
”Husbands should realize that the words they speak to their wives have awesome power to build up or tear down emotionally. Affirming words are like light switches. To speak a word of affirmation at the right moment is like lighting up a whole roomful of possibilities.”
- From “It Takes Two to Tango” by Gary and Norma Smalley
All excerpts from “It Takes Two to Tango” are copyright 1997 Gary and Norma Smalley.
Find more relationship resources at http://www.smalleyonline.com
Devotional
In Touch Daily Devotional—by Dr. Charles Stanley
January 17, 2007
Failing to Accomplish God’s Plan
Matthew 10:17-31
Through the Holy Spirit’s guidance and wisdom, we are capable of achieving the work that the Lord desires for us to accomplish.
But fear can cause us to stumble and fail. For example, fear of criticism will often make us drag our feet and cause us to worry about others’ opinions. Instead, we should be placing a priority on pleasing God.
Fear of making mistakes may prevent us from either starting a project or changing our behavior. As believers, we must remember that we live the Christian life by depending on God, who promises to provide us with our needs as we obediently follow Him.
Fear of having our weaknesses exposed causes us to worry about our appearance, which leads to disobedience. It’s important to stay in God’s Word so we can gain a biblical perspective on our fears and think accurately and positively about the future.
Doubt is another reason for failure. Many of us have trouble believing in our God-given abilities, or we question whether we deserve the Lord’s plans for our lives. The antidote to doubt is increased trust in God, which we can gain by meditating on His characteristics and His promises.
God expects us to operate according to His timetable, not our own. So watch out for procrastination, which can derail success. It may be the result of a rebellious spirit which does not want to be told what to do, even by the Lord.
God promises victory through Jesus Christ. What’s holding you back?
January 17, 2007
Failing to Accomplish God’s Plan
Matthew 10:17-31
Through the Holy Spirit’s guidance and wisdom, we are capable of achieving the work that the Lord desires for us to accomplish.
But fear can cause us to stumble and fail. For example, fear of criticism will often make us drag our feet and cause us to worry about others’ opinions. Instead, we should be placing a priority on pleasing God.
Fear of making mistakes may prevent us from either starting a project or changing our behavior. As believers, we must remember that we live the Christian life by depending on God, who promises to provide us with our needs as we obediently follow Him.
Fear of having our weaknesses exposed causes us to worry about our appearance, which leads to disobedience. It’s important to stay in God’s Word so we can gain a biblical perspective on our fears and think accurately and positively about the future.
Doubt is another reason for failure. Many of us have trouble believing in our God-given abilities, or we question whether we deserve the Lord’s plans for our lives. The antidote to doubt is increased trust in God, which we can gain by meditating on His characteristics and His promises.
God expects us to operate according to His timetable, not our own. So watch out for procrastination, which can derail success. It may be the result of a rebellious spirit which does not want to be told what to do, even by the Lord.
God promises victory through Jesus Christ. What’s holding you back?
Innovations of the 19th Century
The 19th century was a time of tremendous development from a technological perspective. Tools and many of the daily items we take for granted today were new and innovative to the 19th century generations.
You may be surprised at the extent of inventions that were created during a one-hundred year period. We can truly appreciate the visionary minds of the individuals who have made day-to-day living easier.
Years 1800-1820
1800
Battery
1801
Gaslighting. By 1807, London had gas streetlights.
1803
Steel pen
1812
Storage battery
1814
First locomotive in the U.S. and the steam-powered rotary printing press in London
1816
Camera
1818
Blood transfusion. Although discovered, physicians of the time did not understand blood transfusion and thus was not really used until the 20th century.
1819
Stethoscope. The first stethoscope had a wooden tube.
Years 1821-1840
1821
Electric motor
1827
Matches. However, these worked rather poorly. The phosphorous match replaced these type in 1836.
1830
Food canning, which would become a very important technology. In addition, the portable steam fire engine and the first steam locomotive, the Tom Thumb, raced against a horse-drawn railcar in Baltimore.
1831
Chloroform was discovered. This would become a critically important invention, particularly on the battlefield.
1834
McCormick reaper (would change agriculture forever!) and refrigeration!
1837
The Telegraph, which was demonstrated by Morse. The telegraph would be the first step in revolutionizing communication. The first message was sent in 1844 in Morse code. It was: “What hath God wrought?”
1839
Daguerreotype (photograph)
1841-1860
1842
The player piano.
1843
Typewriting machine. (Consider: this would be the first step of a journey to the computers of today.)
1846
Lock-stitch sewing machine. This invention would change the way clothes would be sewn!
1847
Chloroform used in surgery.
1860
Can opener, the internal combustion engine.
1861-1880
1864
Rubber dental plate.
1868
First practical typewriter, plastics.
1876
Telephone. By the year 1900, there would be 1.4 million telephones in the United States.
1877
Phonograph, gas engine.
1881-1899
1884
Motor car, airship, fountain pen, steam turbine.
1885
Motorcycle
1886
Aluminum
1890
Rubber tires used on bicycles.
1893
Carburetor, diesel engine.
1895
X-ray
1896
Radio
1899
Aspirin
You may be surprised at the extent of inventions that were created during a one-hundred year period. We can truly appreciate the visionary minds of the individuals who have made day-to-day living easier.
Years 1800-1820
1800
Battery
1801
Gaslighting. By 1807, London had gas streetlights.
1803
Steel pen
1812
Storage battery
1814
First locomotive in the U.S. and the steam-powered rotary printing press in London
1816
Camera
1818
Blood transfusion. Although discovered, physicians of the time did not understand blood transfusion and thus was not really used until the 20th century.
1819
Stethoscope. The first stethoscope had a wooden tube.
Years 1821-1840
1821
Electric motor
1827
Matches. However, these worked rather poorly. The phosphorous match replaced these type in 1836.
1830
Food canning, which would become a very important technology. In addition, the portable steam fire engine and the first steam locomotive, the Tom Thumb, raced against a horse-drawn railcar in Baltimore.
1831
Chloroform was discovered. This would become a critically important invention, particularly on the battlefield.
1834
McCormick reaper (would change agriculture forever!) and refrigeration!
1837
The Telegraph, which was demonstrated by Morse. The telegraph would be the first step in revolutionizing communication. The first message was sent in 1844 in Morse code. It was: “What hath God wrought?”
1839
Daguerreotype (photograph)
1841-1860
1842
The player piano.
1843
Typewriting machine. (Consider: this would be the first step of a journey to the computers of today.)
1846
Lock-stitch sewing machine. This invention would change the way clothes would be sewn!
1847
Chloroform used in surgery.
1860
Can opener, the internal combustion engine.
1861-1880
1864
Rubber dental plate.
1868
First practical typewriter, plastics.
1876
Telephone. By the year 1900, there would be 1.4 million telephones in the United States.
1877
Phonograph, gas engine.
1881-1899
1884
Motor car, airship, fountain pen, steam turbine.
1885
Motorcycle
1886
Aluminum
1890
Rubber tires used on bicycles.
1893
Carburetor, diesel engine.
1895
X-ray
1896
Radio
1899
Aspirin
Frontier Days misc. notes
A Cowboy’s Boots
Boots were an important item in a cowboy’s wardrobe. The boot typically was black and had a stovepipe upper, wide-squared toes, and low heels. Boots could be purchased for as little as $2.75 a pair from Montgomery Ward and Company. If a cowboy wanted to purchase a better made pair of boots, the leather uppers were attached to the soles by hardwood pegs. These types of boots were more expensive, each pair costing between $7.00 - $15.00. If a cowboy wanted the top of the line, he could arrange for made-to-measure boots instead of ready-made boots. The boot heel would change by the 1870s, becoming higher to accommodate narrower stirrups. In this way, the cowboy could more easily clear his foot through the stirrup. Leather loops were also added to the sides of the boots. This additional design allowed the boot to be slipped on with ease. By the 1880s, cowboy boots became more stylish. Fancy stitching was added to the boot uppers.
Education & Frontier Schools
In the Old West, literacy was not a luxury that most adults enjoyed. In fact, many adults couldn’t read or write, particularly during the first half of the nineteenth century. By 1870, educational opportunities were improved by the employment of organized school districts.
The Schoolhouse
The early schoolhouse was the family cabin using whatever education materials were at hand. In most homes, the Bible was the text for learning to read and write. Frontier educators, usually the children’s mother or a literate neighbor, used the dirt floor of the cabin for a blackboard. Children could learn the letters of the alphabet and math problems using a stick to write in the dirt.
To employ a teacher and build a schoolhouse for the children of the area depended on one thing: financial resources of the residents. Donation of land and assistance in constructing a schoolhouse cabin was a community effort.
Inside the Schoolhouse
Wood burning stoves (like the one in the photograph) were placed inside the schoolhouse to ward off the cold of winter. The distribution of heat was uneven to say the least. Students seated closest to the stove could get quite warm while those furthest away may feel a chill. Despite the less than perfect environmental conditions by today’s standards, students attended school to learn.
Common Textbooks of the 19th Century
McGuffey’s ReadersYouth’s CompanionDictionaryAlmanac
The materials available for students varied. Most had a spelling book and the teacher had several books available for teaching. Students were required to supply their own slates, tablets, rulers and pencils.
Transportation to School
Attendance by students to school depended on weather and time of year, particularly in farming communities. Rarely did parents accompany their children to school. Students either walked, rode one of the family’s horses or drove a team and wagon. The schoolhouse was usually centrally located so it was accessible by the children of the community.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
Is There A Doctor in the House?”
The 21st century equivalent of medical assistance out West during the 19th century simply did not exist. Although a trained physician might be located, it was more likely that families relied on the knowledge obtained through hard experience or from others. The townspeople might consider it a blessing if a physician decided to set up his medical practice in their town.
The Doctor Comes to Town
If a town was fortunate, a medically trained doctor settled in the area and established a practice. In some regions, a doctor was required to register with the local county clerk prior to settling in a practice. However, this was not enforced until late in the century.
Establishment of a medical practice was straightforward for the doctor. He simply moved into town, opened an office and hung up his sign. Sometimes he ran an ad in the local newspaper to announce his arrival. In a small town, word-of-mouth was likely the best source of advertisement.
Some physicians set up their practice in a drug store or pharmacy owned by another doctor.
Active in Town Jobs
Medically trained doctors were held in higher esteem in the towns of the West. Their participation in many other responsibilities was common, particularly because they were better educated than some of the citizenry. The town physician may also own a store, bank, or freighting company. Whatever their tasks, the physician of the town was an important part of the community.
“That will cost you one pig or two chickens...”
Payment for services rendered was not always in currency. Often a patient would repay the doctor by labor or tangible goods such as garden produce. Chickens, cows and horses would be readily accessible in farming communities to give the doctor for medical services. In lieu of cash, an individual or family would utilize whatever was available at the time to pay the doctor for his medical service.
Traveling to the Patient
Enjoying the benefits of having a medically trained doctor in town was one thing. Getting access to the physician in time of need was another. Until the telephone was invented, summoning the doctor could be a time consuming or difficult feat depending on distance and time of year. The person sent to notify the doctor would either run or ride a horse to the doctor’s home or office. In turn, the physician would have to travel to the patient.
In the West, doctors typically rode a horse (if a distance outside of town) to reach their patient. When it became possible, a doctor utilized a wagon or buggy for transportation. This form of transport allowed greater comfort and more space to carry medical supplies, lantern, shovel and wire cutters to pass through fencing.
Were all Doctors, Doctors?
One might think that all doctors in the West were medically trained, but this was not always true. In fact, any person could be a “doctor” whether he received formal medical training or not. A medical practice law was not established in California until 1866. The first state to create a board of medical examiners was Texas in 1873.
Sufficed to say, although a physician might move into town and set up shop, the townspeople would have to hope he was medically trained.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
May I Offer You A Drink?
Would you be surprised to know that infants and children drank beer, whiskey and wine in the Old West?
Why would a child be permitted to drink such beverages? The reality was that beer actually contained a low alcoholic content. In addition, water supplies were seldom untainted. The possibility of obtaining a waterborne disease was very high. Drinking plain water could be down right dangerous to your health!
Coffee and tea were other beverages that were commonly consumed. Coffee became the preferred drink by 1830. It is interesting to note that many frontier families actually made their coffee from a variety of grains in lieu of the coffee bean.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
Ranching: The Cattleman’s Branding Iron
Branding was the way the owner of the cattle could be identified. The brand, which took for form of a symbol or letters, was produced by a hot iron forged with the appropriate brand and then burned onto the animal’s flesh. The brand design was registered with the county prior to branding the owner’s cattle.
The location of the brand was usually on the left hind and fore quarters. Cattle were generally branded when they were young.
The First Cattle in America
The Spanish conquistador, Hernando Cortes, brought the first cattle to the New World in the 16th century, around 1540. The brand Cortes used was three crosses.
The Maverick
The term “maverick” means an adult animal that is not branded. This word was derived back in the 1840s when a Texas cattle rancher named Sam Maverick “refused to brand his herd.” His cattle roamed about the range without a brand, and he soon discovered that the neighboring ranches claimed the cattle as their own.
Ranchers were quick to brand their cattle for fear of losing them should they stray from the herd. Rustlers were particularly adept at altering a brand to cover up their rustling.
The Cattle States Were...
Western & Southwestern States: Arizona, California, New Mexico, and Texas.
Other Cattle Ranching States: Colorado, Nebraska, South Dakota, and Wyoming.
REFERENCES
Discovering America’s Past: Customs, Legends, History, and Lore of Our Great Nation, Reader’s Digest, 1993
Collier’s Encyclopedia, Volume 4Collier’s, 1995
Stagecoach Travel & Etiquette
Traveling by stagecoach in nineteenth century America was an arduous undertaking for the passenger. Road conditions were generally poor. Although major thoroughfares were slightly better, secondary and rural roads promised muddy, rutted roads sprinkled with horse dung. Drivers were known for their drunkenness. Combining a driver’s impatience and bad roads, passengers undertaking a long trip would expect the stagecoach to turnover at least once.
The Omaha Herald, 1877, provides some interesting commentary into stagecoach etiquette. The Omaha Herald advised that the best seat inside a stagecoach was next to the driver. The passenger would experience less bumping and jarring. Travelers should get out and walk about when so instructed by the driver without complaint. Passengers should not complain about the food at the stations, keep the stage waiting, smoke a pipe in the early morning, swear nor fall on your neighbor’s shoulder while sleeping.
Politics and religion should not be discussed. It was also recommended not to jump out of the coach when a team ran away. The passenger faced greater danger from leaping from the stagecoach then taking his chances by remaining seated.
The Cowboy
The cowboy was truly the Frontiersmen of the west. The type of men attracted to the arduous work of a cowboy were independent and self-reliant men. These men also required courage, spirit, and grit determination to handle the hard work that was a part of their daily life.
The Idealized Cowboy
The life of a cowboy has been idealized and romanticized in Hollywood and fiction. The reality of the life of a North American cowboy was often monotonous, dangerous, and hard work. Most of the time, these men of the west were poorly paid for their work.
The Cattle Boom
The cattle boom of North America was between 1866 and 1887. Cowboys were a breed apart and were needed by the ranchers to run their stock. It was at this time that the cattle barons made their mark in history. The cattle boom didn’t last long, however, as the price for cattle stock collapsed, farmers fenced in the open land, which impeded cattle drives. In addition, the winter of 1886-1887 was so severe, many ranchers lost cattle.
Who Were the Cowboys?
Most of the cowboys were young, most being Anglo-American. Other cowboys were Mexican, African, and Native American.
Up until around 1885, most cowboys were viewed as wild and drunken men who were generally poor. When the profession of “cowboy” died away, thanks to writers and Hollywood, the romanticized cowboy was born.
The Tools of the Cowboy Trade
A Cowboy’s “Hoss”
Origin of “mustang”
From the Spanish word, mestena for horse herd.
A cowboy’s horse was their transportation and way of making a living. Most of the horses were mustangs, a “descendant of runaway Spanish Andalusians” that had bred in the wild. Mustangs were hearty animals who moved well and quick among the cattle. A cowboy could trust his horse to keep him moving among the dangers of the cattle drive.
Did you Know?
It was the landowning Charros and their Vaqueros (cowboys) that first began cattle ranching in Mexico as early as the 1500s. The skills and procedures followed in cattle ranching was later used by the cowboys in North America.
The Saddle
A cowboy spent hours in the saddle, sometimes as much as 15 hours a day. The saddle was a critical piece of equipment owned by a cowboy. A fine saddle could cost as much as a month’s wages, but was the most important item owned by a cowboy. A well-made and cared for saddle could last a cowboy thirty years. Now, that’s a long time!
Origin of the saddle
The saddles utilized by North American cowboys originated from the 16th century Spanish war saddle. A saddle form was made of wood and covered with wet rawhide. The saddle contains three primary components:
Pommel: the horn and fork at the front of the saddle
Seat: the place between the pommel and cantle where you sit
Cantle: the raised part of the seat at the back
The cowboy has become a legend in America today. Their hard work, determination, and courage make them a romantic hero both in real life and fiction.
REFERENCES
“Cowboy”, by David H. MurdochAlfred A. Knopf, New York, 1993
The Journey West
The 1800s were a time for adventure and opportunity. Traveling out west was a place for the restless, poor, or ambitious men and women to make a new life. Making the decision to cross the hundreds of miles of open prairie was indeed an arduous one. Transportation consisted of putting your supplies, possessions and family into a wagon and taking the trek westward.
The Oregon Trail
Groups headed out west by following specific routes, the most well known route being the Oregon Trail. The route led to Oregon’s Willamette Valley with one section directed to California. The route commenced in Missouri and the pioneer traveled over 2,000 miles arriving in Oregon about four months later.
The Oregon Trail’s earliest travelers were adventurers, missionaries, and fur traders.
Pioneers began using the Oregon Trail in the early 1840s. Nearly 14,000 people had made the trek west by 1848. Groups continued to travel west through the 1860s. By the time the railroad was installed in 1869, travelers could travel west in comparative ease and comfort.
REFERENCES
West By Covered Wagon, Dorothy Hinshaw PatentWalker & Company, New York, NY, 1995
The Western Frontier Woman
The Benefit of Marriage for the Frontier Man
Marriageable females were as valuable as gold to the western male. The men that traveled west were anxious to find a wife for a variety of reasons. A companion to share conversation and the challenges of the rugged open spaces was one reason men wed. The laws also promoted the state of marriage and the expansion west.
The Donation Land Act of 1850 in the Oregon Territory provided a husband and wife with more land than a bachelor would receive. In addition to being a helpmate for the arduous labor of day-to-day living, children could come from the union. Commencing at an early age, children were put to work doing chores around the family homestead. In a word, a woman fulfilled her traditionally stated role as spouse, companion, mother and homemaker.
The Wedding
Women brought the ceremony and social interaction of weddings to the West. The wedding gave women the opportunity to join together for a social event. The relative isolation and daily grind of hard work did not allow for the frequent social calling done back East.
By the late 1890s, the wedding ceremony had taken on a more standard proceeding. A couple had their wedding in the local church decorated with flowers, ribbons and an organist. Upon receiving their marriage certificate, it would be displayed in the home. Some marriage certificates could be quite fancy. Photographs of the bride and groom could be placed on the certificate, colored flowers and pictures might also adorn the certificate.
The Challenges for a Frontier Wife
The challenges facing a frontier wife were numerous. A woman might be separated from her family and friends. Isolation was a common circumstance. Children were born at home, sometimes without the support of another woman. The children that survived to the age of schooling did not have access to schools and churches. The frontier wife battled the ever-changing weather conditions (droughts, blizzards, dust storms, and heat) in conjunction with the backbreaking work.
Some of the chores for a frontier wife would include sewing, cooking, washing, feeding the chickens, tending the garden, and being a mate to her husband and mother to her children.
In general, the frontier wife took the demands of her life in stride. There was no time to consider your labor nor was it proper to drown in self-pity.
Folk Remedies
Mosquitoes: Vinegar and salt were blended into a paste. This smelly concoction kept the mosquitoes away.
Salt: Salt could be used as a toothpaste.
Gunpowder: Warts were combated by applying gunpowder to the area.
Goose grease/skunk oil/lard: These items were utilized as liniments.
Home Cures for Illness
The woman of the frontier had to become knowledgeable in medicinal care for her husband and children. Doctors might not be accessible nor may they have any additional knowledge than their patient. In some circumstances, a woman recalled the folk wisdom of her youth and employed the “cure” to her own family.
Historians have found remedies for a number of ailments written in the diaries of frontier women. By today’s standards, the cure was worse than the affliction. Rattlesnake bites could be attended to by drinking a teaspoon of ammonia diluted in water. A sore throat would be soothed by dampening a teaspoonful of sugar with turpentine.
REFERENCES
The Old West: The WomenText by Joan Swallow ReiterTime-Life Books, Alexandria, Virginia, 1978
Wagons of the Frontier
The Covered Wagon was the common form of overland transportation in the Old West. It comprised of an undercarriage with front and back wheels made of wood with iron rims. Long curved wooden pieces called bows were connected to the sides of the wagon so that a heavy canvas could be put into place. The canvas was treated with linseed oil to ensure its water-resistant quality.
Who were the wagon builders?There were three primary wagon builders during the Old West.J. Murphy CompanySt. Louis, Missouri
Studebaker Brothers Manufacturing CompanySouth Bend, Indiana
Peter SchuttlerChicago, Illinois
The animals used to pull the Covered Wagon varied. A settler could use a team of oxen, mules or horses. Oxen traveled at a slower pace while mules possessed greater endurance than horses. The benefit of using a team of oxen was their stamina and they grazed off the land. Mules and horses traveled faster, but grain was required as a supplement to their grazing diet.
Other Wagons of the Frontier
There were a variety of other wagon types the people of the Old West used.
Buckboards and Buggies: These types of wagons were offered in a variety of styles and types. The wagons were typically lightweight. Some were as simple as two-wheeled carts while others were fancier surreys with coverings. (Remember in the musical Oklahoma and the song, “...the surrey with the fringe on the top?”)
Celerity Wagons: These wagons were lighter weight stagecoaches. They had canvas roller flaps that covered the windows. The canvas covers could easily be rolled back so passengers could view the scenery during travel.
Chuck Wagon: The chuck wagon is a familiar “prop” in movies and stories. Chuck wagons were used on cattle trails and on ranches after 1866. The chuck wagon was used to hall water, tools, and the important utensils the cook used to cook. The Studebaker Company eventually began to build chuck wagons and charged from $75 to $100 per wagon.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
Weather & Frontier Life
Weather conditions faced by frontier families:
FloodsCold weather in the winterBlizzardsScorching heat in the summerDroughtsFireInsects
The weather on the frontier dictated the actions of the men and women who toiled on the prairie. Weather influenced what they wore, where they lived, how successful their crops were, and if they would fair well for the coming season.
Facing A Fight
The settlers of the prairie knew they could not stand against Mother Nature without making plans for when her fury was released. Storm cellars were built to protect themselves from tornadoes and cyclones. Some of Mother Nature’s natural disasters could not be thwarted.
A devastating grasshopper infestation occurred in Kansas and Nebraska in 1873, 1874 and 1893. A story in the Homesteader printed in July 1874 stated that the “air is filled with them, the ground is covered with them...” The reporter mentioned that individuals could not walk the street without a grasshopper flying into your face.
Blizzards of the 19th Century
Blizzards could be particularly deadly for the prairie settler. Several blizzards in the late 19th century are recorded in their severity to both human and animal life.
The first is the “Great Die-Up” blizzard of 1886-1887. Heavy snows and frigid temperatures followed by warm weather then cold created ice ranges buried in snow. The name “Great Die-Up” was given because “hundreds of thousands of head of cattle perished on the open ranges from Canada to Texas.”
A second blizzard known as the “School Children’s Blizzard of 1888” struck the Northern and Plains regions of the United States. The storm came suddenly with no warning. Some children and teachers remained at school while others tried to find safety in haystacks. There were some that never found shelter and died.
It is interesting to note that the “first use of the word ‘blizzard’” was written on March 14, 1870 in an Iowa newspaper.
A Deep-Boned Determination
The settlers of the 19th century had a deep-boned determination to carve out a life for themselves despite the challenges wrought by Mother Nature. We can learn a lesson by their example. They had a dream and overcame tremendous obstacles to achieve it.
Boots were an important item in a cowboy’s wardrobe. The boot typically was black and had a stovepipe upper, wide-squared toes, and low heels. Boots could be purchased for as little as $2.75 a pair from Montgomery Ward and Company. If a cowboy wanted to purchase a better made pair of boots, the leather uppers were attached to the soles by hardwood pegs. These types of boots were more expensive, each pair costing between $7.00 - $15.00. If a cowboy wanted the top of the line, he could arrange for made-to-measure boots instead of ready-made boots. The boot heel would change by the 1870s, becoming higher to accommodate narrower stirrups. In this way, the cowboy could more easily clear his foot through the stirrup. Leather loops were also added to the sides of the boots. This additional design allowed the boot to be slipped on with ease. By the 1880s, cowboy boots became more stylish. Fancy stitching was added to the boot uppers.
Education & Frontier Schools
In the Old West, literacy was not a luxury that most adults enjoyed. In fact, many adults couldn’t read or write, particularly during the first half of the nineteenth century. By 1870, educational opportunities were improved by the employment of organized school districts.
The Schoolhouse
The early schoolhouse was the family cabin using whatever education materials were at hand. In most homes, the Bible was the text for learning to read and write. Frontier educators, usually the children’s mother or a literate neighbor, used the dirt floor of the cabin for a blackboard. Children could learn the letters of the alphabet and math problems using a stick to write in the dirt.
To employ a teacher and build a schoolhouse for the children of the area depended on one thing: financial resources of the residents. Donation of land and assistance in constructing a schoolhouse cabin was a community effort.
Inside the Schoolhouse
Wood burning stoves (like the one in the photograph) were placed inside the schoolhouse to ward off the cold of winter. The distribution of heat was uneven to say the least. Students seated closest to the stove could get quite warm while those furthest away may feel a chill. Despite the less than perfect environmental conditions by today’s standards, students attended school to learn.
Common Textbooks of the 19th Century
McGuffey’s ReadersYouth’s CompanionDictionaryAlmanac
The materials available for students varied. Most had a spelling book and the teacher had several books available for teaching. Students were required to supply their own slates, tablets, rulers and pencils.
Transportation to School
Attendance by students to school depended on weather and time of year, particularly in farming communities. Rarely did parents accompany their children to school. Students either walked, rode one of the family’s horses or drove a team and wagon. The schoolhouse was usually centrally located so it was accessible by the children of the community.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
Is There A Doctor in the House?”
The 21st century equivalent of medical assistance out West during the 19th century simply did not exist. Although a trained physician might be located, it was more likely that families relied on the knowledge obtained through hard experience or from others. The townspeople might consider it a blessing if a physician decided to set up his medical practice in their town.
The Doctor Comes to Town
If a town was fortunate, a medically trained doctor settled in the area and established a practice. In some regions, a doctor was required to register with the local county clerk prior to settling in a practice. However, this was not enforced until late in the century.
Establishment of a medical practice was straightforward for the doctor. He simply moved into town, opened an office and hung up his sign. Sometimes he ran an ad in the local newspaper to announce his arrival. In a small town, word-of-mouth was likely the best source of advertisement.
Some physicians set up their practice in a drug store or pharmacy owned by another doctor.
Active in Town Jobs
Medically trained doctors were held in higher esteem in the towns of the West. Their participation in many other responsibilities was common, particularly because they were better educated than some of the citizenry. The town physician may also own a store, bank, or freighting company. Whatever their tasks, the physician of the town was an important part of the community.
“That will cost you one pig or two chickens...”
Payment for services rendered was not always in currency. Often a patient would repay the doctor by labor or tangible goods such as garden produce. Chickens, cows and horses would be readily accessible in farming communities to give the doctor for medical services. In lieu of cash, an individual or family would utilize whatever was available at the time to pay the doctor for his medical service.
Traveling to the Patient
Enjoying the benefits of having a medically trained doctor in town was one thing. Getting access to the physician in time of need was another. Until the telephone was invented, summoning the doctor could be a time consuming or difficult feat depending on distance and time of year. The person sent to notify the doctor would either run or ride a horse to the doctor’s home or office. In turn, the physician would have to travel to the patient.
In the West, doctors typically rode a horse (if a distance outside of town) to reach their patient. When it became possible, a doctor utilized a wagon or buggy for transportation. This form of transport allowed greater comfort and more space to carry medical supplies, lantern, shovel and wire cutters to pass through fencing.
Were all Doctors, Doctors?
One might think that all doctors in the West were medically trained, but this was not always true. In fact, any person could be a “doctor” whether he received formal medical training or not. A medical practice law was not established in California until 1866. The first state to create a board of medical examiners was Texas in 1873.
Sufficed to say, although a physician might move into town and set up shop, the townspeople would have to hope he was medically trained.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
May I Offer You A Drink?
Would you be surprised to know that infants and children drank beer, whiskey and wine in the Old West?
Why would a child be permitted to drink such beverages? The reality was that beer actually contained a low alcoholic content. In addition, water supplies were seldom untainted. The possibility of obtaining a waterborne disease was very high. Drinking plain water could be down right dangerous to your health!
Coffee and tea were other beverages that were commonly consumed. Coffee became the preferred drink by 1830. It is interesting to note that many frontier families actually made their coffee from a variety of grains in lieu of the coffee bean.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
Ranching: The Cattleman’s Branding Iron
Branding was the way the owner of the cattle could be identified. The brand, which took for form of a symbol or letters, was produced by a hot iron forged with the appropriate brand and then burned onto the animal’s flesh. The brand design was registered with the county prior to branding the owner’s cattle.
The location of the brand was usually on the left hind and fore quarters. Cattle were generally branded when they were young.
The First Cattle in America
The Spanish conquistador, Hernando Cortes, brought the first cattle to the New World in the 16th century, around 1540. The brand Cortes used was three crosses.
The Maverick
The term “maverick” means an adult animal that is not branded. This word was derived back in the 1840s when a Texas cattle rancher named Sam Maverick “refused to brand his herd.” His cattle roamed about the range without a brand, and he soon discovered that the neighboring ranches claimed the cattle as their own.
Ranchers were quick to brand their cattle for fear of losing them should they stray from the herd. Rustlers were particularly adept at altering a brand to cover up their rustling.
The Cattle States Were...
Western & Southwestern States: Arizona, California, New Mexico, and Texas.
Other Cattle Ranching States: Colorado, Nebraska, South Dakota, and Wyoming.
REFERENCES
Discovering America’s Past: Customs, Legends, History, and Lore of Our Great Nation, Reader’s Digest, 1993
Collier’s Encyclopedia, Volume 4Collier’s, 1995
Stagecoach Travel & Etiquette
Traveling by stagecoach in nineteenth century America was an arduous undertaking for the passenger. Road conditions were generally poor. Although major thoroughfares were slightly better, secondary and rural roads promised muddy, rutted roads sprinkled with horse dung. Drivers were known for their drunkenness. Combining a driver’s impatience and bad roads, passengers undertaking a long trip would expect the stagecoach to turnover at least once.
The Omaha Herald, 1877, provides some interesting commentary into stagecoach etiquette. The Omaha Herald advised that the best seat inside a stagecoach was next to the driver. The passenger would experience less bumping and jarring. Travelers should get out and walk about when so instructed by the driver without complaint. Passengers should not complain about the food at the stations, keep the stage waiting, smoke a pipe in the early morning, swear nor fall on your neighbor’s shoulder while sleeping.
Politics and religion should not be discussed. It was also recommended not to jump out of the coach when a team ran away. The passenger faced greater danger from leaping from the stagecoach then taking his chances by remaining seated.
The Cowboy
The cowboy was truly the Frontiersmen of the west. The type of men attracted to the arduous work of a cowboy were independent and self-reliant men. These men also required courage, spirit, and grit determination to handle the hard work that was a part of their daily life.
The Idealized Cowboy
The life of a cowboy has been idealized and romanticized in Hollywood and fiction. The reality of the life of a North American cowboy was often monotonous, dangerous, and hard work. Most of the time, these men of the west were poorly paid for their work.
The Cattle Boom
The cattle boom of North America was between 1866 and 1887. Cowboys were a breed apart and were needed by the ranchers to run their stock. It was at this time that the cattle barons made their mark in history. The cattle boom didn’t last long, however, as the price for cattle stock collapsed, farmers fenced in the open land, which impeded cattle drives. In addition, the winter of 1886-1887 was so severe, many ranchers lost cattle.
Who Were the Cowboys?
Most of the cowboys were young, most being Anglo-American. Other cowboys were Mexican, African, and Native American.
Up until around 1885, most cowboys were viewed as wild and drunken men who were generally poor. When the profession of “cowboy” died away, thanks to writers and Hollywood, the romanticized cowboy was born.
The Tools of the Cowboy Trade
A Cowboy’s “Hoss”
Origin of “mustang”
From the Spanish word, mestena for horse herd.
A cowboy’s horse was their transportation and way of making a living. Most of the horses were mustangs, a “descendant of runaway Spanish Andalusians” that had bred in the wild. Mustangs were hearty animals who moved well and quick among the cattle. A cowboy could trust his horse to keep him moving among the dangers of the cattle drive.
Did you Know?
It was the landowning Charros and their Vaqueros (cowboys) that first began cattle ranching in Mexico as early as the 1500s. The skills and procedures followed in cattle ranching was later used by the cowboys in North America.
The Saddle
A cowboy spent hours in the saddle, sometimes as much as 15 hours a day. The saddle was a critical piece of equipment owned by a cowboy. A fine saddle could cost as much as a month’s wages, but was the most important item owned by a cowboy. A well-made and cared for saddle could last a cowboy thirty years. Now, that’s a long time!
Origin of the saddle
The saddles utilized by North American cowboys originated from the 16th century Spanish war saddle. A saddle form was made of wood and covered with wet rawhide. The saddle contains three primary components:
Pommel: the horn and fork at the front of the saddle
Seat: the place between the pommel and cantle where you sit
Cantle: the raised part of the seat at the back
The cowboy has become a legend in America today. Their hard work, determination, and courage make them a romantic hero both in real life and fiction.
REFERENCES
“Cowboy”, by David H. MurdochAlfred A. Knopf, New York, 1993
The Journey West
The 1800s were a time for adventure and opportunity. Traveling out west was a place for the restless, poor, or ambitious men and women to make a new life. Making the decision to cross the hundreds of miles of open prairie was indeed an arduous one. Transportation consisted of putting your supplies, possessions and family into a wagon and taking the trek westward.
The Oregon Trail
Groups headed out west by following specific routes, the most well known route being the Oregon Trail. The route led to Oregon’s Willamette Valley with one section directed to California. The route commenced in Missouri and the pioneer traveled over 2,000 miles arriving in Oregon about four months later.
The Oregon Trail’s earliest travelers were adventurers, missionaries, and fur traders.
Pioneers began using the Oregon Trail in the early 1840s. Nearly 14,000 people had made the trek west by 1848. Groups continued to travel west through the 1860s. By the time the railroad was installed in 1869, travelers could travel west in comparative ease and comfort.
REFERENCES
West By Covered Wagon, Dorothy Hinshaw PatentWalker & Company, New York, NY, 1995
The Western Frontier Woman
The Benefit of Marriage for the Frontier Man
Marriageable females were as valuable as gold to the western male. The men that traveled west were anxious to find a wife for a variety of reasons. A companion to share conversation and the challenges of the rugged open spaces was one reason men wed. The laws also promoted the state of marriage and the expansion west.
The Donation Land Act of 1850 in the Oregon Territory provided a husband and wife with more land than a bachelor would receive. In addition to being a helpmate for the arduous labor of day-to-day living, children could come from the union. Commencing at an early age, children were put to work doing chores around the family homestead. In a word, a woman fulfilled her traditionally stated role as spouse, companion, mother and homemaker.
The Wedding
Women brought the ceremony and social interaction of weddings to the West. The wedding gave women the opportunity to join together for a social event. The relative isolation and daily grind of hard work did not allow for the frequent social calling done back East.
By the late 1890s, the wedding ceremony had taken on a more standard proceeding. A couple had their wedding in the local church decorated with flowers, ribbons and an organist. Upon receiving their marriage certificate, it would be displayed in the home. Some marriage certificates could be quite fancy. Photographs of the bride and groom could be placed on the certificate, colored flowers and pictures might also adorn the certificate.
The Challenges for a Frontier Wife
The challenges facing a frontier wife were numerous. A woman might be separated from her family and friends. Isolation was a common circumstance. Children were born at home, sometimes without the support of another woman. The children that survived to the age of schooling did not have access to schools and churches. The frontier wife battled the ever-changing weather conditions (droughts, blizzards, dust storms, and heat) in conjunction with the backbreaking work.
Some of the chores for a frontier wife would include sewing, cooking, washing, feeding the chickens, tending the garden, and being a mate to her husband and mother to her children.
In general, the frontier wife took the demands of her life in stride. There was no time to consider your labor nor was it proper to drown in self-pity.
Folk Remedies
Mosquitoes: Vinegar and salt were blended into a paste. This smelly concoction kept the mosquitoes away.
Salt: Salt could be used as a toothpaste.
Gunpowder: Warts were combated by applying gunpowder to the area.
Goose grease/skunk oil/lard: These items were utilized as liniments.
Home Cures for Illness
The woman of the frontier had to become knowledgeable in medicinal care for her husband and children. Doctors might not be accessible nor may they have any additional knowledge than their patient. In some circumstances, a woman recalled the folk wisdom of her youth and employed the “cure” to her own family.
Historians have found remedies for a number of ailments written in the diaries of frontier women. By today’s standards, the cure was worse than the affliction. Rattlesnake bites could be attended to by drinking a teaspoon of ammonia diluted in water. A sore throat would be soothed by dampening a teaspoonful of sugar with turpentine.
REFERENCES
The Old West: The WomenText by Joan Swallow ReiterTime-Life Books, Alexandria, Virginia, 1978
Wagons of the Frontier
The Covered Wagon was the common form of overland transportation in the Old West. It comprised of an undercarriage with front and back wheels made of wood with iron rims. Long curved wooden pieces called bows were connected to the sides of the wagon so that a heavy canvas could be put into place. The canvas was treated with linseed oil to ensure its water-resistant quality.
Who were the wagon builders?There were three primary wagon builders during the Old West.J. Murphy CompanySt. Louis, Missouri
Studebaker Brothers Manufacturing CompanySouth Bend, Indiana
Peter SchuttlerChicago, Illinois
The animals used to pull the Covered Wagon varied. A settler could use a team of oxen, mules or horses. Oxen traveled at a slower pace while mules possessed greater endurance than horses. The benefit of using a team of oxen was their stamina and they grazed off the land. Mules and horses traveled faster, but grain was required as a supplement to their grazing diet.
Other Wagons of the Frontier
There were a variety of other wagon types the people of the Old West used.
Buckboards and Buggies: These types of wagons were offered in a variety of styles and types. The wagons were typically lightweight. Some were as simple as two-wheeled carts while others were fancier surreys with coverings. (Remember in the musical Oklahoma and the song, “...the surrey with the fringe on the top?”)
Celerity Wagons: These wagons were lighter weight stagecoaches. They had canvas roller flaps that covered the windows. The canvas covers could easily be rolled back so passengers could view the scenery during travel.
Chuck Wagon: The chuck wagon is a familiar “prop” in movies and stories. Chuck wagons were used on cattle trails and on ranches after 1866. The chuck wagon was used to hall water, tools, and the important utensils the cook used to cook. The Studebaker Company eventually began to build chuck wagons and charged from $75 to $100 per wagon.
REFERENCES
Everyday Life in the Wild West: From 1840-1900Candy MoultonWriter’s Digest Books, 1999
Weather & Frontier Life
Weather conditions faced by frontier families:
FloodsCold weather in the winterBlizzardsScorching heat in the summerDroughtsFireInsects
The weather on the frontier dictated the actions of the men and women who toiled on the prairie. Weather influenced what they wore, where they lived, how successful their crops were, and if they would fair well for the coming season.
Facing A Fight
The settlers of the prairie knew they could not stand against Mother Nature without making plans for when her fury was released. Storm cellars were built to protect themselves from tornadoes and cyclones. Some of Mother Nature’s natural disasters could not be thwarted.
A devastating grasshopper infestation occurred in Kansas and Nebraska in 1873, 1874 and 1893. A story in the Homesteader printed in July 1874 stated that the “air is filled with them, the ground is covered with them...” The reporter mentioned that individuals could not walk the street without a grasshopper flying into your face.
Blizzards of the 19th Century
Blizzards could be particularly deadly for the prairie settler. Several blizzards in the late 19th century are recorded in their severity to both human and animal life.
The first is the “Great Die-Up” blizzard of 1886-1887. Heavy snows and frigid temperatures followed by warm weather then cold created ice ranges buried in snow. The name “Great Die-Up” was given because “hundreds of thousands of head of cattle perished on the open ranges from Canada to Texas.”
A second blizzard known as the “School Children’s Blizzard of 1888” struck the Northern and Plains regions of the United States. The storm came suddenly with no warning. Some children and teachers remained at school while others tried to find safety in haystacks. There were some that never found shelter and died.
It is interesting to note that the “first use of the word ‘blizzard’” was written on March 14, 1870 in an Iowa newspaper.
A Deep-Boned Determination
The settlers of the 19th century had a deep-boned determination to carve out a life for themselves despite the challenges wrought by Mother Nature. We can learn a lesson by their example. They had a dream and overcame tremendous obstacles to achieve it.
Prayers for Children of the Catholic Faith
Below are some prayers for children. However, you might like to mix these with encouraging children to pray themselves - since they may feel less self-conscious than adults when praying aloud. This also enables them to pray for what they want to pray, rather than reciting a list of prayers. Some books of childrens’ prayers use complex language, and some even rhyme! The prayers below are deliberately uncomplicated. This gives children a better pattern for their own prayers. (ideas for encouraging children to pray.)
Dear God,We are sorry for doing wrong things. Please forgive us. Help us to forgive those who are unkind to us. Amen.
Father God, As I turn off the light, please be with me. Help me to get to sleep, and please give me good dreams. Amen.
Lord Jesus, Thank you for my friends, and for the games and fun that we share. Please help me to be a good friend to them. Amen.
Father God,Thank you for my family : and not only for those I live with, but grandparents, uncles, aunties and cousins. Please be with them today. Amen.
Lord, Help me to notice people who need my help. Children who are alone without friends, My parents or teachers, when they need a hand. Amen.
Lord Jesus,I know that I am your special child, and that you love me. Other children don’t know you. Please may they come to know your love. I particularly pray for _____ and _____. Amen.
God, you are great. You made the world and it’s good. Thank you for making it so beautiful, and we are sorry that we have spoiled it. Amen.
Dear Jesus,Please help me at school. Sometimes I find it hard, and it’s at those times I really need you. Amen
Dear God,We are sorry for doing wrong things. Please forgive us. Help us to forgive those who are unkind to us. Amen.
Father God, As I turn off the light, please be with me. Help me to get to sleep, and please give me good dreams. Amen.
Lord Jesus, Thank you for my friends, and for the games and fun that we share. Please help me to be a good friend to them. Amen.
Father God,Thank you for my family : and not only for those I live with, but grandparents, uncles, aunties and cousins. Please be with them today. Amen.
Lord, Help me to notice people who need my help. Children who are alone without friends, My parents or teachers, when they need a hand. Amen.
Lord Jesus,I know that I am your special child, and that you love me. Other children don’t know you. Please may they come to know your love. I particularly pray for _____ and _____. Amen.
God, you are great. You made the world and it’s good. Thank you for making it so beautiful, and we are sorry that we have spoiled it. Amen.
Dear Jesus,Please help me at school. Sometimes I find it hard, and it’s at those times I really need you. Amen
church bells
I am researching the history of church bells and of bell ringing. When were church bells used for the first time and why were bells used instead of the human voice to call people to prayer? (TR)Answer: Information on bells as a church instrument and references to further literature can be found in many good encyclopedias and dictionaries, see for example the entry for “bells” in The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1974, p. 153.Here only a few key data: The bell (Irish “clog“; old German “clochon – knocking“ giving rise to the German word “Glocke”) is an instrument that was already known in ancient China. Its use in churches is mentioned as early as 400 by Paul of Nola. Bells are introduced in France around 550 and in the 7th century in Ireland. The ringing of the bells calls the people to the church services. In former times, the bell was not only used to announce Mass, but also rang three times a day (early in the morning, at midday and in the evening) to call people to the Angelus prayer. As the bells increased in size, special towers to hang them in became necessary, either a free standing bell tower, or one integrated in the church building. The bell-foundries, initially operated by the monks, were transferred in the 13th century to the professional founders. The secrets of bell-foundry were passed down the families.In Germany, bells are consecrated by Bishops or authorized priests. While prayers are being said the bell is washed with holy water (this is also called the baptism of bells), anointed with consecrated oil and blessed. The bell sponsor gives it a name. The bells can be the property of the church, of the parish or in private use. Only the clerical authority has the right to determine the use of a bell. If it is to be used for civil occasions, a relevant license is necessary (ceremonies and public announcements).
A little research on Catholicism
What say You: THE BLESSED VIRGIN MARY
“Will you explain the Angelus for the benefit of this audience? I, as a Catholic, cannot understand why Protestants do not join in such a lovely practice and prayer.”The Angelus is a devotion that is Catholic in origin and practice. It is a three-part prayer, said three times a day, usually at 6 a.m., at noon, and at 6 p.m. It is preceded by the ringing of the church bells before each division of the Angelus and at its conclusion. The Angelus is said in honor of the Incarnation and in veneration of Mary as the Mother of Jesus, our Lord and our God. The name is taken from the opening Latin word of the prayer Angelus (the Angel . . .). The Angelus, made up almost entirely of words and suggestions in the first chapters of St. Luke’s and St. John’s Gospels, is as follows:
Salutation —“The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary.”Response —“And she conceived of the Holy Ghost.”Prayer —“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”Salutation —“Behold the handmaid of the Lord.”Response —“May it be done unto me according to Thy word.”Prayer —“Hail Mary, etc.Salutation —“And the Word was made flesh.”Response —“And dwelt among us.”Prayer —“Hail Mary, etc.Let us pray—“Pour forth we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy Grace into our hearts that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ Thy Son was made known by the message of an angel, may, by His Passion and Cross, be brought to the glory of the resurrection, through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Protestants do not join in prayers to Mary, for they do not believe in the intercession of Mary and the other saints in heaven. Catholics believe that just as we can (as St. Paul urged) offer “petitions, prayers, intercessions, thanksgivings . . . on behalf of all men” (I Tim. 2:1), so can we ask God’s friends in heaven to carry our petitions, etc., to God. We believe that among the friends of Christ in heaven, Mary stands first; that anything she asks of her Son will be granted as readily as He granted her request at the marriage feast of Cana. With Sister Rita Agnes, Catholics say:”Dear Madonna, you are risen and with queenly grace you stand; Life, we pray, absolving fingers of Your gracious Baby’s hand. They will bless at your command.”Protestants do not join in the Angelus because they think that prayers addressed to Mary detract from the honor due to her Divine Son, Jesus Christ. While Catholics have a deep affection for Mary, nine-tenths of it is based on their love of Jesus. Mary is addressed as a creature; Jesus as God. Catholics venerate Mary, they worship Jesus.This Catholic practice was music to the ears of Longfellow, who tells us in Evangeline, of hearing “sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus.” Not so with Edwin Markham in his Socialist days. His distorted concept of “The Angelus” of Millet, the peasant painter, “inspired” “The Man with the Hoe.” The humble peasant in the field, stopping in the midst of his work, hat in hand, with head bowed in reverence, responding to the Angelus bell of the distant Church, suggested to Markham a brutalized instead of a contented saintly man. To him, the peasant, christianized by the centuries of Catholicity in his blood, was a man bowed down in misery by the weight of centuries, a brother to the ox, instead of a brother of Jesus Christ, a spiritual Son of the Virgin Mother.”It is related that when Millet’s famous painting, “The Angelus,” was on exhibition, two men stood long apart from the crowd admiring its simple beauty. Then, as if interpreting each other’s thoughts, one asked: “What would that picture be, after all, without the Angelus? Just two peasants in a potato field.” “What would the world be without the Angelus?” replied the other. “Just a spinning globe, with countless toilers crawling on it.”
“Will you explain the Angelus for the benefit of this audience? I, as a Catholic, cannot understand why Protestants do not join in such a lovely practice and prayer.”The Angelus is a devotion that is Catholic in origin and practice. It is a three-part prayer, said three times a day, usually at 6 a.m., at noon, and at 6 p.m. It is preceded by the ringing of the church bells before each division of the Angelus and at its conclusion. The Angelus is said in honor of the Incarnation and in veneration of Mary as the Mother of Jesus, our Lord and our God. The name is taken from the opening Latin word of the prayer Angelus (the Angel . . .). The Angelus, made up almost entirely of words and suggestions in the first chapters of St. Luke’s and St. John’s Gospels, is as follows:
Salutation —“The angel of the Lord declared unto Mary.”Response —“And she conceived of the Holy Ghost.”Prayer —“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, And blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”Salutation —“Behold the handmaid of the Lord.”Response —“May it be done unto me according to Thy word.”Prayer —“Hail Mary, etc.Salutation —“And the Word was made flesh.”Response —“And dwelt among us.”Prayer —“Hail Mary, etc.Let us pray—“Pour forth we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy Grace into our hearts that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ Thy Son was made known by the message of an angel, may, by His Passion and Cross, be brought to the glory of the resurrection, through the same Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Protestants do not join in prayers to Mary, for they do not believe in the intercession of Mary and the other saints in heaven. Catholics believe that just as we can (as St. Paul urged) offer “petitions, prayers, intercessions, thanksgivings . . . on behalf of all men” (I Tim. 2:1), so can we ask God’s friends in heaven to carry our petitions, etc., to God. We believe that among the friends of Christ in heaven, Mary stands first; that anything she asks of her Son will be granted as readily as He granted her request at the marriage feast of Cana. With Sister Rita Agnes, Catholics say:”Dear Madonna, you are risen and with queenly grace you stand; Life, we pray, absolving fingers of Your gracious Baby’s hand. They will bless at your command.”Protestants do not join in the Angelus because they think that prayers addressed to Mary detract from the honor due to her Divine Son, Jesus Christ. While Catholics have a deep affection for Mary, nine-tenths of it is based on their love of Jesus. Mary is addressed as a creature; Jesus as God. Catholics venerate Mary, they worship Jesus.This Catholic practice was music to the ears of Longfellow, who tells us in Evangeline, of hearing “sweetly over the village the bell of the Angelus.” Not so with Edwin Markham in his Socialist days. His distorted concept of “The Angelus” of Millet, the peasant painter, “inspired” “The Man with the Hoe.” The humble peasant in the field, stopping in the midst of his work, hat in hand, with head bowed in reverence, responding to the Angelus bell of the distant Church, suggested to Markham a brutalized instead of a contented saintly man. To him, the peasant, christianized by the centuries of Catholicity in his blood, was a man bowed down in misery by the weight of centuries, a brother to the ox, instead of a brother of Jesus Christ, a spiritual Son of the Virgin Mother.”It is related that when Millet’s famous painting, “The Angelus,” was on exhibition, two men stood long apart from the crowd admiring its simple beauty. Then, as if interpreting each other’s thoughts, one asked: “What would that picture be, after all, without the Angelus? Just two peasants in a potato field.” “What would the world be without the Angelus?” replied the other. “Just a spinning globe, with countless toilers crawling on it.”
The Rule of Three
The rule of 3: three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food.
Presentation Skill 3. The rule of three
This is one of the oldest of all the presentation techniques - known about from the time of Aristotle.
People tend to remember lists of three things. Structure your presentation around threes and and it will become more memorable. The rule of three - We remember three things. The rule of three is one of the oldest in the book - Aristotle wrote about it in his book Rhetoric. Put simply it is that people tend to easily remember three things.
Remember as a kid when your mum sent you down to the shop to buy a number of things. But when you got to the shop all you could remember were three things. This is the rule of three
1. The audience will likely remember only three things from your presentation - plan in advance what these will be. Believe it or not, the chances are, people will only remember three things from your presentation. So before you start writing your presentation, plan what your three key messages will be. Once you have these messages, structure the main part of your presentation around these three key themes and look at how they could be better illustrated.
2. There are three parts to your presentation. The beginning, the middle and the end. Start to plan out what you will do in these three parts. The beginning is ideal for an attention grabber or for an ice breaker. The end is great to wrap things up or to end with a grand finale.
3. Use lists of three where ever you can in your presentation. Lists of three have been used from early times up to the present day. They are particularly used by politicians and advertisers who know the value of using the rule of three to sell their ideas.
Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered) - Julius Caesar**
”Friends, Romans, Countrymen lend me your ears” - William Shakespeare
”Our priorities are Education, Education, Education” - Tony Blair
A Mars a day helps you to work, rest and play - Advertising slogan
Stop, look and listen - Public safety announcement
A classic example of the rule of three was Winston Churchill’s famous Blood, sweat and tears speech. He is widely attributed as saying I can promise you nothing but blood sweat and tears. What he actually said was “I can promise you Blood, Sweat, Toil and Tears” Because of the rule of three we simply remember it as Blood sweat and tears.
There are lots of other examples of the rule of three on this link
4. In Presentations “Less is More”. If you have four points to get across - cut one out. They won’t remember it anyway. In presentations less really is more. No one ever complained of a presentation being too short.
Presentation Essentials
Three Presentation Essentials
Use visual aids where you can
Rehearse, rehearse, rehearse
The audience will only remember three messages
Presentation Skill 3. The rule of three
This is one of the oldest of all the presentation techniques - known about from the time of Aristotle.
People tend to remember lists of three things. Structure your presentation around threes and and it will become more memorable. The rule of three - We remember three things. The rule of three is one of the oldest in the book - Aristotle wrote about it in his book Rhetoric. Put simply it is that people tend to easily remember three things.
Remember as a kid when your mum sent you down to the shop to buy a number of things. But when you got to the shop all you could remember were three things. This is the rule of three
1. The audience will likely remember only three things from your presentation - plan in advance what these will be. Believe it or not, the chances are, people will only remember three things from your presentation. So before you start writing your presentation, plan what your three key messages will be. Once you have these messages, structure the main part of your presentation around these three key themes and look at how they could be better illustrated.
2. There are three parts to your presentation. The beginning, the middle and the end. Start to plan out what you will do in these three parts. The beginning is ideal for an attention grabber or for an ice breaker. The end is great to wrap things up or to end with a grand finale.
3. Use lists of three where ever you can in your presentation. Lists of three have been used from early times up to the present day. They are particularly used by politicians and advertisers who know the value of using the rule of three to sell their ideas.
Veni, Vidi, Vici (I came, I saw, I conquered) - Julius Caesar**
”Friends, Romans, Countrymen lend me your ears” - William Shakespeare
”Our priorities are Education, Education, Education” - Tony Blair
A Mars a day helps you to work, rest and play - Advertising slogan
Stop, look and listen - Public safety announcement
A classic example of the rule of three was Winston Churchill’s famous Blood, sweat and tears speech. He is widely attributed as saying I can promise you nothing but blood sweat and tears. What he actually said was “I can promise you Blood, Sweat, Toil and Tears” Because of the rule of three we simply remember it as Blood sweat and tears.
There are lots of other examples of the rule of three on this link
4. In Presentations “Less is More”. If you have four points to get across - cut one out. They won’t remember it anyway. In presentations less really is more. No one ever complained of a presentation being too short.
Presentation Essentials
Three Presentation Essentials
Use visual aids where you can
Rehearse, rehearse, rehearse
The audience will only remember three messages
Horse "Evolution"?
Evolution of the Horse
In the 1870’s, the paleontologist O.C. Marsh published a description of newly discovered horse fossils from North America. At the time, very few transitional fossils were known, apart from Archeopteryx. The sequence of horse fossils that Marsh described (and that T.H. Huxley popularized) was a striking example of evolution taking place in a single lineage. Here, one could see the fossil species “Eohippus” transformed into an almost totally different-looking (and very familiar) descendent, Equus, through a series of clear intermediates. Biologists and interested laypeople were justifiably excited. Some years later, the American Museum of Natural History assembled a famous exhibit of these fossil horses, designed to show gradual evolution from “Eohippus” (now called Hyracotherium) to modern Equus. Such exhibits focussed attention on the horse family not only as evidence for evolution per se, but also specifically as a model of gradual, straight-line evolution, with Equus being the “goal” of equine evolution. This story of the horse family was soon included in all biology textbooks.
In the 1870’s, the paleontologist O.C. Marsh published a description of newly discovered horse fossils from North America. At the time, very few transitional fossils were known, apart from Archeopteryx. The sequence of horse fossils that Marsh described (and that T.H. Huxley popularized) was a striking example of evolution taking place in a single lineage. Here, one could see the fossil species “Eohippus” transformed into an almost totally different-looking (and very familiar) descendent, Equus, through a series of clear intermediates. Biologists and interested laypeople were justifiably excited. Some years later, the American Museum of Natural History assembled a famous exhibit of these fossil horses, designed to show gradual evolution from “Eohippus” (now called Hyracotherium) to modern Equus. Such exhibits focussed attention on the horse family not only as evidence for evolution per se, but also specifically as a model of gradual, straight-line evolution, with Equus being the “goal” of equine evolution. This story of the horse family was soon included in all biology textbooks.
Remember Me
To the living, I am gone
To the sorrowful, I will never return
To the angry, I was cheated
But, to the happy, I am at peace
And to the faithful, I have never left
I can not speak, but I can listen
I can not be seen, but I can be heard
So as you stand upon the shore
Gazing at the beautiful sea, remember me
As you look in awe at a mighty forest
And its grand majesty, remember me
Remember me in your hearts,
In your thoughts, and the memories of the
Times we loved, the times we cried, the
Battle I fought and the times we laughed
For if you always think of me, I will
Have never gone.
(Author Unknown)
miscellaneous victorian
The Dolly’s Dressmaker was a periodical published in the early 1860’s in London and Berlin. Along with pictures and patterns for doll clothes, it described the clothes and told how to make them. During the 1860’s, the world was changing rapidly. Domestic life had been drastically altered by the development of the sewing machine and now few dresses were made at home without the use of one.
During that time, entire books and periodicals were devoted to teaching little girls the art of dressmaking for their dolls. With the recognition of the doll world by the creators of high fashion and the great increase in the number of Paris shops devoted to dolls and their trousseaus, the dolls of the well-to-do were often dressed according to the highest fashions of each year.
Antique Quilt 4330 - Crazy Patch Mourning Quilt1880’s mourning quilt - “Louie died Feb. 1, 1884” embroidered in the middle (see close-up view) Beaded butterfly - new borders and back - very good condition - 59” x 80”
Could It Be Any More Victorian?
Mary Barton has it all: a beautiful, motherless heroine; a rich, feckless suitor; a poor, earnest suitor; a mill fire; dangerous mobs; fainting spells (several); tragic deaths (many); a fallen woman; female waywardness (i.e., flirting) leading to murder and mayhem; women abiding by The Rules and patiently waiting for guys they like to notice them; trade union members who mean well but are overcome by their unruly passions. Will love triumph over all? Hmm, I wonder... Posted by Flossie at 01:26 PM Permalink Comments (0) TrackBack (0)
During that time, entire books and periodicals were devoted to teaching little girls the art of dressmaking for their dolls. With the recognition of the doll world by the creators of high fashion and the great increase in the number of Paris shops devoted to dolls and their trousseaus, the dolls of the well-to-do were often dressed according to the highest fashions of each year.
Antique Quilt 4330 - Crazy Patch Mourning Quilt1880’s mourning quilt - “Louie died Feb. 1, 1884” embroidered in the middle (see close-up view) Beaded butterfly - new borders and back - very good condition - 59” x 80”
Could It Be Any More Victorian?
Mary Barton has it all: a beautiful, motherless heroine; a rich, feckless suitor; a poor, earnest suitor; a mill fire; dangerous mobs; fainting spells (several); tragic deaths (many); a fallen woman; female waywardness (i.e., flirting) leading to murder and mayhem; women abiding by The Rules and patiently waiting for guys they like to notice them; trade union members who mean well but are overcome by their unruly passions. Will love triumph over all? Hmm, I wonder... Posted by Flossie at 01:26 PM Permalink Comments (0) TrackBack (0)
Thoughts from Ron Thomason
Accept this: humans are not designed to get up off their duffs. They are rather designed to sit on them as long as they can. Given no outside interference a human might well not “want” to get up out of the lounger until it was time to move to the couch or bed to lie down from which that human would never move unless the refrigerator or toilet called. Until very recently (in geological time) humans never needed to be self-motivated. There was always something to do it for them. In fact, until not long ago it made sense and was very healthy for a human to sit or lie and rest until one of the following occurred: a lion or other hungry thing with big teeth and claws approached; a member of the tribe was threatened, hurt, lost, or mad; any of the following needed done: roots dug, prey killed, fire built, water found and/or carried, sex demanded or desired, shelter found, young cared for, weapons made, wolf walked, or sex just desired. But we have developed in modern times drones which do all these things for us and, even better, film themselves doing it so that we can watch them on TV from the comfort of our duffs. That’s where donuts come in.
Donuts have the wonderful attribute of providing humans whose organs are all working properly with a small window of time shortly after they are consumed of making the consuming human actually “want” even “need” to do something. This opportunity must be grabbed with gusto. In very short order it will be gone and the opposite will occur; the human will “crash” and want to rest or even sleep. That is a dangerous time; never let it occur. If the moment is not grabbed the donuts win. They will make you put all your energy into storing fat instead of burning it.
Ron Thomason” drybranchone@earthlink.net
Donuts have the wonderful attribute of providing humans whose organs are all working properly with a small window of time shortly after they are consumed of making the consuming human actually “want” even “need” to do something. This opportunity must be grabbed with gusto. In very short order it will be gone and the opposite will occur; the human will “crash” and want to rest or even sleep. That is a dangerous time; never let it occur. If the moment is not grabbed the donuts win. They will make you put all your energy into storing fat instead of burning it.
Ron Thomason” drybranchone@earthlink.net
Victorian Christmas
Christmas was usually quiet at ARDEN as Madame and her husband were once again on tour. All the gaiety and romance of the summer had faded into a routine for the ranch hands who were left to their duties.
We know from several accounts their winters were quite lovely in the Canyon but we can only “imagine” a true Victorian Christmas at Arden. Of course there wasn’t snow, but all one had to do was look to the mountain top to see a dusting of white which would then feed the creek’s rippling as a beautiful background to favorite Christmas Carols ... accompanied on the organ or piano by Madame or other guest or family member.
Food was always the center of a Victorian’s Christmas. One might get a whiff of roasting chestnuts or a rum cake baking to accompany afternoon coffee. Modjeska Ranch supplied most of the required food and probably some perfect “future Christmas dinner fare” had been carefully coddled in anticipation. One can only guess the difficulty of preparing a feast on a wood burning stove. (What you say, no double oven or microwave?)
Of course, there was an absence of radio and T.V. - no bowl games! Entertainment would be parlor games in view of a lovely, carefully selected pine tree decorated with handmade ornaments and fresh cranberry garlands. The massive fireplace in the Library would be ablaze and candles would abound, shining through the corner Shakespearean window.
There was a diversity of cultures among the residents, English, German, and of course, Polish. It would have been interesting to see just how this mixture actually blended into one celebration. The Polish influence might have supper on Christmas Eve including a ritual of breaking and sharing of opplatek, a wafer of unleavened dough stamped with Nativity scenes. Each person at the table would break off a piece of the wafer as a symbol of their unity in Christ. This meal would be meatless, a subtle fasting, and would normally include natural sources found in the region.
We know Madame Modjeska and her husband Count Bozenta were very devout in their religious beliefs and Christmastime would have included many traditional rituals.
But we also know their love of life, family and friends would lead to a gathering of great joy. The singing, dancing and laughter would most certainly have echoed throughout their beloved Canyon.
We know from several accounts their winters were quite lovely in the Canyon but we can only “imagine” a true Victorian Christmas at Arden. Of course there wasn’t snow, but all one had to do was look to the mountain top to see a dusting of white which would then feed the creek’s rippling as a beautiful background to favorite Christmas Carols ... accompanied on the organ or piano by Madame or other guest or family member.
Food was always the center of a Victorian’s Christmas. One might get a whiff of roasting chestnuts or a rum cake baking to accompany afternoon coffee. Modjeska Ranch supplied most of the required food and probably some perfect “future Christmas dinner fare” had been carefully coddled in anticipation. One can only guess the difficulty of preparing a feast on a wood burning stove. (What you say, no double oven or microwave?)
Of course, there was an absence of radio and T.V. - no bowl games! Entertainment would be parlor games in view of a lovely, carefully selected pine tree decorated with handmade ornaments and fresh cranberry garlands. The massive fireplace in the Library would be ablaze and candles would abound, shining through the corner Shakespearean window.
There was a diversity of cultures among the residents, English, German, and of course, Polish. It would have been interesting to see just how this mixture actually blended into one celebration. The Polish influence might have supper on Christmas Eve including a ritual of breaking and sharing of opplatek, a wafer of unleavened dough stamped with Nativity scenes. Each person at the table would break off a piece of the wafer as a symbol of their unity in Christ. This meal would be meatless, a subtle fasting, and would normally include natural sources found in the region.
We know Madame Modjeska and her husband Count Bozenta were very devout in their religious beliefs and Christmastime would have included many traditional rituals.
But we also know their love of life, family and friends would lead to a gathering of great joy. The singing, dancing and laughter would most certainly have echoed throughout their beloved Canyon.
Notes for stories:
Yellow Dog
Last month, when I came here, (to the orphanage), I traced the children’s feet on pieces of paper. Told ‘em it was so I could track ‘em down if I ever needed to, so they’d best be good and mind the sisters. Then I went and bought ‘em all shoes.”
Lou got all choked up and couldn’t speak.
“We’re to put our used clothing in the missionary barrel at church, then it’s shipped overseas.
Gabe remembered digging in that barrel for decent clothes.
Chambray material, soft lawn material, plain and ruffled pinafore
Saying grace at the table and going to church
“Gabe watched from the orphanage window as his mother climbed into the buggy and drove away. He never saw her again. He never trusted any woman after that, expecting them to leave when the going got touch. He was ten.”
“There’s no law against whippin’ your own child. A judge will rule children returned to their parents unles the parent does something they can be arrested for.”
When we feel bad about ourselves, we tend to dwell under a dark cloud of depression. Sometimes we can’t think of anything else but how much weight we’ve gained and how much we would like to lose. The good news is that darkness always is replaced by light. We can get out from under the burden of our weight. We can change for the better. Our Lord is a liberator. He frees us from anything that oppresses us. Obesity is oppressing, and God is ready and willing to free us. No darkness is too great for God to dispel. No matter how dark and dismal our physical condition may be, in the light of Christ, we can trim down.
Today’s thought: We always look better in God’s light than in our own darkness.
“Please understand that I do not tell this story just because in my study of third grade literature I learned that every hero needs a “worthy opponent.” What I mean is, would we have an Achilles without a Hector, a Superman without a Lex Luthor, or a Woodrow Call or Augustus McCray without the 19th century American West? “Neigh” sayeth the great equine critic, Mr. Ed(ward).“ “Ron Thomason” drybranchone@earthlink.net
Decision to act
Action
Consequences of action
Last month, when I came here, (to the orphanage), I traced the children’s feet on pieces of paper. Told ‘em it was so I could track ‘em down if I ever needed to, so they’d best be good and mind the sisters. Then I went and bought ‘em all shoes.”
Lou got all choked up and couldn’t speak.
“We’re to put our used clothing in the missionary barrel at church, then it’s shipped overseas.
Gabe remembered digging in that barrel for decent clothes.
Chambray material, soft lawn material, plain and ruffled pinafore
Saying grace at the table and going to church
“Gabe watched from the orphanage window as his mother climbed into the buggy and drove away. He never saw her again. He never trusted any woman after that, expecting them to leave when the going got touch. He was ten.”
“There’s no law against whippin’ your own child. A judge will rule children returned to their parents unles the parent does something they can be arrested for.”
When we feel bad about ourselves, we tend to dwell under a dark cloud of depression. Sometimes we can’t think of anything else but how much weight we’ve gained and how much we would like to lose. The good news is that darkness always is replaced by light. We can get out from under the burden of our weight. We can change for the better. Our Lord is a liberator. He frees us from anything that oppresses us. Obesity is oppressing, and God is ready and willing to free us. No darkness is too great for God to dispel. No matter how dark and dismal our physical condition may be, in the light of Christ, we can trim down.
Today’s thought: We always look better in God’s light than in our own darkness.
“Please understand that I do not tell this story just because in my study of third grade literature I learned that every hero needs a “worthy opponent.” What I mean is, would we have an Achilles without a Hector, a Superman without a Lex Luthor, or a Woodrow Call or Augustus McCray without the 19th century American West? “Neigh” sayeth the great equine critic, Mr. Ed(ward).“ “Ron Thomason” drybranchone@earthlink.net
Decision to act
Action
Consequences of action
words to google
Rope bridge
Beloved
Resurretion
Rescue
Protect
Doctrine
Sovereign
Redeemer
Western hotel
Boarding house
Freight station
Chinese laundry
Land office
Assay office
Dressmaker
Seamstress
Grocer
Lumber mill
Sawyer
Peanut butter invented in what year?
Innovatation
Western technology
Old west
Vintage
Septic systems history
French drain
Sewage pumpers history
Generator
Electric motor
Hydraulics
Water wheel
Water power
Scavenger
Explorer
Texas toothpick
Barnboard
Gemstones
Phantom
Harvest
Roja
Enigma
Blue merle
Lethargy
Mystery
Writer
Ominmous
Mental
Emotional
Emote
Concrete statuary
Phenomena
Plasm
Ectoplasm
A seminal work of literature
Atmospheric tale
Indigenous
Eccentric
Beloved
Resurretion
Rescue
Protect
Doctrine
Sovereign
Redeemer
Western hotel
Boarding house
Freight station
Chinese laundry
Land office
Assay office
Dressmaker
Seamstress
Grocer
Lumber mill
Sawyer
Peanut butter invented in what year?
Innovatation
Western technology
Old west
Vintage
Septic systems history
French drain
Sewage pumpers history
Generator
Electric motor
Hydraulics
Water wheel
Water power
Scavenger
Explorer
Texas toothpick
Barnboard
Gemstones
Phantom
Harvest
Roja
Enigma
Blue merle
Lethargy
Mystery
Writer
Ominmous
Mental
Emotional
Emote
Concrete statuary
Phenomena
Plasm
Ectoplasm
A seminal work of literature
Atmospheric tale
Indigenous
Eccentric
death scenes
If a person falls asleep while relaxing in a bathtub, could he or she slip under the water and drown? In general, no. A normal, healthy person will wake up as soon as he or she starts to inhale soe water. Humans have a gag reflex that will cause them to cough and sputter at times such as this. The same thing happens when you swallow a drink of water “the wrong way.” It’s no fun! Note: Falling asleep and becoming unconscious are two different things. So if a person is under the influence of alcohol or medication or is ill or doesn’t have normal reflexes, he or she may be at risk.
info for possible myspace
Picture(s)
Self imagery
Risque
Pensive
Quiet
Shy
Introvert
Imagery
Provocative yet tame
Extracurricular activities
Treadmill walking 7 miles/wk
Height
Weight
Age
School
College
Home
Reconnect with lost friends
Learn about local culture
Network for business purposes
Complete freedom of expression
Fully share thoughts, feelings and individuality
A creative draw
Public forum
Means of expression
A strong dichotomy occurs
A sense of fantasy
Anonymity becomes lost
Language and behavior not displayed in the real world become a requirement
Expecially vulnerable to romance
Habits
Activities
Disguised with little fear of detection
Create a fictional non-threatening identity to go with a fake picture
A “virtual” stranger
Visit far away places
Find out about life elsewhere
Discover an encyclopedia of information
Meet people from around the world
The world wide web of deceit
Wishful thinking or thoughtful wishing?
Fantasy profession
Fantasy man
Fantasy life
Fantasy dreams and desires
Money
Power
Sex
Fame and fortune
Self imagery
Risque
Pensive
Quiet
Shy
Introvert
Imagery
Provocative yet tame
Extracurricular activities
Treadmill walking 7 miles/wk
Height
Weight
Age
School
College
Home
Reconnect with lost friends
Learn about local culture
Network for business purposes
Complete freedom of expression
Fully share thoughts, feelings and individuality
A creative draw
Public forum
Means of expression
A strong dichotomy occurs
A sense of fantasy
Anonymity becomes lost
Language and behavior not displayed in the real world become a requirement
Expecially vulnerable to romance
Habits
Activities
Disguised with little fear of detection
Create a fictional non-threatening identity to go with a fake picture
A “virtual” stranger
Visit far away places
Find out about life elsewhere
Discover an encyclopedia of information
Meet people from around the world
The world wide web of deceit
Wishful thinking or thoughtful wishing?
Fantasy profession
Fantasy man
Fantasy life
Fantasy dreams and desires
Money
Power
Sex
Fame and fortune
U.S. Marshals' Service
U. S. Marshals, similar to today, relied upon local sheriffs for jail space in the early to mid-1880's. The marshals also rented the places in which court was held and prisoners were housed. Generally during this period, the federal government did not build or maintain its own courthouses, preferring to lease county courtrooms or other facilities annually. The government refused to rent office space for the marshals and U.S. attorneys, though it did agree to pay for space for clerks to keep court records.
Each marshal and attorney was expected to arrange and pay for his own office. In addition, the marshals and attorneys cleaned their own rooms; payments to janitors were not allowed. Jail space was rented by the week from the local sheriff. Occasionally the local jails caused the marshals problems. In October 1821, Marshal Morton Waring of South Carolina reported the escape of two federal prisoners from the county jail.
"The Marshal," he complained to the secretary of state, "has no control over the Officers of the Gaol, and altho' he may notice the most glaring improprieties, and remonstrate against them, he can do no act which will remedy the evil. " The county jail used by the marshals in New York City, according to Marshals Abraham T. Hillyer in 1853, was "utterly insecure." He suggested using the prison in Brooklyn to house his prisoners, despite the expense of transporting them back and forth to court.
By the early 1850s, Attorney General Caleb Cushing considered the lack of adequate courthouses and prisons "a serious evil demanding the attention of the Government." He pointed out to President Franklin Pierce that "in most cases. the courts of the United States are held in buildings belonging to individuals or to the counties, cities or parishes of the respective states upon whom the United States are thus made to depend for their necessary accommodation. This dependence, in the matter of prisoners, is particularly inconvenient. " On several occasions, when northern marshals tried to house fugitive slaves in local jails before extraditing them to the South, the states had refused to allow the marshals to use their prisons. Cushing believed that the time had come for the United States to build its own courthouses and prisons.
"Such an application of some part of the public treasure will be perfectly constitutional and proper and the object is one of unquestionable public exigency and utility."
However, construction of the facilities did not begin in earnest until after the Civil War. Fortunately, the marshals during this period were not overwhelmed with prisoners.
On February 23, 1846. Secretary of the Treasury R.J. Walker polled the marshals on the number of federal prisoners housed in state prisons in their districts, the cost per day, and the names and crimes of the felons. Sixteen marshals responded to the survey, four of whom reported that they had no prisoners.
Marshal Thomas Fletcher of Mississippi informed the Treasury that in fifteen years his court had never had an indictment or a conviction. The court in western Tennessee, according to Marshal Robert I. Chester, had never sentenced a defendant to prison. In Virginia no prisoner had been sentenced for a dozen years, since the spring 1834 court term. Marshal Samuel Hays of western Pennsylvania had had no prisoners during his first year as marshal. Four districts reported only one prisoner; three districts reported two prisoners. Five of the prisoners were mail robbers, two were counterfeiters, two had been convicted of manslaughter on the high seas, and one had engaged in the African slave trade. The remaining five districts reported slightly higher numbers of prisoners-four, five, six, eight, and eleven felons. Northern New York had the most prisoners, followed by its neighbor southern New York. The crimes were mail robbery or embezzlement; murder, assault, or piracy on the high seas; engaging in the African slave trade; counterfeiting and forgery; perjury; stealing federalproperty; and attempting to create a revolt.
Each marshal and attorney was expected to arrange and pay for his own office. In addition, the marshals and attorneys cleaned their own rooms; payments to janitors were not allowed. Jail space was rented by the week from the local sheriff. Occasionally the local jails caused the marshals problems. In October 1821, Marshal Morton Waring of South Carolina reported the escape of two federal prisoners from the county jail.
"The Marshal," he complained to the secretary of state, "has no control over the Officers of the Gaol, and altho' he may notice the most glaring improprieties, and remonstrate against them, he can do no act which will remedy the evil. " The county jail used by the marshals in New York City, according to Marshals Abraham T. Hillyer in 1853, was "utterly insecure." He suggested using the prison in Brooklyn to house his prisoners, despite the expense of transporting them back and forth to court.
By the early 1850s, Attorney General Caleb Cushing considered the lack of adequate courthouses and prisons "a serious evil demanding the attention of the Government." He pointed out to President Franklin Pierce that "in most cases. the courts of the United States are held in buildings belonging to individuals or to the counties, cities or parishes of the respective states upon whom the United States are thus made to depend for their necessary accommodation. This dependence, in the matter of prisoners, is particularly inconvenient. " On several occasions, when northern marshals tried to house fugitive slaves in local jails before extraditing them to the South, the states had refused to allow the marshals to use their prisons. Cushing believed that the time had come for the United States to build its own courthouses and prisons.
"Such an application of some part of the public treasure will be perfectly constitutional and proper and the object is one of unquestionable public exigency and utility."
However, construction of the facilities did not begin in earnest until after the Civil War. Fortunately, the marshals during this period were not overwhelmed with prisoners.
On February 23, 1846. Secretary of the Treasury R.J. Walker polled the marshals on the number of federal prisoners housed in state prisons in their districts, the cost per day, and the names and crimes of the felons. Sixteen marshals responded to the survey, four of whom reported that they had no prisoners.
Marshal Thomas Fletcher of Mississippi informed the Treasury that in fifteen years his court had never had an indictment or a conviction. The court in western Tennessee, according to Marshal Robert I. Chester, had never sentenced a defendant to prison. In Virginia no prisoner had been sentenced for a dozen years, since the spring 1834 court term. Marshal Samuel Hays of western Pennsylvania had had no prisoners during his first year as marshal. Four districts reported only one prisoner; three districts reported two prisoners. Five of the prisoners were mail robbers, two were counterfeiters, two had been convicted of manslaughter on the high seas, and one had engaged in the African slave trade. The remaining five districts reported slightly higher numbers of prisoners-four, five, six, eight, and eleven felons. Northern New York had the most prisoners, followed by its neighbor southern New York. The crimes were mail robbery or embezzlement; murder, assault, or piracy on the high seas; engaging in the African slave trade; counterfeiting and forgery; perjury; stealing federalproperty; and attempting to create a revolt.
Snippets of Wisdom
A child of five could understand this! Fetch me a child of five!
A conclusion is simply the place where you got tired of thinking.
Another month ends. All targets met. All systems working. All customers satisfied. All staff eagerly enthusiastic. All pigs fed and ready to fly.
Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.
Two kinds of people: Those who finish what they start and...
Forget love, I'd rather fall into chocolate.
Life is spent between episodes of women being mad at you.
An eternity is very, very long, especially towards the end.
The bad guys don't always wear black hats, the good guys rarely win, and the cavalry never, ever shows up just in the nick of time!
Success is when your name is in everything but the phone book.
We have to believe in free will. We have no choice.
Gravity... not just a good idea: It's the law.
The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not "Eureka!" but "That's funny..."' - Isaac Asimov
If you live like there's no God... you'd better be right.
Where will you spend eternity? Smoking or non-smoking?
There are only two types of aircraft... fighters and targets. - Major Doyle "Wahoo" Nicholson, USMC
Pain is just weakness leaving the body. USMC
A halo has to fall only a few inches to become a noose.
Sometimes you can have too much information. A man with a watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never sure.
Never let a computer know you're in a hurry.
Pray to God but row for the shore. -Russian proverb
You cannot tell which way the train went by looking at the track.
'It's only when you look at an ant through a magnifying glass on a sunny day that you realize how often they burst into flames.' -Harry Hill
Brevity is the soul of lingerie. -Dorothy Parker
A conclusion is simply the place where you got tired of thinking.
Another month ends. All targets met. All systems working. All customers satisfied. All staff eagerly enthusiastic. All pigs fed and ready to fly.
Proofread carefully to see if you any words out.
Two kinds of people: Those who finish what they start and...
Forget love, I'd rather fall into chocolate.
Life is spent between episodes of women being mad at you.
An eternity is very, very long, especially towards the end.
The bad guys don't always wear black hats, the good guys rarely win, and the cavalry never, ever shows up just in the nick of time!
Success is when your name is in everything but the phone book.
We have to believe in free will. We have no choice.
Gravity... not just a good idea: It's the law.
The most exciting phrase to hear in science, the one that heralds new discoveries, is not "Eureka!" but "That's funny..."' - Isaac Asimov
If you live like there's no God... you'd better be right.
Where will you spend eternity? Smoking or non-smoking?
There are only two types of aircraft... fighters and targets. - Major Doyle "Wahoo" Nicholson, USMC
Pain is just weakness leaving the body. USMC
A halo has to fall only a few inches to become a noose.
Sometimes you can have too much information. A man with a watch knows what time it is. A man with two watches is never sure.
Never let a computer know you're in a hurry.
Pray to God but row for the shore. -Russian proverb
You cannot tell which way the train went by looking at the track.
'It's only when you look at an ant through a magnifying glass on a sunny day that you realize how often they burst into flames.' -Harry Hill
Brevity is the soul of lingerie. -Dorothy Parker
Saturday, February 10, 2007
Musical Torment
From www.damninteresting.net
Musical Torment
Posted by Alan Bellows on April 19th, 2006 at 11:16 pm
When the human ear encounters music, a number of brain systems are engaged by the incoming sound. The music signal is first directed to the thalamus, which relays the information to the primary auditory cortex. Once activated, this part of the brain is thought to identify the fundamental elements of the music, such as pitch and loudness. The secondary auditory cortex then processes the harmony, melody and rhythmic patterns, and the tertiary auditory cortex seems to integrate everything into the overall experience of music. Such is the process to the best of modern science's understanding, but the complex mental digestion of music is not yet fully understood.
Equally difficult to explain is a strange phenomenon known as "musical hallucinations" which is a condition very similar to having a song stuck in one's head; but the music is considerably more true-to-life, it is heard almost non-stop, and it is practically impossible to ignore.The condition was first identified over a century ago, though phantom songs were haunting people since long before it was officially recognized by medicine. Sufferers describe it as a constant flow of random songs, with one song often leading to the next in a never-ending shuffle-mode torment. In some cases, a single song is heard repeatedly. The sound is so vivid that when a person first starts experiencing the symptoms, they often ask others whether they can hear the music, too. Many of the people who complain of the affliction are elderly, and often they are deaf or hard-of-hearing.
Historically, little effort has been made to study the strange phenomenon, but Doctors Victor Aziz and Nick Warner of Wales recently conducted an analysis of thirty cases of musical hallucinations. The study, which spanned fifteen years' worth of patients, has revealed some interesting new information about the condition.
The condition differs from schizophrenia in that there are no imaginary voices speaking to the sufferer, just a constant stream of music. Women reported the problem more often than men, and the average age of the patients was seventy-eight. The type of music heard by these individuals varied greatly, but about two-thirds of those studied tended to hear religious music. Dr. Aziz suggests that the songs the brain regurgitates may be those which the patient has heard a lot during his or her life, and/or those songs with special emotional significance.
Over the years, a handful of PET scans have been done on people who experience these hallucinations. The results of those tests indicate that most of the brain regions which are stimulated by music in a normal person are highly active during these hallucinations. The notable exception is the primary auditory cortex– the area responsible for early music processing– which shows very little activity. It is possible that musical hallucinations are the product of a mental malfunction where random impulses generated by the brain itself are detected by the secondary and tertiary auditory cortices, and interpreted as music. This could also explain why so many of the sufferers happen to be deaf or hearing-impaired; it is likely that the stimuli-deprived hearing centers of the brain become hypersensitive to these impulses.
An additional study by Haggai Hermesh, M.D., a senior lecturer in psychiatry at Tel Aviv University in Israel, showed that many people who experience musical hallucinations also suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). His team of researchers examined people with a myriad of mental disorders, including bipolar disorder, major depressive disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, panic disorder, schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, and social phobia. Of those groups, none ranked nearly as high in instances of musical hallucinations as those patients with OCD, a curiously high 41%.
Unfortunately, the information gathered by these studies has done little to produce useful treatment. Some psychiatrists have tried prescribing antipsychotic drugs to relieve the musical hallucinations, but most such attempts have met with failure. The affliction's relationship with OCD suggests that anti-OCD drugs may offer some relief, but that theory is still a long way from clinical testing. At present, the only effective treatment for sufferers is to listen to real music, which essentially gives the music-processing areas of the brain something to chew on… but of course that solution is of little help to the hard-of-hearing.
For those sufferers without any escape from the non-stop jukebox in their minds, one can only hope that the next song is a good one.
Musical Torment
Posted by Alan Bellows on April 19th, 2006 at 11:16 pm
When the human ear encounters music, a number of brain systems are engaged by the incoming sound. The music signal is first directed to the thalamus, which relays the information to the primary auditory cortex. Once activated, this part of the brain is thought to identify the fundamental elements of the music, such as pitch and loudness. The secondary auditory cortex then processes the harmony, melody and rhythmic patterns, and the tertiary auditory cortex seems to integrate everything into the overall experience of music. Such is the process to the best of modern science's understanding, but the complex mental digestion of music is not yet fully understood.
Equally difficult to explain is a strange phenomenon known as "musical hallucinations" which is a condition very similar to having a song stuck in one's head; but the music is considerably more true-to-life, it is heard almost non-stop, and it is practically impossible to ignore.The condition was first identified over a century ago, though phantom songs were haunting people since long before it was officially recognized by medicine. Sufferers describe it as a constant flow of random songs, with one song often leading to the next in a never-ending shuffle-mode torment. In some cases, a single song is heard repeatedly. The sound is so vivid that when a person first starts experiencing the symptoms, they often ask others whether they can hear the music, too. Many of the people who complain of the affliction are elderly, and often they are deaf or hard-of-hearing.
Historically, little effort has been made to study the strange phenomenon, but Doctors Victor Aziz and Nick Warner of Wales recently conducted an analysis of thirty cases of musical hallucinations. The study, which spanned fifteen years' worth of patients, has revealed some interesting new information about the condition.
The condition differs from schizophrenia in that there are no imaginary voices speaking to the sufferer, just a constant stream of music. Women reported the problem more often than men, and the average age of the patients was seventy-eight. The type of music heard by these individuals varied greatly, but about two-thirds of those studied tended to hear religious music. Dr. Aziz suggests that the songs the brain regurgitates may be those which the patient has heard a lot during his or her life, and/or those songs with special emotional significance.
Over the years, a handful of PET scans have been done on people who experience these hallucinations. The results of those tests indicate that most of the brain regions which are stimulated by music in a normal person are highly active during these hallucinations. The notable exception is the primary auditory cortex– the area responsible for early music processing– which shows very little activity. It is possible that musical hallucinations are the product of a mental malfunction where random impulses generated by the brain itself are detected by the secondary and tertiary auditory cortices, and interpreted as music. This could also explain why so many of the sufferers happen to be deaf or hearing-impaired; it is likely that the stimuli-deprived hearing centers of the brain become hypersensitive to these impulses.
An additional study by Haggai Hermesh, M.D., a senior lecturer in psychiatry at Tel Aviv University in Israel, showed that many people who experience musical hallucinations also suffer from obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). His team of researchers examined people with a myriad of mental disorders, including bipolar disorder, major depressive disorder, obsessive-compulsive disorder, panic disorder, schizophrenia, schizoaffective disorder, and social phobia. Of those groups, none ranked nearly as high in instances of musical hallucinations as those patients with OCD, a curiously high 41%.
Unfortunately, the information gathered by these studies has done little to produce useful treatment. Some psychiatrists have tried prescribing antipsychotic drugs to relieve the musical hallucinations, but most such attempts have met with failure. The affliction's relationship with OCD suggests that anti-OCD drugs may offer some relief, but that theory is still a long way from clinical testing. At present, the only effective treatment for sufferers is to listen to real music, which essentially gives the music-processing areas of the brain something to chew on… but of course that solution is of little help to the hard-of-hearing.
For those sufferers without any escape from the non-stop jukebox in their minds, one can only hope that the next song is a good one.
The Legacy of Tracy & LantBy Shannan Koucherik
To many people living in the eastern United States and Europe, the Wild West of the late 1800s seemed to be a romantic and exciting place where dashing bandits robbed stages and played Robin Hood roles. The dime novels that were so prolific during the period helped to exaggerate and glorify the life of the western criminal.
Honest, hardworking residents of the area, however, knew the facts, and the facts were that most criminals were just bad men who would steal anything that wasn't nailed down, and shoot a man because the wind was blowing wrong.
Brown's Park had become known as a wild place where outlaws could take shelter in the countless gorges and hidden valleys. There was nothing romantic about knowing that the horseman in the distance might be a murderer or a cattle rustler, and the homesteaders decided to clean up the neighborhood.
During the last week of February of 1898, officers of Routt County and Brown's Park ranchers teamed up to capture notorious Harry Tracy and David Lant, murderer P.L.Johnstone and John Bennett, who was wanted for cattle rustling.
The Courier of March 12, 1898 carried the largest headline ever used in its history to announce the capture of the outlaws and the murder of one of Brown's Park's outstanding homesteaders, Valentine Hoy.
Officers made their way to Vermillion Creek and learned that a Wyoming man had been killed by one of the men they were looking for. With the help of a quickly formed posse, the officers found the outlaws' camp at the head of Ladore Canyon. Horses and supplies were captured, but the subjects of the search had taken off.
The Courier tells the story:
"The next day, March 1, the posse was pressing the outlaws closely. V.S. Hoy was in advance of the other men. Sheriff Neiman cautioned him not to be too fast, but he was under the impression that Johnstone and his companions had gained the other side of the mountain and thought there was no immediate danger. In this he was mistaken, for without a word of warning, he was shot down and killed, his murderers being not more than six feet away when the fatal shot was fired.
"Mr. Hoy was approaching a cleft between two huge boulders and the murderers were concealed in this cleft. Two shots were fired almost simultaneously, only one of which took effect.
"Only one man was seen directly after the shooting and he was recognized as Harry Tracy, an escaped convict from the Utah Penitentiary. As the outlaws had the advantage, nothing could be accomplished toward their capture that day. The killing of Hoy made the citizens of Brown's Park desperate."
Hours after the shooting, John Bennett crossed paths with some of the homesteaders. Through a clever trick and some hard riding on the part of officers Neiman and Farnham, Bennett was taken into custody on the Bassett Ranch.
Farnham was left to guard the man, but was relieved of his duties by ten rifles pointed at him by masked men. The men threw a sack over Bennett's head and told him to get ready to meet his maker. Without further ado, they then hanged Bennett from the cross bar of a corral gate.
While the lynching was going on, the rest of posse chased the remaining three outlaws another 60 miles before capturing them.
Tracy and Lant claimed innocence in Hoy's murder, but officers were not convinced, and the pair was transported to the Hahn's Peak jail to await trial.
They had been in the jail less than a month when they overpowered Sheriff Neiman, knocked him out, and locked him in a cell. They made their escape on two stage horses stolen from a nearby stable and stopped along the route to get saddles. They planned to catch the stage for Walcott to get out of the territory.
Tracy and Lant were waiting for the stage the next morning at the Laramore Ranch. They had evaded law officers before, and they were sure that they had done it again.
The stage pulled up in a swirl of dust and the two made ready to board. Their plans were quickly changed when they discovered that the passengers already on board included Sheriff Neiman and a deputy. There was nothing to be done but surrender peacefully.
The pair was sent to the jail in Aspen after their recapture. The new jail was considered one of the best in the state, and officials felt sure that it would hold Tracy and Lant.
It did hold them - for a couple of months, at least.
The Courier updated the story on June 25, 1898:
"The prisoners in some manner got possession of an iron bar and when jailer Jones went to remove the supper dishes, Lant struck him on the head with the bar, knocking him senseless. They bound and gagged the jailer and, after securing his gun waited for darkness. Sheriff Fisher missed the jailer and upon looking for him found himself confronting jailer Jones' gun which was in the hands of Tracy.
"The Sheriff was unarmed and beat a hasty retreat. Before he could get his gun Lant and Tracy had escaped and at last accounts there was little chance for their capture."
Tracy and Lant made their way northwest after their escape. Reports conflict about Lant's end, but Tracy apparently died with his boots on. After a number of killings, he was finally cornered and shot himself rather than give up.
Brown' Park residents didn't miss their shady neighbors, and the ranches continued to prosper.
Honest, hardworking residents of the area, however, knew the facts, and the facts were that most criminals were just bad men who would steal anything that wasn't nailed down, and shoot a man because the wind was blowing wrong.
Brown's Park had become known as a wild place where outlaws could take shelter in the countless gorges and hidden valleys. There was nothing romantic about knowing that the horseman in the distance might be a murderer or a cattle rustler, and the homesteaders decided to clean up the neighborhood.
During the last week of February of 1898, officers of Routt County and Brown's Park ranchers teamed up to capture notorious Harry Tracy and David Lant, murderer P.L.Johnstone and John Bennett, who was wanted for cattle rustling.
The Courier of March 12, 1898 carried the largest headline ever used in its history to announce the capture of the outlaws and the murder of one of Brown's Park's outstanding homesteaders, Valentine Hoy.
Officers made their way to Vermillion Creek and learned that a Wyoming man had been killed by one of the men they were looking for. With the help of a quickly formed posse, the officers found the outlaws' camp at the head of Ladore Canyon. Horses and supplies were captured, but the subjects of the search had taken off.
The Courier tells the story:
"The next day, March 1, the posse was pressing the outlaws closely. V.S. Hoy was in advance of the other men. Sheriff Neiman cautioned him not to be too fast, but he was under the impression that Johnstone and his companions had gained the other side of the mountain and thought there was no immediate danger. In this he was mistaken, for without a word of warning, he was shot down and killed, his murderers being not more than six feet away when the fatal shot was fired.
"Mr. Hoy was approaching a cleft between two huge boulders and the murderers were concealed in this cleft. Two shots were fired almost simultaneously, only one of which took effect.
"Only one man was seen directly after the shooting and he was recognized as Harry Tracy, an escaped convict from the Utah Penitentiary. As the outlaws had the advantage, nothing could be accomplished toward their capture that day. The killing of Hoy made the citizens of Brown's Park desperate."
Hours after the shooting, John Bennett crossed paths with some of the homesteaders. Through a clever trick and some hard riding on the part of officers Neiman and Farnham, Bennett was taken into custody on the Bassett Ranch.
Farnham was left to guard the man, but was relieved of his duties by ten rifles pointed at him by masked men. The men threw a sack over Bennett's head and told him to get ready to meet his maker. Without further ado, they then hanged Bennett from the cross bar of a corral gate.
While the lynching was going on, the rest of posse chased the remaining three outlaws another 60 miles before capturing them.
Tracy and Lant claimed innocence in Hoy's murder, but officers were not convinced, and the pair was transported to the Hahn's Peak jail to await trial.
They had been in the jail less than a month when they overpowered Sheriff Neiman, knocked him out, and locked him in a cell. They made their escape on two stage horses stolen from a nearby stable and stopped along the route to get saddles. They planned to catch the stage for Walcott to get out of the territory.
Tracy and Lant were waiting for the stage the next morning at the Laramore Ranch. They had evaded law officers before, and they were sure that they had done it again.
The stage pulled up in a swirl of dust and the two made ready to board. Their plans were quickly changed when they discovered that the passengers already on board included Sheriff Neiman and a deputy. There was nothing to be done but surrender peacefully.
The pair was sent to the jail in Aspen after their recapture. The new jail was considered one of the best in the state, and officials felt sure that it would hold Tracy and Lant.
It did hold them - for a couple of months, at least.
The Courier updated the story on June 25, 1898:
"The prisoners in some manner got possession of an iron bar and when jailer Jones went to remove the supper dishes, Lant struck him on the head with the bar, knocking him senseless. They bound and gagged the jailer and, after securing his gun waited for darkness. Sheriff Fisher missed the jailer and upon looking for him found himself confronting jailer Jones' gun which was in the hands of Tracy.
"The Sheriff was unarmed and beat a hasty retreat. Before he could get his gun Lant and Tracy had escaped and at last accounts there was little chance for their capture."
Tracy and Lant made their way northwest after their escape. Reports conflict about Lant's end, but Tracy apparently died with his boots on. After a number of killings, he was finally cornered and shot himself rather than give up.
Brown' Park residents didn't miss their shady neighbors, and the ranches continued to prosper.
Military Pyrotechnics of Former Days
Posted on Monday, June 21, 2004.
The story of Greek fire, the “wonderful combustible.”
Originally from Harper's New Monthly Magazine, vol. 39, iss. 229, June 1869. By Jacob Abbott.
The predecessor of gunpowder in the history of war has always been considered to be a wonderful combustible known as Greek Fire, of which the most marvelous accounts have been circulating among mankind during the past two or three centuries. This Greek fire has been supposed to be a combustible possessed of most astonishing properties. It was capable of being thrown so as to envelop whole buildings, and even to overwhelm and destroy complete battalions on the field. Water would not extinguish it, but only made it burn the brighter. Nothing would put it out but drenching it with vinegar, or covering it with sand. Its composition, it was supposed, was lost in the fourteenth century, and had never been recovered. The fact that the art was lost was inferred from the fact that no substance possessing the wonderful properties attributed to the Greek fire can be produced at the present day.
It is somewhat difficult at the present day to obtain exact information in respect either to the composition of this substance, the construction of the engines or other apparatus employed in projecting it, or to the effects which it really produced. In respect to the machinery, and the form of the missiles, we must remember that there were no pictorial papers in those days, and no photography to preserve for future generations the exact realities of form and structure connected with the pursuits and usages of men. And in regard to the other points, relating to the properties of the substance, and the actual effects produced, far less reliance can be placed on the statements of even intelligent, cultivated, and careful men than might be supposed at the present day. For the line of demarcation between the natural and the supernatural—between what is and what is not scientifically possible—was then very vague and obscure, even in the highest minds. Ideas of the natural and supernatural were mingled and confused, or rather the supernatural was regarded as a legitimate realm of the natural, so that no tale could be so marvelous as to seem incredible, even to a grave and cautious historian. At the present day the recitals of excited or terrified witnesses, whose imaginations or whose fears lead them entirely to misconceive what they see, are at once corrected by that general knowledge of the relations of cause and effect which now prevails so extensively among all well-informed men that the bounds of the possible can not be very easily transgressed in narrations generally received. But it was not so in those early times.
In respect to the apparatus by means of which the compound of combustibles known as Greek fire was projected into the enemy's works, some representations have come down to us, though only from comparatively modern times. The use of such means of attacking the vessels or fortresses of the enemy seems to have been resorted to in very early times, since allusions to them occur not unfrequently in the works of writers who lived and wrote several centuries before Christ. Indeed, one of the recipes for making such compositions, as they were employed in those early days, is still extant. It is as follows:
“To make an unquenchable fire take pitch, sulphur, tow, manna, resin, and the scrapings or saw-dust of resinous wood, such as torches are made from. Mix these substances well, then light the mass and throw it against whatever you wish to set on fire.”
It is obvious that such a mixture as this would form an exceedingly combustible compound; but it could not possess any of those marvelous qualities which were attributed to the Greek fire. It could not burn under water, for example.
The use of combustibles of this character seems to have been first resorted to in the countries lying about the eastern shores of the Mediterranean—unless indeed the Chinese, and some of the other Oriental nations, anticipated the Europeans in this, as they have done in respect to many other important discoveries. The reason why the use of such a mode of warfare appeared first in these Oriental countries is supposed to be because in that region are found natural deposits of certain combustible fluids, such as naphtha, and other vegetable oils, which were admirably adapted to this use. At any rate the employment of such substances appears first conspicuously in history in the time of the Greek empire. A great many recipes are extant describing the different kinds of composition employed. They all, however, consist of a mixture of simple combustibles, depending for flagration on access to the air.
These substances were placed in barrels, balls, or other receptacles, and thrown by means of various mechanical contrivances known in those days into the works of the enemy. The Slinging Engine was constructed to throw a barrel of the combustible compound by means of a gigantic sling, seen in the engraving above as thrown open from the end of the beam, after the projection of the barrel. The beam was drawn back by means of the rope wound round the capstan, shown behind and below it. Its elasticity, after being thus brought into a state of great tension, was then suddenly released, when the end of the beam, carrying the barrel of combustibles, previously set on fire, was thrown violently forward and the barrel hurled from the sling, all in flames, into the works of the enemy. A battering engine, the design and operation of which is obvious, stands by the side of the sling.
The above engraving, copied from an illumination in a Latin manuscript of the thirteenth century, gives a representation of the mode of employing the Greek fire in naval warfare. The craft here represented seems to be in some sense the prototype of the modern bomb-proof, ram, and fire-ship, all in one. But although this drawing is taken from an ancient work, no absolute reliance can be placed on the details of the construction as represented in it, inasmuch as such drawings were made in those days for purposes of embellishment, and not for instruction, and so only a general resemblance to the natural object, sufficient to suggest its character and use to the mind of the reader, was all that was usually aimed for. It was, in other words, the ideal and not the actual presentation which the artist had in mind.
All that can be certainly inferred, then, from such an illustration is that a species of vessel was made use of in those times covered with a roof sufficient to protect the navigators from spears and arrows, and provided with a pointed prow to act as a ram, and projecting beams bearing barrels charged with materials for producing the Greek fire. Another form of vessel is given in an ancient manuscript, differing materially from the last. In this the barrel containing the fire is suspended from a species of crane, by means of which it could be swung over the decks of an enemy's ship when in close quarters. In this, as well as in the other case, all that we can infer from the drawing is the general nature and design of the contrivance, and of the principle on which it operated. The true proportions of the parts and the details of the construction were purposely disregarded in illustrations of this kind.
Observe in the engraving the extra barrel of combustibles ready upon the deck, and the circular watch-box on the top of the mast, where a look-out-man could be stationed, under protection from the spears and arrows of the enemy, and yet at the same time in a position to observe every thing through the slits in the box, and so to direct the helmsman in guiding the vessel. Weapons of the character of boarding-pikes are placed, ready for use, at the stern.
The damaging and destructive effects of the Greek fire were not confined to its power of setting the enemy's works on fire. It contained substances which emitted fumes of a horribly offensive, poisonous, and destructive character. It was necessary on this account that the wind should be in the right quarter, that is, blowing from the assailants toward the enemy, whenever it was employed. Sometimes the receptacle containing the composition was placed upon the end of a long spar attached to a car, which was to be propelled by hand. The soldiers would pile up a great quantity of wood before the gate of the castle or strong-hold attacked. This car would then be driven by soldiers stationed behind it, where they were protected by an inclined shield from the assaults of the enemy. The shield is perforated with openings, to enable those within could not be sufficient in quantity to burn for a long time.
The marvelous tales which have been told in respect to the power of the Greek fire to burn under water have a certain foundation in the fact that, in the times when this agency was employed in war, the method of using it was by packing the materials in a spherical receptacle, in such a manner that when thrown into the water the missile could go down to a certain distance without being entirely extinguished, so that on rising again to the surface the flames would break out anew, ready to set fire to any combustible object that they might encounter. The engraving below, copied from one of the ancient illustrations, gives a general idea of this operation. The balls thrown from a height into the water would of course sink below the surface, until brought back again by their buoyancy; and there would be no great difficulty in so storing so very combustible a material as that it should retain the fire during this brief interval.
The transition from the manufacture of Greek fire to that of gunpowder in war, it is now found, was not the result of any sudden discovery, but grew gradually out of the incidental introduction of saltpetre among the combustible substances, which was found in some mysterious way greatly to increase the violence of the combustion. Saltpetre is a substance which is found abundantly in a natural state in the countries where Greek fire was most used. The mode of its operation in changing combustion into explosion was not probably at first comprehended, as the science of chemistry was then practically unknown. It is now, however, understood that the result is due to the saltpetre's furnishing a supply of oxygen to the combustibles, and thus making them independent of the air in respect to their burning. It furnishes the supply, too, in such a way, to every particle of the combustible, by means of the fine comminution and intimate commixture of the materials, as to present to every portion of the combustible a portion of oxygen close at hand, and thus increases enormously the rapidity and violence of the action.
There is another important thing to be borne in mind, which is, that a mixture of combustibles with saltpetre, by containing within itself the supply of oxygen necessary for the combustion, and thus making the process independent of the external air, allows of the inclosing of the materials in strong and tight receptacles, so that the gases produced by the combustion may be confined, and so made to exert their vast expansive force—enormously increased by the great heat developed — upon the walls of the receptacle which confines them.
The mode in which saltpetre thus operated in promoting rapidity of combustion was not probably at all understood in those days. It was observed, however, by many persons and in many different countries, as a matter of fact, that the admixture of saltpetre with their other pyrotechnic materials greatly increased the effect, until finally an explosive power was developed sufficient for the projection of missiles from the mouths of open tubes, and then artillery began to appear on the field of battle.
Thus the art of producing gunpowder for the purposes of war seems to have been a growth rather than an invention; and so it is not at all surprising that the origin of it has been attributed to many different men of many different nations. It is as impossible, as a distinguished French writer has said, to answer the question who invented gunpowder as to say who invented the boat.
This is Military Pyrotechnics of Former Days, an essay and a subject, originally from June 1869, published Monday, June 21, 2004. It is part of War, which is part of Harper's Archive, which is part of Harpers.org.
The story of Greek fire, the “wonderful combustible.”
Originally from Harper's New Monthly Magazine, vol. 39, iss. 229, June 1869. By Jacob Abbott.
The predecessor of gunpowder in the history of war has always been considered to be a wonderful combustible known as Greek Fire, of which the most marvelous accounts have been circulating among mankind during the past two or three centuries. This Greek fire has been supposed to be a combustible possessed of most astonishing properties. It was capable of being thrown so as to envelop whole buildings, and even to overwhelm and destroy complete battalions on the field. Water would not extinguish it, but only made it burn the brighter. Nothing would put it out but drenching it with vinegar, or covering it with sand. Its composition, it was supposed, was lost in the fourteenth century, and had never been recovered. The fact that the art was lost was inferred from the fact that no substance possessing the wonderful properties attributed to the Greek fire can be produced at the present day.
It is somewhat difficult at the present day to obtain exact information in respect either to the composition of this substance, the construction of the engines or other apparatus employed in projecting it, or to the effects which it really produced. In respect to the machinery, and the form of the missiles, we must remember that there were no pictorial papers in those days, and no photography to preserve for future generations the exact realities of form and structure connected with the pursuits and usages of men. And in regard to the other points, relating to the properties of the substance, and the actual effects produced, far less reliance can be placed on the statements of even intelligent, cultivated, and careful men than might be supposed at the present day. For the line of demarcation between the natural and the supernatural—between what is and what is not scientifically possible—was then very vague and obscure, even in the highest minds. Ideas of the natural and supernatural were mingled and confused, or rather the supernatural was regarded as a legitimate realm of the natural, so that no tale could be so marvelous as to seem incredible, even to a grave and cautious historian. At the present day the recitals of excited or terrified witnesses, whose imaginations or whose fears lead them entirely to misconceive what they see, are at once corrected by that general knowledge of the relations of cause and effect which now prevails so extensively among all well-informed men that the bounds of the possible can not be very easily transgressed in narrations generally received. But it was not so in those early times.
In respect to the apparatus by means of which the compound of combustibles known as Greek fire was projected into the enemy's works, some representations have come down to us, though only from comparatively modern times. The use of such means of attacking the vessels or fortresses of the enemy seems to have been resorted to in very early times, since allusions to them occur not unfrequently in the works of writers who lived and wrote several centuries before Christ. Indeed, one of the recipes for making such compositions, as they were employed in those early days, is still extant. It is as follows:
“To make an unquenchable fire take pitch, sulphur, tow, manna, resin, and the scrapings or saw-dust of resinous wood, such as torches are made from. Mix these substances well, then light the mass and throw it against whatever you wish to set on fire.”
It is obvious that such a mixture as this would form an exceedingly combustible compound; but it could not possess any of those marvelous qualities which were attributed to the Greek fire. It could not burn under water, for example.
The use of combustibles of this character seems to have been first resorted to in the countries lying about the eastern shores of the Mediterranean—unless indeed the Chinese, and some of the other Oriental nations, anticipated the Europeans in this, as they have done in respect to many other important discoveries. The reason why the use of such a mode of warfare appeared first in these Oriental countries is supposed to be because in that region are found natural deposits of certain combustible fluids, such as naphtha, and other vegetable oils, which were admirably adapted to this use. At any rate the employment of such substances appears first conspicuously in history in the time of the Greek empire. A great many recipes are extant describing the different kinds of composition employed. They all, however, consist of a mixture of simple combustibles, depending for flagration on access to the air.
These substances were placed in barrels, balls, or other receptacles, and thrown by means of various mechanical contrivances known in those days into the works of the enemy. The Slinging Engine was constructed to throw a barrel of the combustible compound by means of a gigantic sling, seen in the engraving above as thrown open from the end of the beam, after the projection of the barrel. The beam was drawn back by means of the rope wound round the capstan, shown behind and below it. Its elasticity, after being thus brought into a state of great tension, was then suddenly released, when the end of the beam, carrying the barrel of combustibles, previously set on fire, was thrown violently forward and the barrel hurled from the sling, all in flames, into the works of the enemy. A battering engine, the design and operation of which is obvious, stands by the side of the sling.
The above engraving, copied from an illumination in a Latin manuscript of the thirteenth century, gives a representation of the mode of employing the Greek fire in naval warfare. The craft here represented seems to be in some sense the prototype of the modern bomb-proof, ram, and fire-ship, all in one. But although this drawing is taken from an ancient work, no absolute reliance can be placed on the details of the construction as represented in it, inasmuch as such drawings were made in those days for purposes of embellishment, and not for instruction, and so only a general resemblance to the natural object, sufficient to suggest its character and use to the mind of the reader, was all that was usually aimed for. It was, in other words, the ideal and not the actual presentation which the artist had in mind.
All that can be certainly inferred, then, from such an illustration is that a species of vessel was made use of in those times covered with a roof sufficient to protect the navigators from spears and arrows, and provided with a pointed prow to act as a ram, and projecting beams bearing barrels charged with materials for producing the Greek fire. Another form of vessel is given in an ancient manuscript, differing materially from the last. In this the barrel containing the fire is suspended from a species of crane, by means of which it could be swung over the decks of an enemy's ship when in close quarters. In this, as well as in the other case, all that we can infer from the drawing is the general nature and design of the contrivance, and of the principle on which it operated. The true proportions of the parts and the details of the construction were purposely disregarded in illustrations of this kind.
Observe in the engraving the extra barrel of combustibles ready upon the deck, and the circular watch-box on the top of the mast, where a look-out-man could be stationed, under protection from the spears and arrows of the enemy, and yet at the same time in a position to observe every thing through the slits in the box, and so to direct the helmsman in guiding the vessel. Weapons of the character of boarding-pikes are placed, ready for use, at the stern.
The damaging and destructive effects of the Greek fire were not confined to its power of setting the enemy's works on fire. It contained substances which emitted fumes of a horribly offensive, poisonous, and destructive character. It was necessary on this account that the wind should be in the right quarter, that is, blowing from the assailants toward the enemy, whenever it was employed. Sometimes the receptacle containing the composition was placed upon the end of a long spar attached to a car, which was to be propelled by hand. The soldiers would pile up a great quantity of wood before the gate of the castle or strong-hold attacked. This car would then be driven by soldiers stationed behind it, where they were protected by an inclined shield from the assaults of the enemy. The shield is perforated with openings, to enable those within could not be sufficient in quantity to burn for a long time.
The marvelous tales which have been told in respect to the power of the Greek fire to burn under water have a certain foundation in the fact that, in the times when this agency was employed in war, the method of using it was by packing the materials in a spherical receptacle, in such a manner that when thrown into the water the missile could go down to a certain distance without being entirely extinguished, so that on rising again to the surface the flames would break out anew, ready to set fire to any combustible object that they might encounter. The engraving below, copied from one of the ancient illustrations, gives a general idea of this operation. The balls thrown from a height into the water would of course sink below the surface, until brought back again by their buoyancy; and there would be no great difficulty in so storing so very combustible a material as that it should retain the fire during this brief interval.
The transition from the manufacture of Greek fire to that of gunpowder in war, it is now found, was not the result of any sudden discovery, but grew gradually out of the incidental introduction of saltpetre among the combustible substances, which was found in some mysterious way greatly to increase the violence of the combustion. Saltpetre is a substance which is found abundantly in a natural state in the countries where Greek fire was most used. The mode of its operation in changing combustion into explosion was not probably at first comprehended, as the science of chemistry was then practically unknown. It is now, however, understood that the result is due to the saltpetre's furnishing a supply of oxygen to the combustibles, and thus making them independent of the air in respect to their burning. It furnishes the supply, too, in such a way, to every particle of the combustible, by means of the fine comminution and intimate commixture of the materials, as to present to every portion of the combustible a portion of oxygen close at hand, and thus increases enormously the rapidity and violence of the action.
There is another important thing to be borne in mind, which is, that a mixture of combustibles with saltpetre, by containing within itself the supply of oxygen necessary for the combustion, and thus making the process independent of the external air, allows of the inclosing of the materials in strong and tight receptacles, so that the gases produced by the combustion may be confined, and so made to exert their vast expansive force—enormously increased by the great heat developed — upon the walls of the receptacle which confines them.
The mode in which saltpetre thus operated in promoting rapidity of combustion was not probably at all understood in those days. It was observed, however, by many persons and in many different countries, as a matter of fact, that the admixture of saltpetre with their other pyrotechnic materials greatly increased the effect, until finally an explosive power was developed sufficient for the projection of missiles from the mouths of open tubes, and then artillery began to appear on the field of battle.
Thus the art of producing gunpowder for the purposes of war seems to have been a growth rather than an invention; and so it is not at all surprising that the origin of it has been attributed to many different men of many different nations. It is as impossible, as a distinguished French writer has said, to answer the question who invented gunpowder as to say who invented the boat.
This is Military Pyrotechnics of Former Days, an essay and a subject, originally from June 1869, published Monday, June 21, 2004. It is part of War, which is part of Harper's Archive, which is part of Harpers.org.
Ranching Traditions of Alta California
Ranching Traditions of Alta California
From UNDERSTANDING AMERICAN PROPERTY RIGHTS Siskiyou County Farm Bureau
Source: Robert Glass Cleland; From Wilderness to Empire, A History of California, 1542-1900; Alfred A Knopf, c1944, pgs. 132-137.
"Down to the time of the Gold Rush, the economic life of California centered almost exclusively in the cattle industry. The few hundred head of stock brought from Mexico by the early colonists, multiplied into thousands by the turn of the century. Within another twenty-five years, hundred of square miles of grazing lands were required to support the herds of even a single mission. After secularization...the province became a succession of great ranchos whose 'black cattle and beasts of burden' numbered into the tens of thousands."
"Life on one of the great ranchos, followed, in the main, the ancient customs, laws, and practices brought to Mexico by the early Spanish conquerors, there adapted to the conditions of the country, and thence transferred to California. Stock was grass-fed the year round, and ran almost wild on the open ranges..."
"Cattlemen were required to have three registered brands - the fierro, or iron; the senal, or ear mark; and the venta, or sale brand. At least once a year every ranchero held a general roundup, or rodeo, presided over by one or more Jueces del Campo, or Judges of the Plain, for the purposes of segregating the cattle belonging to different owners and of branding the calves..."
"...To keep the thousands of frightened, bewildered, and maddened creatures from stampeding, cowboys, or vaqueros rode continually about the herd, seeking to hold it together. Whenever an animal broke from the mass, a rider immediately roped him; or, seizing him by the tail, with a peculiar twist requiring both strength and dexterity, threw him heavily to the ground."
"Meanwhile, each owner and his vaqueros rode in and out among the cattle, separating such animals as he found marked with his own brand from the main herd. The question of ownership was seldom a difficult matter, because of the brands, and even the unbranded calves followed the cows to which they belonged. As an owner's cattle were cut out from the general herd, they were driven a little distance away, to a place previously chosen, and kept by themselves until the rodeo was ended. Here the rancher branded his calves and determined the number he could profitable slaughter during the coming season."
"A roundup of this kind was one of the most picturesque events of early California life. The vast herd of cattle, sometimes half a mile from center to circumference, the thick clouds of dust that rose from thousands of moving feet, the sudden dash after some escaping steer, the surprising feats of horsemanship, which were performed continually by the vaqueros, the bellowing of frightened and maddened bulls, the clash of horns striking horns, the wild shouts and laughter of the cowboys, all lent an air of excitement that the printed page cannot begin to reproduce."
"...Cattle were killed for food as they were needed; but the matanza, or wholesale slaughtering, was carried out only at certain specified times of the year."
William Heath Davis in Seventy-five Years in California; (1929), p.40. wrote:
"At the killing season, cattle were driven from the rodeo ground to a particular spot on the rancho, near a brook and forest. It was usual to slaughter from fifty to one hundred at a time, generally steers three years old and upward; the cows being kept for breeding purposes. The fattest would be selected for slaughter, and about two days would be occupied in killing fifty cattle, trying out the tallow, stretching the hides and curing the small portion of meat that was preserved."
"Money was little known and seldom used in California and almost all business transactions were carried on by barter. Hides, or 'California bank notes,' as they were called along the coast, had a fluctuating value of from one to three dollars...Long term credit was extended by the foreign merchant or his agent to the rancheros; and losses on bad debts, except perhaps in those cases where merchants or traders were dealing with one another, were very rare."
Davis described the system (Ibid., p.83.) as follows:
"The merchants sold to the rancheros and other Californians whatever goods they wanted, to any reasonable amount, and gave them credit from one killing season to another. I have never known of a single instance in which note or other written obligation was required of them. At the time of purchasing they were furnished with bills of the goods, which were charged in the account books, and in all my intercourse and experience in trade with them, extending over many years, I never knew of a case of dishonesty on their part..."
Source Andrew F. Rolle; California - A History (Second Edition); Thomas Y Crowell Co; New York; c. 1969. (pgs. 114-120)
Many of the holdings were at first stocked with horses borrowed from the missions which the settlers returned whenever the increase permitted. In 1840, William Heath Davis, Jr. estimated a total of 1,045 holdings of all sizes. About 800 of these were stocked with an average of some 1,500 head per rancho; about 1,220,000 head of cattle total. The term "California bank note" came to be used widely for a dried steer hide, which had a value of approximately $1.
Cowboys or vaqueros, (many Christianized Indians,) were required in large numbers because of the absence of fences in the territory over which the cattle ranged. "Free-roaming stock became so wild and fierce that it was unsafe to go among such herds on foot or unarmed; any man who rode the range was as likely to defend himself against savage bulls as against ferocious grizzlies, then often encountered near the mountains."
"The cattle continued to increase so that even bountiful California could not furnish enough pasture in years of drought. It sometimes became necessary for ranch hands to 'cut out' and kill the older animals. The horses too multiplied at such a rate that they often ran wild, so that similar measures were necessary to control them; some met their death by being driven over precipes into the sea and into rivers to drown."
At the cattle slaughterings, the hides and tallow were taken and a relatively small amount of meat cut into strips for drying. Most of the carcasses were left to be disposed of by Indians, wild animals, or to rot.
Although the primary non-ranching agricultural enterprise occurred at the missions, each rancho was generally self-sufficient. Indian laborers usually scratched the ground with a crude wooden plow, fashioned from the crooked limb of a tree and shod with an iron point. They sometimes harrowed the soil by dragging large branches along the surface. Next grain was scattered in the furrows.
Grain was cut with hand sickles and bound in sheaves, being careful to cut the stalks high enough so that enough seed was left for the field to replant itself. Threshing was done in a flat, hard, circular fenced area. The wheat was thrown in the enclosure and 75-100 mares driven around until the grain was trampled out. Winnowing was accomplished by tossing the wheat against the wind.
At first, grinding was by hand. Later, water driven grist mills. The most common mechanical method was the arrastra, which consisted of two crude circular millstones placed on top of each other. The lower was stationary and the upper rotated when a cross beam attached to it was dragged around in a circle by horse or mule.
Most of the private ranchos had small flocks of sheep for mutton and wool. Neither the Spaniard or the Indian was fond of pork. Hogs were raised mainly for lard, which was used for soap making.
From UNDERSTANDING AMERICAN PROPERTY RIGHTS Siskiyou County Farm Bureau
Source: Robert Glass Cleland; From Wilderness to Empire, A History of California, 1542-1900; Alfred A Knopf, c1944, pgs. 132-137.
"Down to the time of the Gold Rush, the economic life of California centered almost exclusively in the cattle industry. The few hundred head of stock brought from Mexico by the early colonists, multiplied into thousands by the turn of the century. Within another twenty-five years, hundred of square miles of grazing lands were required to support the herds of even a single mission. After secularization...the province became a succession of great ranchos whose 'black cattle and beasts of burden' numbered into the tens of thousands."
"Life on one of the great ranchos, followed, in the main, the ancient customs, laws, and practices brought to Mexico by the early Spanish conquerors, there adapted to the conditions of the country, and thence transferred to California. Stock was grass-fed the year round, and ran almost wild on the open ranges..."
"Cattlemen were required to have three registered brands - the fierro, or iron; the senal, or ear mark; and the venta, or sale brand. At least once a year every ranchero held a general roundup, or rodeo, presided over by one or more Jueces del Campo, or Judges of the Plain, for the purposes of segregating the cattle belonging to different owners and of branding the calves..."
"...To keep the thousands of frightened, bewildered, and maddened creatures from stampeding, cowboys, or vaqueros rode continually about the herd, seeking to hold it together. Whenever an animal broke from the mass, a rider immediately roped him; or, seizing him by the tail, with a peculiar twist requiring both strength and dexterity, threw him heavily to the ground."
"Meanwhile, each owner and his vaqueros rode in and out among the cattle, separating such animals as he found marked with his own brand from the main herd. The question of ownership was seldom a difficult matter, because of the brands, and even the unbranded calves followed the cows to which they belonged. As an owner's cattle were cut out from the general herd, they were driven a little distance away, to a place previously chosen, and kept by themselves until the rodeo was ended. Here the rancher branded his calves and determined the number he could profitable slaughter during the coming season."
"A roundup of this kind was one of the most picturesque events of early California life. The vast herd of cattle, sometimes half a mile from center to circumference, the thick clouds of dust that rose from thousands of moving feet, the sudden dash after some escaping steer, the surprising feats of horsemanship, which were performed continually by the vaqueros, the bellowing of frightened and maddened bulls, the clash of horns striking horns, the wild shouts and laughter of the cowboys, all lent an air of excitement that the printed page cannot begin to reproduce."
"...Cattle were killed for food as they were needed; but the matanza, or wholesale slaughtering, was carried out only at certain specified times of the year."
William Heath Davis in Seventy-five Years in California; (1929), p.40. wrote:
"At the killing season, cattle were driven from the rodeo ground to a particular spot on the rancho, near a brook and forest. It was usual to slaughter from fifty to one hundred at a time, generally steers three years old and upward; the cows being kept for breeding purposes. The fattest would be selected for slaughter, and about two days would be occupied in killing fifty cattle, trying out the tallow, stretching the hides and curing the small portion of meat that was preserved."
"Money was little known and seldom used in California and almost all business transactions were carried on by barter. Hides, or 'California bank notes,' as they were called along the coast, had a fluctuating value of from one to three dollars...Long term credit was extended by the foreign merchant or his agent to the rancheros; and losses on bad debts, except perhaps in those cases where merchants or traders were dealing with one another, were very rare."
Davis described the system (Ibid., p.83.) as follows:
"The merchants sold to the rancheros and other Californians whatever goods they wanted, to any reasonable amount, and gave them credit from one killing season to another. I have never known of a single instance in which note or other written obligation was required of them. At the time of purchasing they were furnished with bills of the goods, which were charged in the account books, and in all my intercourse and experience in trade with them, extending over many years, I never knew of a case of dishonesty on their part..."
Source Andrew F. Rolle; California - A History (Second Edition); Thomas Y Crowell Co; New York; c. 1969. (pgs. 114-120)
Many of the holdings were at first stocked with horses borrowed from the missions which the settlers returned whenever the increase permitted. In 1840, William Heath Davis, Jr. estimated a total of 1,045 holdings of all sizes. About 800 of these were stocked with an average of some 1,500 head per rancho; about 1,220,000 head of cattle total. The term "California bank note" came to be used widely for a dried steer hide, which had a value of approximately $1.
Cowboys or vaqueros, (many Christianized Indians,) were required in large numbers because of the absence of fences in the territory over which the cattle ranged. "Free-roaming stock became so wild and fierce that it was unsafe to go among such herds on foot or unarmed; any man who rode the range was as likely to defend himself against savage bulls as against ferocious grizzlies, then often encountered near the mountains."
"The cattle continued to increase so that even bountiful California could not furnish enough pasture in years of drought. It sometimes became necessary for ranch hands to 'cut out' and kill the older animals. The horses too multiplied at such a rate that they often ran wild, so that similar measures were necessary to control them; some met their death by being driven over precipes into the sea and into rivers to drown."
At the cattle slaughterings, the hides and tallow were taken and a relatively small amount of meat cut into strips for drying. Most of the carcasses were left to be disposed of by Indians, wild animals, or to rot.
Although the primary non-ranching agricultural enterprise occurred at the missions, each rancho was generally self-sufficient. Indian laborers usually scratched the ground with a crude wooden plow, fashioned from the crooked limb of a tree and shod with an iron point. They sometimes harrowed the soil by dragging large branches along the surface. Next grain was scattered in the furrows.
Grain was cut with hand sickles and bound in sheaves, being careful to cut the stalks high enough so that enough seed was left for the field to replant itself. Threshing was done in a flat, hard, circular fenced area. The wheat was thrown in the enclosure and 75-100 mares driven around until the grain was trampled out. Winnowing was accomplished by tossing the wheat against the wind.
At first, grinding was by hand. Later, water driven grist mills. The most common mechanical method was the arrastra, which consisted of two crude circular millstones placed on top of each other. The lower was stationary and the upper rotated when a cross beam attached to it was dragged around in a circle by horse or mule.
Most of the private ranchos had small flocks of sheep for mutton and wool. Neither the Spaniard or the Indian was fond of pork. Hogs were raised mainly for lard, which was used for soap making.
story ideas
Footsteps echoed in the darkness, becoming confused in the confined space of the old courtyard. Strange shadows played on the ancient stonework, dancing shades caste from the dying glow of a much-repaired brazier. Doleful eyes stared from dank ginnels and dark stairways. Suddenly light and laughter spilled from an open flung door, briefly illuminating a timeworn sign hung above the lintel of the old building set some feet back from the square. Five feathers. No name, just five feathers.
A shadow-clad figure entered the sanctuary from the chill night, his breath hanging about him like a misty veil. Glancing about from the refuge of a voluminous hood, he made his way through the crowded isle to the bar, hidden beneath a wooden walkway upon which all manners of folk laughed, drank, sang and talked. Lusty bar-wenches threaded their way between table and groping hand, teasing with uncovered thigh and heaving bosom.
The newcomer leaned forward and spoke to the barkeeper in a voice barely audible above the clamor of the inn. The barman nodded and disappeared through a door hidden in the gloom at the back of the bar. Leaning casually against the bar, the cloaked man pushed back his cowl and surveyed the scene before him.
The vaulted hallway was lit by a score of smoking tallow candles raised on a great iron girandole, and numerous oil burning bronze nightlights. A thick, grimy, detail obscuring smog hung in the air. The walls, made of large granite blocks, were grime coated, bare of decoration and, with the exception of two barred and shuttered windows either side of the door, devoid of any vent or issue. Two wooden stairways ascended to the pile-supported walkway that snaked, crowdedly, around the place, giving vantage over the entire hallway. A cheer rose from a nearby table as dice clattered and coin changed hands. Ale flew in all directions from the gantry as a difference of opinions was voiced. Shouts of encouragement were lost in the tumultuous uproar as a brawl erupted on the arched balcony above the gamblers tables. An unfortunate toppled helplessly over the flimsy railings and crashed heavily onto a huckster's bench-board, sending coins and cards dancing across the flagstone floor. Folk deep in drink dived and scrambled to recover the unexpected windfall, spreading the confusion and upheaval to all corners of the bar.
The visitor turned as the barkeep reappeared from the back room. 'Just another night', he said and smiled, 'never changes, eh?' he took the package from the barman and made his way carefully into the night...
There are no regulars at the Pigs Gut. No familiar faces, at least not friendly ones. None of the clientele is here to drink and none are here to enjoy the atmosphere. The owners never make a profit from selling liquor, although the prices are fair. Like the belly of a whale some enter and are never seen again, most do not even try.
The Pigs Gut Tavern has only one reason for existence, one undeniable and very dark purpose - the illicit business of the covert meeting. Meetings for a myriad of diverse reason, incubators of devious plots, but always most secret and only for the eyes and ears of the intended participants. Unfortunately that was exactly what Strat wanted to do. He was an accomplished spy with an air about him, attuned to the eavesdropping of closed conversations but never in a place like this. No normal benches and tavern tables, the whole rancid place was full of closed booths, made from thick oak impregnated with hundreds of years of silent secrets. Here he was, sitting in one of the said booths two away from the conversation he was being paid to know about and not able to hear a single word. The chain mail curtain blocked his view of the common room but it felt as if a score of hidden eyes were boring into him. This whole thing was starting to look bad. In mounting desperation Strat looked towards the heavens pleading for inspiration. The idea hit him like a ton of rat droppings. The damn roof was missing from his booth, which was probably why it was unoccupied in the first place. If he could just climb along the top of the booths, surly he could hear the proceedings from above.
A cautious head rose from the booth, the common room was black as night only a dank smoke hung in the air illuminated from the odd improperly drawn mail curtain. He eased himself onto the divider between his booth and the next, muscles quivering with silent effort. Inch by inch the distance between him and the target booth grew less. The rough wood of the booth vivid in his perception, who knows what shady deals were being struck in the spaces below him, he didn't let his mind dwell on them only the booth in front of him was of importance. Every breath, every creak of the wood seemed amplified beyond measure, if he was caught now, it would be a river water breakfast.
After what seamed like an eternity Strat reach his goal, now he would have results. Hushed words began to filter up to his keen ears. Then the bottom fell out of Strats' world or more accurately the top of the booth, a thousand times a thousand families of wood worm had done their work well. The table rose up to met him in a cloud of dust and splinters, men stood in a single gasp, like lightning steel grew from grubby hands. Then silence fell, a voice coughed in an atmosphere gone thick. Strats' mind raced, to fight was useless. "Err...rat catcher. There be a big-un in this here tavern. You seen 'im?"
Strat didn't enjoy his breakfast....
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"You don't want to go there, friend. No sir, that's not a place I'd care to show my face on any night, no sir".
"Do you, or do you not know of such a place......... friend". There was something in the way the outsider said 'friend' that told the bravo here was trouble and that if he wanted to smell the smog of a new day he'd better be straight. There was no denying it, all the signs were plane to see for one who knows. That certain walk, casual but full of contained intent. A slight awkwardness of step that said there was probably a blade strapped in a hidden place. It was in the way he held his shoulders and how the folds of his leather didn't quite mask what was underneath.
He wore his brown hair in long tightly woven braids that hinted at a military background. Ground glass skin stretched over a lean face with eyes that penetrated and cut into everything hidden. Oh yes, this was a dangerous man and he didn't try too damn hard to hide it.
"Ain't easy to find, you gotta look good. See that side street down there, follow it to the end and turn sharp left at the burnt out warehouse. Go on down the slope a way, on your right there's a covered alley with steps down. Bad looking place, it's easy to miss. Just look out for the snake chimney above the arch. Follow that all the way along the ally... there you are - The Serpents Gain".
The eyes blinked lizard like, digesting the information sorting the moves planing actions.
"You sure you don't want me to get one of the beggars to show you the way?" Just a little push, stretch the man see how far you could go, It might stand you well to have the measure of a man like this. The tight skin creased pulling a half smile out of the thin mouth, letting out a little breath to be lost in the stagnant night air.
"Not necessary... friend". One last glancing cut with those eyes and the stranger turned, moving off with his half limping fluidity that just wouldn't let him blend in.
"Yes sir, there goes a whole canal load of trouble that's wound real tight".
extract from 'Burning Bridges'
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The movement of thick dark clouds over the moon played with the shadows that cloaked the streets of Solis. There in the offal and human stench, the root of all evil (or at least the major branch), Shadows people played their games. Night after night the gears meshed, the cogs turned, the machinery oiled and running smoothly. But not these last nights, not recently.
Malice stood where no light could penetrate, watching the man before him, noting the most trivial of movements, watching for signs he was spotted. For hours he had followed this man though the filthy back streets and alleys, for hours he had plotted his demise. For days he had wondered who it was that gave out the secrets he so jealously guarded. Tonight he would find out. Soon he would know. The anticipation dried his mouth, made the hairs on his neck stand up, pulsed round his body like fire. He felt again the keen edge of the long thin misericord, soot blackened, as dark as the night and shadows he lived in, and focused again on his prey.
'You stupid fool Feyde, did you really think you could keep your little Guild sneak from me? No, fool, instead you have led me straight to him.' Malices' eyes narrowed. His tongue wetted his pursed lips and a smile of anticipation began to show. Feyde had stopped at the junction of two alleys, glanced around, then put one hand against the wall. He made water there, that must be the sign all was well. A second figure emerged from the depths of the alley, hooded, cautious, like a hunted animal. The two met.
'So Feyde, the traitor shows himself at last.' Malice mused to himself. Feyde, one of the rare breed of non Guild thief, had been doing very well for himself lately, much too well for a man working alone.
Now to work. Malice moved forward silently, up against the opposite alley wall edging along palm width by palm width. When only a man’s height separated them did he risk another look. Feyde was holding a parchment, tracing a line with a grubby finger, the other was speaking in low tones. Malice watched and listened, hardly able to hold himself back. Both of them, he would be rid of a traitor and an opponent at once. He steeled his jaw, hardly daring to breathe as the traitors quiet words reached his ears, condemning himself to a fate none would wish on even their enemies.
The deal done, coin changed hands and Feyde slunk off into the dark. A heart beat later, the traitor shuddered and dropped to his knees, four inches of bright steel protruding from his throat, fear and vomit rising in his chest. Perfectly delivered, it was not a killing strike, not yet, not swiftly and easily. ‘Oh no, never swiftly, never easily, not for traitors’ thought Malice
"Come, come little man don't be so frightened. Your death won't be so sudden!" The voice of Malice was cold and edged with venom. A strong hand reached forward and griped the hood covering the face. One jerk and the traitor was revealed. Ever the face of Malice was surprised. Sujekso died less swiftly than he would have prayed, an example must be made to the other Guild apprentices. ‘All in all a very satisfactory nights work’
Extract from 'Shadows People'
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That winter smell had come to Solis. Fresh winds penetrated deep into her intricate alleyways and boulevards sweeping away all taint of warmth; it was as if the summer had never been. Multitudes of garishly clad street hawkers proclaimed their wares as excellent protection against the coming cold and the food markets dwindled with every passing moon. The fervent days of high summer were gone like long lost friends. Heat wrought apathy was replaced by the anxiety of lean times to come. The nights drew closer, extending the dark hours when men feel the calling of their blackened hearts for activities nefarious.
Winter was coming.
Rain descended like a thin gossamer web from a sky the colour of old straw, almost imperceptible but it left everything soaking. The ramshackle buildings of Dockside glistened in its oily residue and many were the occupants who wished they'd paid more attention to roof repairs.
One such tenement, a drinking hole called the Welcome Grave, sat at the nether end of an open courtyard, its rotten and stained facade defiant in the prospect of another hard winter.
Malice sat alone in the main room, all other patrons having left with the passing of the night or been dumped outside to sleep off the drink. A full mug of flat ale rested on the table in front of him and a small black pool of dried blood stained the floor by his right boot. Malices' dark hard face was splashed with mud or something, a two day growth of stubble shadowed his chin and his piercing eyes were red rimed. No one had come near him after he had entered last night, staggering slightly and carrying that pitch-black sword. Only the barman, unbidden, had approached to place the mug at his table. Malice hadn't even acknowledged his presence, and the barman did not ask for payment.
He sat there all night wrapped in his own dark, dangerous thoughts.
Extract from 'Wintersign'
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A word or two to the wise
Shadow’s people
The sweat of the nights work was dripping like black blood down the face of Death himself. Holding that so sharp of daggers, he felt elated. The blade gave him will and purpose. It fulfilled his very essence, it filled his dark heart, it filled his black soul. That brought a smile to his face. They called him Malice, or Shadow, or Death. They said his soul had rotted in the pits of Hell long ago, they called him soulless. They said much about Malice, but never did they say it to his face.
He stood in the doorway of a small room, his dark eyes fixed on the dark shadow that was its occupants bed. His pulse surged through his temple, drowning out all sound, masking his awareness of everything except the blade in his hand, gripped tight, and focusing his mind on the prone form, asleep, unaware, oblivious. Malice licked his lips, his mouth sticky, his eyes focused as if he stood in a long, dark tunnel.
‘Not tonight, my friend, not yet’. The words formed only in his mind, no breath issued from pursed lips. ‘I am not finished with you’. Words and thoughts mingled, flashes of steel in moonlight. ‘You are still too useful’. lips now moving, almost imperceptibly, visions of eyes wide with terror and the gurgle of a mans last breath. His finger running up the edge of the blade. His thoughts moved back through the miasma of his mind, back to events of earlier....
The movement of thick dark clouds over the moon played with the shadows that cloaked the streets of Solis. There in the offal and human stench, the root of all evil (or at least the major branch), Shadows people played their games. Night after night the gears meshed, the cogs turned, the machinery oiled and running smoothly. But not these last nights, not recently.
Malice stood where no light could penetrate, watching the man before him, noting the most trivial of movements, watching for signs he was spotted. For hours he had followed this man though the filthy back streets and alleys, for hours he had plotted his demise. For days he had wondered who it was that gave out the secrets he so jealously guarded. Tonight he would find out. Soon he would know. The anticipation dried his mouth, made the hairs on his neck stand up, pulsed round his body like fire. He felt again the keen edge of the long thin misericord, soot blackened, as dark as the night and shadows he lived in, and focused again on his prey.
'You stupid fool Feyde, did you really think you could keep your little Guild sneak from me? No, fool, instead you have led me straight to him.' Malices' eyes narrowed. His tongue wetted his pursed lips and a smile of anticipation began to show. Feyde had stopped at the junction of two alleys, glanced around, then put one hand against the wall. He made water there, that must be the sign all was well. A second figure emerged from the depths of the alley, hooded, cautious, like a hunted animal. The two met.
'So Feyde, the traitor shows himself at last.' Malice mused to himself. Feyde, one of the rare breed of non Guild thief, had been doing very well for himself lately, much too well for a man working alone.
Now to work. Malice moved forward silently, up against the opposite alley wall edging along palm width by palm width. When only a man’s height separated them did he risk another look. Feyde was holding a parchment, tracing a line with a grubby finger, the other was speaking in low tones. Malice watched and listened, hardly able to hold himself back. Both of them, he would be rid of a traitor and an opponent at once. He steeled his jaw, hardly daring to breathe as the traitors quiet words reached his ears, condemning himself to a fate none would wish on even their enemies.
The deal done, coin changed hands and Feyde slunk off into the dark. A heart beat later, the traitor shuddered and dropped to his knees, four inches of bright steel protruding from his throat, fear and vomit rising in his chest. Perfectly delivered, it was not a killing strike, not yet, not swiftly and easily. ‘Oh no, never swiftly, never easily, not for traitors’ thought Malice
"Come, come little man don't be so frightened. Your death won't be so sudden!" The voice of Malice was cold and edged with venom. A strong hand reached forward and griped the hood covering the face. One jerk and the traitor was revealed. Ever the face of Malice was surprised. Sujekso died less swiftly than he would have prayed, an example must be made to the other Guild apprentices. ‘All in all a very satisfactory nights work’
The images of the remembered events brought a fresh wave of elation welling deep within him, spreading like quick poison. He held onto the door frame for support, to stop the swoon, but couldn't even feel the rough wood, only the coldness of his blade seemed real to him.‘Too useful to me Feyde’ his eyes staring, cold, yet burning with the flames of Hell. ‘Not yet’, black thoughts becoming the murmur of half formed words, silver edged on a single dark breath. "Not yet" The rush passed. He moved back out of the room, his body so attuned to stealth that only the air was disturbed. The band of weak light across the floor thinned then disappeared altogether with the closing of the door.Now the only light in the room came from the stars through the half shuttered window and even that was partially blocked by the figure perched on the ledge. Observant to all that had passed in the small room, contemplating the quiet words he had heard issue from the mouth of Death, Feyde sat, deep within his own shadowy thoughts.
Copyright 2000 R.S. Barnes & A.J. Warner
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Silent killer all that glitters
Guttering torches cast eerie shadows that dance along the wet, slimy walls of the long forgotten catacombs. Water lies stagnant and still, pooling where the age old floor has fallen and worn away. Ahead in the dark, reflections glitter gold and silver, shimmering as the torch flames flicker closer.
As the tomb robbers approach, a glistening film retracts into the dark, leaving only a thin sticky film over the scattered coins, bits of armour and other debris that lies scattered among the moist dirt of the passage floor. Eager hands grab and claw at unguarded treasure, turning up old belt buckles, bits of tough leather and the odd half decayed old shoe among the coins. A glistening gossamer slurry descends the walls and forms into a quivering mass, silently enveloping the would be robbers, who realise, too late, All that glitters is not gold
A scream as burning pain sears bare hands and faces, cries of anguish as movement is curtailed, gelatinous slime oozing around legs and bodies, eating into cloth and leather. Desperate frenzy of movement, fight, fight, slash, flail.... the cold grip of Death veiled in the glistening guise of a silent, mindless killer.
A hiss and sputter as bright fire shoots pockmarks and boiling hollows into the enshrouding mass, causing it to recoil, at least in places. A breath of air roars into bursting lungs as the slimy tendrils retreat from the heat of flaming torches. With great effort, bodies pull free from the cloying gel, pain still searing their skins. Compatriots they ignored in the rush for wealth pull them clear of the massive slime now coalescing into a huge uneven blob with writhing fluid tentacles, pulsing with violent colour and shooting acid coated tentacles like whips into the fray.
Wielding torches like swords in battle, the group retreat up the strangely worn steps into a large room, their mindless foe slurping and slipping after them with strange sounds, still pulsing vibrant threats of rage tinted colour, leaving an acid coated trail smoldering in its wake. Victims are washed clean, with water, wine, holy water, washed in the putrid pools, anything to stop the acid rot, their screams still echoing in the dark, haunting the many passages like woeful souls.
Copyright Andy Warner 2004
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Boom Pearlman stood in the shadows of Curio Court, welcome relief from the hot sun that brought the smells up from below streets. You could even smell the sea, when the wind blew from Dockside. He was beginning to loose patience with the beggar sat trying vainly to polish his black leather boots with an old bit of rag.
"Enough, boot boy, Your rag is cleaner now than before, and my boots stained with gods know what!" It was then that Boom noticed the rag was really rather plush. Red satin braided with gold under all that grime and festering filth. And a badge there too, in gold thread. He snatched it from the gnarled hands of the beggar, who seemed not to care.
A quick wash in the slop bucket and, yes, he could see now. An embroidered gold badge of office, or something similar. The crest of the house of Karu Gan, late of Dalhaven, now of Solis?. And how come an old beggar had this, worth a few coin just for the gold, and possibly more to the right person for the knowledge it contained.
Pearlman followed after the beggar, down by the Grey Lady Arch and into the Dive beyond. A twist and a turn later, the beggar was gone. No trace, not even on the wind. Pearlman cursed.
"To the Hells with you, stench bringer, damn you to....." it dawned on him "to the sewers!."
Within moments Boom Pearlman was standing at the entrance to a dark and fetid cut, half hidden by dilapidated buildings and rotting garbage. Half hidden, but most definately an entrance to the ways below streets. A pair of beady eyes watched as Pearlman carefully made his way into the dank and the dark. The place of beggars and thieves. The den of the outcast and the rogue, the places where the Rats Run.
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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"The trouble with Galen Bar" Malice started, "is that he has lost his fear." He stared at Trivitt Blain, collections officer for the prosperous Moneybelt district that bordered what passed as high town in this accursed city.
"No fear, no payment. Isn't that right, Blain?"
Blain said not a word, but his scheming mind was working overtime, and sweat beaded his brow.
"Well, lads," continued Malice, " I happen to have here a rather useful map at my disposal, showing our good friend Galens home and castle, over on Cash Street." He motioned to three of the better housebreakers sat in the meeting room. "Go make good the discrepancy, lads. The vault is marked, and we seem to have a way in too, if Blains quill-boy is to be believed". Another knowing stare at the now downbeat Blain.
Javis Gan took the map from Malice with a smirk. He knew the way to play this one, he had done Malices' bidding oft before. Just had to find another horses head before tonight, nice and fresh, maybe one eye gouged out and left staring from the piles of coin and notes of promise. They would have no more trouble with Galen Bar after tonight.
Now all is not what it seems at the house of Galen Bar, and Trivitt Blain knows it all too well. No horses head left in the money pile would make Galen regain his fear of the Guild. No intimidation or threats, no suggestions of deeds most horrid, no nothing. For Galen Bar is no more a money lender and extortioner. He is simply dead. And has been for a few weeks now. And if you were to look real close at Trivitt Blain, you might notice a bit more jewelry on his fat little fingers than usual, a new cut to his cloth or a few more coin in his pouch. For Trivitt Blain has had Galen Bar killed, and now he fears for his own life, for no one outwits black hearted Malice, heir apparent to the dark throne of Underground Solis.
The map is more or less accurate. Alas there is a big pile of logs stacked over the trap door in the outhouse, and shifting it is out of the question. So another way in is needed, horses head and all. Take a look around and about. The buildings nearby provide ample vantage points and can be climbed easily with rope and grapple. The gaps between buildings are small enough to jump (well, just about) and from the higher roof near by, a small skylight can be seen in the rear of the tower where it joins the main roof. With no map of the upper floor, the footpads will have to be extra vigilant as they make their way to the vault. The place now houses a couple of Blains boys who are not Guild members, and the rest of Galens family are locked in the cellar below the kitchen (not marked on the map). Picking the vault lock should be tricky but not impossible - play up the situation, make the sweat drip! Once inside, the horse head can be left staring from the money pile. Now Malice didn't say to take anything, did he? But he didn't say not too either! Get my drift, Nightboys?
Can Trivitt get away with this one? how long before Malice finds out? Will it matter to him anyway? If Trivitt pays the dues, Malice might let him continue his new career. We will just have to wait and see now, wont we.....
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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A body, all wrapped up in a cocoon of rich cloth, like some ancient funeral smock, bedecked with signs and sigils. Funny place to find it, caught up behind the valve of a sewer gate down on dockside, smelling worse than the fetid mud and slime that made every footstep risky....
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Kurly Burr looked around for something a little more substantial to scibe onto this time. His last masterpiece had fallen apart in the hands of an apprentice housebreaker deep within the maze of tunnels under the old Bastion. It took them three days to find him down there, and by that time he wasn't best pleased, and for some reason didn't seem to care much about substandard papermakers, rough rag and high acid contents. Burr rubbed the still tender lump under his thick black hair, now grey flecked, that gave him his nickname.
He carefully unwrapped another package of expensive, imported (and somewhat stolen) high quality paper from Dal Haven. A cursory inspection told him this paper was no better than the rest. Not waterproof, and too light, it would never do for this particular map. Sitting and pondering, he started to doodle on the corner of the discarded wrap, but the ink in his quill didnt take, it just puddled up in tiny inky balls. Chasing them with the fine nib, they wandered across the waxy surface and it occured to him that the wrapping might be more use than the contents it was protecting.
A quick check and yes! the other side of the heavy paper was not waxed and took the ink perfectly! Setting his small half glasses on his nose he dipped the quill in squid ink and, working quickly but accurately, Burr the cartographer started on his latest assignment - the description and mapping of an old Thieves den in the heart of South Well Place, just off the main Dock road by the Bonded Warehouses. He chuckled as he noticed the repeated pattern printed on the paper, a merchants seal and the words 'Bonded Warehouse 0275' - a building he knew stood right above the catacombes he was even now colouring with titanium white and a bit of yellow ochre.
A sketch of South Well Place that will be Burrs next project.....
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"There's nowt yer but barrels, like he said Cap'n. An' all wi' the bonding masters sign on 'em, right proper." The guards just stood there, looking at the Captain, mindless now that the trail was cold.
'Not a brain between them' he thought as he pondered the situation. He had seen the pilfering little sneak go into the tavern. He had most definately not seen him leave, and he wasn't here now. Well, unless he hid better than a rat in drainpipe, that is.
"Rat in a drain pipe" tapping his lip now, mind linking the pieces of this jigsaw. " Search again boys, and then again. Go through this place inch by inch. Take up floor boards if you need to, but find that petty little thief. Find him and I double your pay tonight."
Blagg the barman watched nervously, the last thing he wanted was some petty guard captain using the tavern as a step stone to promotion. He could risk them finding the hidden cellar, many places had hidies and the such, but it was not to his liking. "I got another cellar, captain, afore yer lads go tearin' my liveli'ood t' ruin" he motioned up the steps "up 'ere, I keeps it fer me special bits, like."
And so he showed the guard over to the hidey, and protested much when they insisted on watching him open it up. "Not much use now as a hidey" he muttered, as the last guard disappeared into the darkness. Still, the Stone foundations that supported this canal cursed city held many secrets, a few more bleached bones wouldn't make much difference. He grimaced as he heard the first stifled yell from below, and pushed the well concealed trapdoor firmly back into place. He slid the bolt as the first fists beat at it in frenzied terror. He laid the carpet back down - that helped dull the noise - and soon the yells died down, soon there was silence.
Blagg hoped the guards wouldn't be missed, not least until his story was straight, anyway. "Guards? what, here? No sir, they wouldn't be drinkin' in a dive like this now would they, Sir? Not that I wouldn't want the coin an' all, Sir, but your boys, they got standards don't they, Sir?".......
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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"So that's your task, boys. Pure and simple, bring me the Book of Names." It had taken Malice some time to locate the old Book of Names. Until earlier in the week, he didn't really believe it existed, now he not only knew it did, but where it was located. Rennago was a collector, of the odd, the esoteric, the exotic, and of course the ancient. How he came to own the book was unimportant. How he would be relieved of it was the uppermost thought in the machinating mind of Malice.
Javis Gan was having a good month. A recent mission at the house of Galen Bar had brought him to the attention of Malice. Unmasking Trivitt Blain as an embezzler and swindler has further promoted him in the eyes of dark Malice, and now he was reaping the rewards. He took the depiction of Rennagos house from Malice without a word. No map this time, not that the last one had been any help. Javis Gan liked to work on the edge, rely on his wits, live dangerous.
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The clunk of the lock mechanism yielding to a professional touch and slight groan of rusted hinges sounded as thunder in the ears of Strat, the foremost spy in the city of Solis.
Dark as it was in the shadow haunted stairwell that led from Black Court down into the bowels of Curio, Strat felt strangely visible. He never liked visiting Curio in the day, let alone at night. In the day he could at least melt into the crowds that thronged the place, haggling over pennies for curios from distant lands or rooting through crates of oddments, dusk laden and dirty. But at night, Curio Court was empty. Dead. Silent. Only the shadows and his own guile could protect him from watchful eyes.
"Ideal for a spy, Strat! No-one to disturb you eh? No-one to dump you in the briny!" He was talking to himself again, never a good sign. More squealings and groanings from the old hinges were soon pacified by the application of Strats specially prepared mineral oil. A few seconds later and the shadows at the bottom of the steps under Black Arch were home to more than just rats.
Peering from the dark into the gloom that was Curio Court, sunk deep into the city like some dark well whose sheer sides were a multitude of dwellings, shop fronts, workshops and residences, Strat watched, and waited. And waited some more, as there were more than the eyes of rats to avoid, for Curio Court was a strange place and no mistake.
Far too late for the Watch now, Strats heart beat faster. He could hardly contain himself. Then it started. The strange, sonorous voice he had heard a few nights previously, floating on the night breeze. It transfixed him now as it had then, he could hardly move. Slowly, he regained his composure, breathed again and peered into the dark.
The beauty of the enchantment wound itself around him, caressed his cheek, filled his very heart and mind, drawing him into the Court, into the open. Caring not for hidden watchers, Strat stepped out of his hidey, darkness falling away from him like a cloak discarded.
Strat froze, his mouth open, his eyes wide. There before him, wrapped up in her own sweet song, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She moved slowly, swaying in time to her own music, her face hidden from him. Around the well she went, carefree and winsome, and very, very naked. And as she sat on the well edge, her toes making circles in the cold, clear water she turned to see the unwanted guest. Her singing stopped of a sudden, her face a visage of alarm. A heartbeat they stared eye to eye, a heartbeat that would haunt Strat the rest of his life. For a heartbeat later, she was gone. Simply gone. No more of her remained than a song in the memory of Strat the Spy and a ripple on the water in an old, old well.
And from a window in the Grey Lady Inn, hidden in the shadow of the vines, an old man watched with tired eyes. He managed a thin smile as he watched Strat steel into the night, wiped a tear from his time worn cheek and sighed a longing sigh that faded into the dark.
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At Night, in Curio Court.
Heavy, laboured footsteps on the wooden walkway sent a shower of debris to the alley floor 20 or so feet below. Feyde Jen Jorhan stoped to catch his breath, clutching the sodden handrail and breathing out a dragons breath into the cold night air. A deep breath, and off again, quietly this time, careful footsteps on the slippery woodwork that could easy send the unwary to a hard landing in the dimness of Kanker below. The dark cloak of night did its best to hide him, but as heavy clouds parted momentarily, a half moon left him caught in its eery light, silhouetted against a backdrop of roofs and chimneys, easy pickings.
'There lads! theres the bastard!' they cry went up and chase was given. Fleeting thoughts of turn and fight were quickly dismissed at the bright flash and whizz of lead in the air around Feyde. The thunder peel report caught up with him as he jumped to the nearest flat roof, landed at a run and vaulted a low parapet to another roof below. The sound of so many on the walkway behind him and the thought of their weaponry gave him an extra boost as he clambered down an old drainpipe to the safety of the shadows and alleyways that wound about the warren that was Kanker Court.
The sound of splintering wood and creaking pilings could herald only one eventuality, the chase was about to descend to the floor the quick way. Taking a moment to orient himself in the confines of Kanker, Feyde set off into the dark of a nearby alley. Shouting and commotion behind was opening doors and windows, and the eyes of Kanker were peering into every nook and crany. Feyde flattened himself against a wall below an old brick overhang, one with the shadows. Slowly, as a shadow himself, he made his way deeper into the maze. Left, right, right, up the narrow steps behind an old warehouse, hold, watch, listen, gods even breath a bit. Feyde was not happy. Kanker was a bad place to get lost in, too many cuts and lanes, too many steps and arches that all look the same.
'Damn my stupidity' he risked the words under his breath, as he heard the soft steps of wary persuers now caught in a game of cat and mouse, his hand moving to the place his rapier hilt should be. 'Damn your stupidity Feyde Jen Jorhan' thought this time, not said. The ruddy light of a guttering torch lapped into the dark that held him, reflected momentarily off some exposed trinket still dangling from his pocket and the cry went up.
Like a pack of dogs the bravados charged in tumolt into the narrow alley, crowding and snarling at the base of a wall as Feyde just managed to fling himself over its top. Cat and mouse? no, he thought as he regainded his feet, cat and dog! Another climb up risked a shot from unseen muskets below, but it was up, or be caught. Old plaster fell away from the wall in chunks as He just managed to gain the roof above, another climb, reach out and stretch and he has on a flat roof again, high above the floor below. It was not raining, but the sea mist was sending tendrils creeping into the heart of Old Solis, making everything wet and treacherous. Below he could see the Dogs gatherings, pulling new pack members from hitherto un-noticed places, could see the glow of torches and lanterns iluminating the mist making it an eery sight.
Grim faces were illuminated in an instant of powder fire, a volley of shot screamed in the heavy air. Feyde dived for the uncertainty of the a walkway below, hoping it would hold his weight on impact. Luck was with him, at least for now. At a pace too fast for safety he charged along the boards, jumping the gaps and rotten bits, slipping where wood was sodden and mildewed, snagging his cloak on rusty nails and jutting timbers. Down some steps, slamming into another walkway as they gave way under his weight.
Torches in procession danced behind him in a many pronged attack, some up above, most down below.
Breathing hard and fast he rounded a corner at speed. The walkway ended. No rail, no handhold. No sound either, just the wind as he carreered downward toward the uncertainty below. With a crack and splintering Feyde hit the ground. But he did not stop, as rubbish engulfed him, covering his track he did not stop. His mind raced as he continued to tumble, and he felt something crack as he hit solidity. But still he did not stop, over and over, smack into a wall, crash off a ledge, the wind driven out of him and the sense knocked out of him, disorientation and more falling until at last he lay crumpled and broken in the cold, silent darkness that could become his grave.
extract from Fight or Flight
copyright 2001 Andy Warner
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Javis Ghan examined the old parchment in minute detail. The soft leathery feel made the hairs stand on his neck, and his tongue tingled with distaste. There were old markings that he could not make out, ancient words and strange symbols, almost part of the material itself, almost like some ritual tattoo deep within the medium that someone later had used to scribe the layout of Darkholm Keep.
But the Keep was his main interest, deep in the cold heart of Solis, built ancient into the very bedrock that supported a writhing, living city. Many were the rumours of ancient treasures in its dark and forgotten vaults, and many were the tales of terror that went with them. Guardians, magics, curses, madness! He had heard them all his life, as a child being scolded by his mothers harsh tongue, as a tearaway adolescent, by the Guard Captain cursing him with his last fetid breath, and as a grown man in the taverns and bawdy houses of Dockside where gossip flows as free as ale.
It had occured to Javis Ghan that some of these tales, grown longer over the years in the telling no doubt, may hold a whisper of truth. Somewhere, running through them all, might be a common thread. And sat in the Grey Lady tavern this cold winters eve, in front of him a map set on a strange old parchment, he was sure he heard that whisper. A quiet echo perhaps, but there none the less, if you cared to listen.
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Grief showed itself in the face of Chenyaya. In the way she stood, in the way she stared, in everything that she had become. For so long she had searched for a missing part of her life. In those times she had felt empty and alone. Then Solis loomed in her path, dark, evil Solis. Perhaps it seeks out those who are lost. Those who are seeking something they cannot describe. They are destined to end up here in its twisted streets, ever to search a maze more tortuous than any devised by man, for a prize that does not exist. But Solis gave her hope. All around were the dross of Humanity, the downtrodden, the lost, the hopeless. And here, she was, above them, better than them, destined for more than they could ever hope for.
But time went on and still Chenyaya felt empty, alone. Even among the throng of human detritus that crowded about her she could not grasp that missing piece, that something else. Until the day she met him. Oh how the Fates are cruel and whimsical. For too short a time she knew what she was missing. Love, yes, but more than that. Companionship, a bond, an empathy a tie so close they could almost be one. And now she knew a fate more cruel than death. She knew grief. A grief that can never be wiped away, that knifes to the deepest core with a blade of ice and fire. A grief that she could never imagine in her life Before. Some say it is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all. Chenyaya knows different.
But there is a relative of grief, close as a brother, but grim as Death, and its name is Revenge. Rue the day, Solis, that Chenyaya takes up the Mask. Wish you were elsewhere, wish you were gone, wish even that you were dead before now. Grief is a hunger that can never be quelled. Revenge is a dish best served cold.
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Walking the jetties and quays of South Dock alone, at night is akin to walking the plank - not a good idea at the best of times. But Foyle had no choice tonight. Down under the shadow of the Spur, where the Scar Bridge loomed above the dark water, was moored the Sea Dirge. A small, battered and decidedly unshipshape craft from Thanat, to the North. And on the Dirge, Foyle would find his sometime benefactor and patron waiting his audience.
Foyle had never liked working for the petty Thanat lordling who considered the world owed him a better living. But this subterfuge paid for board and lodging all around the Hinterlands, and so long as Foyle was useful, he would be paid. He knew that. So down to South Dock he would go, like it or not, without even a half moon to light the way.
"Lost, are we matey?" came a voice from the darkness that quickly formed into a bunch of ill smelling rough spoken sea-dogs. "Coz if thats the case, landboy, we'll take yer in!". The gang were spreading out now, all gold teeth and trinkets, cudgels in hand and mean looks in the eye. It didn't look good for Foyle at all.
With a lightning move, cold iron danced and was coloured crimson within an instant. One dog crumpled to the slick cobbles in a silent daze, another spun clutching his head with a wail and a curse as blood spattered the jerkin of the third. Another deft feint brought the fourth within easy reach. Foyle picked his spot. And then there was one. Foyle regarded him with disinterest.
"My thanks, friend, but I am not lost" he said coolly, wiping the remains of the fracas from his thin blade. "And if it is of no bother to you, I shall be on my way". His sword hissed as it entered its scabbard.
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Even the most persistent of the moons searching rays could not penetrate the depths of Black Court. Deep in the heart of twisted Solis, where the day is enemy to many, and the night friend only to some, Malice moved with practiced ease, like an inky shadow across the contours of the street.
'Come to meet someone, Malice? come to kill someone?' the voice halted him in his tracks.
'Was I here on business, Scarrow, you would either be ignorant of that business, or its subject.'
'This is my patch, Malice, I know everything that goes on here. Its my job to know everything.'
'and to report everything to me Scarrow, before I find things out for myself..' Malice stared into Scarrows eyes. Oh how they reminded him of himself, a few years ago, trying to get the upper hand of his superiors, testing, pushing, just so far, finding the limits.
'You have found my limits, Scarrow.' he whispered as he turned and stalked off into the cloak of a nameless sidestreet shadow.
A look of perplexion crossed Scarrows face, momentarily illuminated by a brief break in the clouds. An instant more and he understood. He had watched treacherous Malice rise to power, at first in awe, then with envy. Scarrow decided his opening move was not one of his best. He considered the knife in his belt, considered his opponent, considered his odds. Long ones, and chance was not his best game.
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To the Underdeeps
Haunt of the Perytons
Deep in the heart of the Old Wood, where the river runs slow and dark, there is a place forgotten. And if ever you should tread the moss grown paths and long lost tracks to its eerie courtyard, remember well the warnings you heard.
Dwelt there an age ago, a twisted mind, a soul sold to Dark Devices and caught up by the Magic of Night. Wrought there, an age ago, torment and suffering for the persuit of selfish desire whose bounds knew no limits. Tormented there, an age ago, abominations crafted with hideous incantations offered up to Dream Spawned Terrors. Doomed there, an age ago, the follower grown too sure of his own ability.
That misery tower, where once a twisted mage worked his strange incantations, holds many secrets. Many arcane experiments went on in its seclusion, hidden from an untrusting world. Calling forth Dark powers with binding rituals, the mage channeled magical spirits of the Underworld to his work. Twisting nature was his game, forging blood and sinue with bark and root, forcing hoof and beak to meld as one, grafting wing with claw, fang to feather, brain and brawn. But the perils of Dark worship are many, and the Rituals hard to master. And in his self importance, the mage became lax, and his incantations became flawed, binding the Powers he tapped with bonds no longer strong and sure.
His terrible cries were lost in the twisted wilderness that shrouded his lonely laboratory, heard by no living soul and headed not by those others that lurked in the dark and gloom he had created.
And now? When you hear the wail of the banshee in the dark wood, do not tarry! For the hauntings and apparitions are the fruits of a mad mans labours, and they are as twisted as the mind that concieved of them, and as dark as the powers that made them.
The woods and delves around the tower are home to strange unearthly crossbreads. Owlbears stalk the woods where Dark Trees cast their shadows, Leucrotta hunt Catoblepas in small packs, DarkenBeasts scurry and flit in the gloom, preying on the unwary. And in the old ruins of the tower itself live a group of Perytons, dark, brooding and dangerous.
So when you hear some ungodly screech or otherworldly roar, check your weapons, double your guard and, with haste, retrace your steps to safety.
Winner of the Legendgames / Valkyrie map competition.
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Javis Ghan examined the old parchment in minute detail. The soft leathery feel made the hairs stand on his neck, and his tongue tingled with distaste. There were old markings that he could not make out, ancient words and strange symbols, almost part of the material itself, almost like some ritual tattoo deep within the medium that someone later had used to scribe the layout of Darkholm Keep.
But the Keep was his main interest, deep in the cold heart of Solis, built ancient into the very bedrock that supported a writhing, living city. Many were the rumours of ancient treasures in its dark and forgotten vaults, and many were the tales of terror that went with them. Guardians, magics, curses, madness! He had heard them all his life, as a child being scolded by his mothers harsh tongue, as a tearaway adolescent, by the Guard Captain cursing him with his last fetid breath, and as a grown man in the taverns and bawdy houses of Dockside where gossip flows as free as ale.
It had occured to Javis Ghan that some of these tales, grown longer over the years in the telling no doubt, may hold a whisper of truth. Somewhere, running through them all, might be a common thread. And sat in the Grey Lady tavern this cold winters eve, in front of him a map set on a strange old parchment, he was sure he heard that whisper. A quiet echo perhaps, but there none the less, if you cared to listen.
A shadow-clad figure entered the sanctuary from the chill night, his breath hanging about him like a misty veil. Glancing about from the refuge of a voluminous hood, he made his way through the crowded isle to the bar, hidden beneath a wooden walkway upon which all manners of folk laughed, drank, sang and talked. Lusty bar-wenches threaded their way between table and groping hand, teasing with uncovered thigh and heaving bosom.
The newcomer leaned forward and spoke to the barkeeper in a voice barely audible above the clamor of the inn. The barman nodded and disappeared through a door hidden in the gloom at the back of the bar. Leaning casually against the bar, the cloaked man pushed back his cowl and surveyed the scene before him.
The vaulted hallway was lit by a score of smoking tallow candles raised on a great iron girandole, and numerous oil burning bronze nightlights. A thick, grimy, detail obscuring smog hung in the air. The walls, made of large granite blocks, were grime coated, bare of decoration and, with the exception of two barred and shuttered windows either side of the door, devoid of any vent or issue. Two wooden stairways ascended to the pile-supported walkway that snaked, crowdedly, around the place, giving vantage over the entire hallway. A cheer rose from a nearby table as dice clattered and coin changed hands. Ale flew in all directions from the gantry as a difference of opinions was voiced. Shouts of encouragement were lost in the tumultuous uproar as a brawl erupted on the arched balcony above the gamblers tables. An unfortunate toppled helplessly over the flimsy railings and crashed heavily onto a huckster's bench-board, sending coins and cards dancing across the flagstone floor. Folk deep in drink dived and scrambled to recover the unexpected windfall, spreading the confusion and upheaval to all corners of the bar.
The visitor turned as the barkeep reappeared from the back room. 'Just another night', he said and smiled, 'never changes, eh?' he took the package from the barman and made his way carefully into the night...
There are no regulars at the Pigs Gut. No familiar faces, at least not friendly ones. None of the clientele is here to drink and none are here to enjoy the atmosphere. The owners never make a profit from selling liquor, although the prices are fair. Like the belly of a whale some enter and are never seen again, most do not even try.
The Pigs Gut Tavern has only one reason for existence, one undeniable and very dark purpose - the illicit business of the covert meeting. Meetings for a myriad of diverse reason, incubators of devious plots, but always most secret and only for the eyes and ears of the intended participants. Unfortunately that was exactly what Strat wanted to do. He was an accomplished spy with an air about him, attuned to the eavesdropping of closed conversations but never in a place like this. No normal benches and tavern tables, the whole rancid place was full of closed booths, made from thick oak impregnated with hundreds of years of silent secrets. Here he was, sitting in one of the said booths two away from the conversation he was being paid to know about and not able to hear a single word. The chain mail curtain blocked his view of the common room but it felt as if a score of hidden eyes were boring into him. This whole thing was starting to look bad. In mounting desperation Strat looked towards the heavens pleading for inspiration. The idea hit him like a ton of rat droppings. The damn roof was missing from his booth, which was probably why it was unoccupied in the first place. If he could just climb along the top of the booths, surly he could hear the proceedings from above.
A cautious head rose from the booth, the common room was black as night only a dank smoke hung in the air illuminated from the odd improperly drawn mail curtain. He eased himself onto the divider between his booth and the next, muscles quivering with silent effort. Inch by inch the distance between him and the target booth grew less. The rough wood of the booth vivid in his perception, who knows what shady deals were being struck in the spaces below him, he didn't let his mind dwell on them only the booth in front of him was of importance. Every breath, every creak of the wood seemed amplified beyond measure, if he was caught now, it would be a river water breakfast.
After what seamed like an eternity Strat reach his goal, now he would have results. Hushed words began to filter up to his keen ears. Then the bottom fell out of Strats' world or more accurately the top of the booth, a thousand times a thousand families of wood worm had done their work well. The table rose up to met him in a cloud of dust and splinters, men stood in a single gasp, like lightning steel grew from grubby hands. Then silence fell, a voice coughed in an atmosphere gone thick. Strats' mind raced, to fight was useless. "Err...rat catcher. There be a big-un in this here tavern. You seen 'im?"
Strat didn't enjoy his breakfast....
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"You don't want to go there, friend. No sir, that's not a place I'd care to show my face on any night, no sir".
"Do you, or do you not know of such a place......... friend". There was something in the way the outsider said 'friend' that told the bravo here was trouble and that if he wanted to smell the smog of a new day he'd better be straight. There was no denying it, all the signs were plane to see for one who knows. That certain walk, casual but full of contained intent. A slight awkwardness of step that said there was probably a blade strapped in a hidden place. It was in the way he held his shoulders and how the folds of his leather didn't quite mask what was underneath.
He wore his brown hair in long tightly woven braids that hinted at a military background. Ground glass skin stretched over a lean face with eyes that penetrated and cut into everything hidden. Oh yes, this was a dangerous man and he didn't try too damn hard to hide it.
"Ain't easy to find, you gotta look good. See that side street down there, follow it to the end and turn sharp left at the burnt out warehouse. Go on down the slope a way, on your right there's a covered alley with steps down. Bad looking place, it's easy to miss. Just look out for the snake chimney above the arch. Follow that all the way along the ally... there you are - The Serpents Gain".
The eyes blinked lizard like, digesting the information sorting the moves planing actions.
"You sure you don't want me to get one of the beggars to show you the way?" Just a little push, stretch the man see how far you could go, It might stand you well to have the measure of a man like this. The tight skin creased pulling a half smile out of the thin mouth, letting out a little breath to be lost in the stagnant night air.
"Not necessary... friend". One last glancing cut with those eyes and the stranger turned, moving off with his half limping fluidity that just wouldn't let him blend in.
"Yes sir, there goes a whole canal load of trouble that's wound real tight".
extract from 'Burning Bridges'
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The movement of thick dark clouds over the moon played with the shadows that cloaked the streets of Solis. There in the offal and human stench, the root of all evil (or at least the major branch), Shadows people played their games. Night after night the gears meshed, the cogs turned, the machinery oiled and running smoothly. But not these last nights, not recently.
Malice stood where no light could penetrate, watching the man before him, noting the most trivial of movements, watching for signs he was spotted. For hours he had followed this man though the filthy back streets and alleys, for hours he had plotted his demise. For days he had wondered who it was that gave out the secrets he so jealously guarded. Tonight he would find out. Soon he would know. The anticipation dried his mouth, made the hairs on his neck stand up, pulsed round his body like fire. He felt again the keen edge of the long thin misericord, soot blackened, as dark as the night and shadows he lived in, and focused again on his prey.
'You stupid fool Feyde, did you really think you could keep your little Guild sneak from me? No, fool, instead you have led me straight to him.' Malices' eyes narrowed. His tongue wetted his pursed lips and a smile of anticipation began to show. Feyde had stopped at the junction of two alleys, glanced around, then put one hand against the wall. He made water there, that must be the sign all was well. A second figure emerged from the depths of the alley, hooded, cautious, like a hunted animal. The two met.
'So Feyde, the traitor shows himself at last.' Malice mused to himself. Feyde, one of the rare breed of non Guild thief, had been doing very well for himself lately, much too well for a man working alone.
Now to work. Malice moved forward silently, up against the opposite alley wall edging along palm width by palm width. When only a man’s height separated them did he risk another look. Feyde was holding a parchment, tracing a line with a grubby finger, the other was speaking in low tones. Malice watched and listened, hardly able to hold himself back. Both of them, he would be rid of a traitor and an opponent at once. He steeled his jaw, hardly daring to breathe as the traitors quiet words reached his ears, condemning himself to a fate none would wish on even their enemies.
The deal done, coin changed hands and Feyde slunk off into the dark. A heart beat later, the traitor shuddered and dropped to his knees, four inches of bright steel protruding from his throat, fear and vomit rising in his chest. Perfectly delivered, it was not a killing strike, not yet, not swiftly and easily. ‘Oh no, never swiftly, never easily, not for traitors’ thought Malice
"Come, come little man don't be so frightened. Your death won't be so sudden!" The voice of Malice was cold and edged with venom. A strong hand reached forward and griped the hood covering the face. One jerk and the traitor was revealed. Ever the face of Malice was surprised. Sujekso died less swiftly than he would have prayed, an example must be made to the other Guild apprentices. ‘All in all a very satisfactory nights work’
Extract from 'Shadows People'
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That winter smell had come to Solis. Fresh winds penetrated deep into her intricate alleyways and boulevards sweeping away all taint of warmth; it was as if the summer had never been. Multitudes of garishly clad street hawkers proclaimed their wares as excellent protection against the coming cold and the food markets dwindled with every passing moon. The fervent days of high summer were gone like long lost friends. Heat wrought apathy was replaced by the anxiety of lean times to come. The nights drew closer, extending the dark hours when men feel the calling of their blackened hearts for activities nefarious.
Winter was coming.
Rain descended like a thin gossamer web from a sky the colour of old straw, almost imperceptible but it left everything soaking. The ramshackle buildings of Dockside glistened in its oily residue and many were the occupants who wished they'd paid more attention to roof repairs.
One such tenement, a drinking hole called the Welcome Grave, sat at the nether end of an open courtyard, its rotten and stained facade defiant in the prospect of another hard winter.
Malice sat alone in the main room, all other patrons having left with the passing of the night or been dumped outside to sleep off the drink. A full mug of flat ale rested on the table in front of him and a small black pool of dried blood stained the floor by his right boot. Malices' dark hard face was splashed with mud or something, a two day growth of stubble shadowed his chin and his piercing eyes were red rimed. No one had come near him after he had entered last night, staggering slightly and carrying that pitch-black sword. Only the barman, unbidden, had approached to place the mug at his table. Malice hadn't even acknowledged his presence, and the barman did not ask for payment.
He sat there all night wrapped in his own dark, dangerous thoughts.
Extract from 'Wintersign'
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A word or two to the wise
Shadow’s people
The sweat of the nights work was dripping like black blood down the face of Death himself. Holding that so sharp of daggers, he felt elated. The blade gave him will and purpose. It fulfilled his very essence, it filled his dark heart, it filled his black soul. That brought a smile to his face. They called him Malice, or Shadow, or Death. They said his soul had rotted in the pits of Hell long ago, they called him soulless. They said much about Malice, but never did they say it to his face.
He stood in the doorway of a small room, his dark eyes fixed on the dark shadow that was its occupants bed. His pulse surged through his temple, drowning out all sound, masking his awareness of everything except the blade in his hand, gripped tight, and focusing his mind on the prone form, asleep, unaware, oblivious. Malice licked his lips, his mouth sticky, his eyes focused as if he stood in a long, dark tunnel.
‘Not tonight, my friend, not yet’. The words formed only in his mind, no breath issued from pursed lips. ‘I am not finished with you’. Words and thoughts mingled, flashes of steel in moonlight. ‘You are still too useful’. lips now moving, almost imperceptibly, visions of eyes wide with terror and the gurgle of a mans last breath. His finger running up the edge of the blade. His thoughts moved back through the miasma of his mind, back to events of earlier....
The movement of thick dark clouds over the moon played with the shadows that cloaked the streets of Solis. There in the offal and human stench, the root of all evil (or at least the major branch), Shadows people played their games. Night after night the gears meshed, the cogs turned, the machinery oiled and running smoothly. But not these last nights, not recently.
Malice stood where no light could penetrate, watching the man before him, noting the most trivial of movements, watching for signs he was spotted. For hours he had followed this man though the filthy back streets and alleys, for hours he had plotted his demise. For days he had wondered who it was that gave out the secrets he so jealously guarded. Tonight he would find out. Soon he would know. The anticipation dried his mouth, made the hairs on his neck stand up, pulsed round his body like fire. He felt again the keen edge of the long thin misericord, soot blackened, as dark as the night and shadows he lived in, and focused again on his prey.
'You stupid fool Feyde, did you really think you could keep your little Guild sneak from me? No, fool, instead you have led me straight to him.' Malices' eyes narrowed. His tongue wetted his pursed lips and a smile of anticipation began to show. Feyde had stopped at the junction of two alleys, glanced around, then put one hand against the wall. He made water there, that must be the sign all was well. A second figure emerged from the depths of the alley, hooded, cautious, like a hunted animal. The two met.
'So Feyde, the traitor shows himself at last.' Malice mused to himself. Feyde, one of the rare breed of non Guild thief, had been doing very well for himself lately, much too well for a man working alone.
Now to work. Malice moved forward silently, up against the opposite alley wall edging along palm width by palm width. When only a man’s height separated them did he risk another look. Feyde was holding a parchment, tracing a line with a grubby finger, the other was speaking in low tones. Malice watched and listened, hardly able to hold himself back. Both of them, he would be rid of a traitor and an opponent at once. He steeled his jaw, hardly daring to breathe as the traitors quiet words reached his ears, condemning himself to a fate none would wish on even their enemies.
The deal done, coin changed hands and Feyde slunk off into the dark. A heart beat later, the traitor shuddered and dropped to his knees, four inches of bright steel protruding from his throat, fear and vomit rising in his chest. Perfectly delivered, it was not a killing strike, not yet, not swiftly and easily. ‘Oh no, never swiftly, never easily, not for traitors’ thought Malice
"Come, come little man don't be so frightened. Your death won't be so sudden!" The voice of Malice was cold and edged with venom. A strong hand reached forward and griped the hood covering the face. One jerk and the traitor was revealed. Ever the face of Malice was surprised. Sujekso died less swiftly than he would have prayed, an example must be made to the other Guild apprentices. ‘All in all a very satisfactory nights work’
The images of the remembered events brought a fresh wave of elation welling deep within him, spreading like quick poison. He held onto the door frame for support, to stop the swoon, but couldn't even feel the rough wood, only the coldness of his blade seemed real to him.‘Too useful to me Feyde’ his eyes staring, cold, yet burning with the flames of Hell. ‘Not yet’, black thoughts becoming the murmur of half formed words, silver edged on a single dark breath. "Not yet" The rush passed. He moved back out of the room, his body so attuned to stealth that only the air was disturbed. The band of weak light across the floor thinned then disappeared altogether with the closing of the door.Now the only light in the room came from the stars through the half shuttered window and even that was partially blocked by the figure perched on the ledge. Observant to all that had passed in the small room, contemplating the quiet words he had heard issue from the mouth of Death, Feyde sat, deep within his own shadowy thoughts.
Copyright 2000 R.S. Barnes & A.J. Warner
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Silent killer all that glitters
Guttering torches cast eerie shadows that dance along the wet, slimy walls of the long forgotten catacombs. Water lies stagnant and still, pooling where the age old floor has fallen and worn away. Ahead in the dark, reflections glitter gold and silver, shimmering as the torch flames flicker closer.
As the tomb robbers approach, a glistening film retracts into the dark, leaving only a thin sticky film over the scattered coins, bits of armour and other debris that lies scattered among the moist dirt of the passage floor. Eager hands grab and claw at unguarded treasure, turning up old belt buckles, bits of tough leather and the odd half decayed old shoe among the coins. A glistening gossamer slurry descends the walls and forms into a quivering mass, silently enveloping the would be robbers, who realise, too late, All that glitters is not gold
A scream as burning pain sears bare hands and faces, cries of anguish as movement is curtailed, gelatinous slime oozing around legs and bodies, eating into cloth and leather. Desperate frenzy of movement, fight, fight, slash, flail.... the cold grip of Death veiled in the glistening guise of a silent, mindless killer.
A hiss and sputter as bright fire shoots pockmarks and boiling hollows into the enshrouding mass, causing it to recoil, at least in places. A breath of air roars into bursting lungs as the slimy tendrils retreat from the heat of flaming torches. With great effort, bodies pull free from the cloying gel, pain still searing their skins. Compatriots they ignored in the rush for wealth pull them clear of the massive slime now coalescing into a huge uneven blob with writhing fluid tentacles, pulsing with violent colour and shooting acid coated tentacles like whips into the fray.
Wielding torches like swords in battle, the group retreat up the strangely worn steps into a large room, their mindless foe slurping and slipping after them with strange sounds, still pulsing vibrant threats of rage tinted colour, leaving an acid coated trail smoldering in its wake. Victims are washed clean, with water, wine, holy water, washed in the putrid pools, anything to stop the acid rot, their screams still echoing in the dark, haunting the many passages like woeful souls.
Copyright Andy Warner 2004
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Boom Pearlman stood in the shadows of Curio Court, welcome relief from the hot sun that brought the smells up from below streets. You could even smell the sea, when the wind blew from Dockside. He was beginning to loose patience with the beggar sat trying vainly to polish his black leather boots with an old bit of rag.
"Enough, boot boy, Your rag is cleaner now than before, and my boots stained with gods know what!" It was then that Boom noticed the rag was really rather plush. Red satin braided with gold under all that grime and festering filth. And a badge there too, in gold thread. He snatched it from the gnarled hands of the beggar, who seemed not to care.
A quick wash in the slop bucket and, yes, he could see now. An embroidered gold badge of office, or something similar. The crest of the house of Karu Gan, late of Dalhaven, now of Solis?. And how come an old beggar had this, worth a few coin just for the gold, and possibly more to the right person for the knowledge it contained.
Pearlman followed after the beggar, down by the Grey Lady Arch and into the Dive beyond. A twist and a turn later, the beggar was gone. No trace, not even on the wind. Pearlman cursed.
"To the Hells with you, stench bringer, damn you to....." it dawned on him "to the sewers!."
Within moments Boom Pearlman was standing at the entrance to a dark and fetid cut, half hidden by dilapidated buildings and rotting garbage. Half hidden, but most definately an entrance to the ways below streets. A pair of beady eyes watched as Pearlman carefully made his way into the dank and the dark. The place of beggars and thieves. The den of the outcast and the rogue, the places where the Rats Run.
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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"The trouble with Galen Bar" Malice started, "is that he has lost his fear." He stared at Trivitt Blain, collections officer for the prosperous Moneybelt district that bordered what passed as high town in this accursed city.
"No fear, no payment. Isn't that right, Blain?"
Blain said not a word, but his scheming mind was working overtime, and sweat beaded his brow.
"Well, lads," continued Malice, " I happen to have here a rather useful map at my disposal, showing our good friend Galens home and castle, over on Cash Street." He motioned to three of the better housebreakers sat in the meeting room. "Go make good the discrepancy, lads. The vault is marked, and we seem to have a way in too, if Blains quill-boy is to be believed". Another knowing stare at the now downbeat Blain.
Javis Gan took the map from Malice with a smirk. He knew the way to play this one, he had done Malices' bidding oft before. Just had to find another horses head before tonight, nice and fresh, maybe one eye gouged out and left staring from the piles of coin and notes of promise. They would have no more trouble with Galen Bar after tonight.
Now all is not what it seems at the house of Galen Bar, and Trivitt Blain knows it all too well. No horses head left in the money pile would make Galen regain his fear of the Guild. No intimidation or threats, no suggestions of deeds most horrid, no nothing. For Galen Bar is no more a money lender and extortioner. He is simply dead. And has been for a few weeks now. And if you were to look real close at Trivitt Blain, you might notice a bit more jewelry on his fat little fingers than usual, a new cut to his cloth or a few more coin in his pouch. For Trivitt Blain has had Galen Bar killed, and now he fears for his own life, for no one outwits black hearted Malice, heir apparent to the dark throne of Underground Solis.
The map is more or less accurate. Alas there is a big pile of logs stacked over the trap door in the outhouse, and shifting it is out of the question. So another way in is needed, horses head and all. Take a look around and about. The buildings nearby provide ample vantage points and can be climbed easily with rope and grapple. The gaps between buildings are small enough to jump (well, just about) and from the higher roof near by, a small skylight can be seen in the rear of the tower where it joins the main roof. With no map of the upper floor, the footpads will have to be extra vigilant as they make their way to the vault. The place now houses a couple of Blains boys who are not Guild members, and the rest of Galens family are locked in the cellar below the kitchen (not marked on the map). Picking the vault lock should be tricky but not impossible - play up the situation, make the sweat drip! Once inside, the horse head can be left staring from the money pile. Now Malice didn't say to take anything, did he? But he didn't say not too either! Get my drift, Nightboys?
Can Trivitt get away with this one? how long before Malice finds out? Will it matter to him anyway? If Trivitt pays the dues, Malice might let him continue his new career. We will just have to wait and see now, wont we.....
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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A body, all wrapped up in a cocoon of rich cloth, like some ancient funeral smock, bedecked with signs and sigils. Funny place to find it, caught up behind the valve of a sewer gate down on dockside, smelling worse than the fetid mud and slime that made every footstep risky....
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Kurly Burr looked around for something a little more substantial to scibe onto this time. His last masterpiece had fallen apart in the hands of an apprentice housebreaker deep within the maze of tunnels under the old Bastion. It took them three days to find him down there, and by that time he wasn't best pleased, and for some reason didn't seem to care much about substandard papermakers, rough rag and high acid contents. Burr rubbed the still tender lump under his thick black hair, now grey flecked, that gave him his nickname.
He carefully unwrapped another package of expensive, imported (and somewhat stolen) high quality paper from Dal Haven. A cursory inspection told him this paper was no better than the rest. Not waterproof, and too light, it would never do for this particular map. Sitting and pondering, he started to doodle on the corner of the discarded wrap, but the ink in his quill didnt take, it just puddled up in tiny inky balls. Chasing them with the fine nib, they wandered across the waxy surface and it occured to him that the wrapping might be more use than the contents it was protecting.
A quick check and yes! the other side of the heavy paper was not waxed and took the ink perfectly! Setting his small half glasses on his nose he dipped the quill in squid ink and, working quickly but accurately, Burr the cartographer started on his latest assignment - the description and mapping of an old Thieves den in the heart of South Well Place, just off the main Dock road by the Bonded Warehouses. He chuckled as he noticed the repeated pattern printed on the paper, a merchants seal and the words 'Bonded Warehouse 0275' - a building he knew stood right above the catacombes he was even now colouring with titanium white and a bit of yellow ochre.
A sketch of South Well Place that will be Burrs next project.....
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"There's nowt yer but barrels, like he said Cap'n. An' all wi' the bonding masters sign on 'em, right proper." The guards just stood there, looking at the Captain, mindless now that the trail was cold.
'Not a brain between them' he thought as he pondered the situation. He had seen the pilfering little sneak go into the tavern. He had most definately not seen him leave, and he wasn't here now. Well, unless he hid better than a rat in drainpipe, that is.
"Rat in a drain pipe" tapping his lip now, mind linking the pieces of this jigsaw. " Search again boys, and then again. Go through this place inch by inch. Take up floor boards if you need to, but find that petty little thief. Find him and I double your pay tonight."
Blagg the barman watched nervously, the last thing he wanted was some petty guard captain using the tavern as a step stone to promotion. He could risk them finding the hidden cellar, many places had hidies and the such, but it was not to his liking. "I got another cellar, captain, afore yer lads go tearin' my liveli'ood t' ruin" he motioned up the steps "up 'ere, I keeps it fer me special bits, like."
And so he showed the guard over to the hidey, and protested much when they insisted on watching him open it up. "Not much use now as a hidey" he muttered, as the last guard disappeared into the darkness. Still, the Stone foundations that supported this canal cursed city held many secrets, a few more bleached bones wouldn't make much difference. He grimaced as he heard the first stifled yell from below, and pushed the well concealed trapdoor firmly back into place. He slid the bolt as the first fists beat at it in frenzied terror. He laid the carpet back down - that helped dull the noise - and soon the yells died down, soon there was silence.
Blagg hoped the guards wouldn't be missed, not least until his story was straight, anyway. "Guards? what, here? No sir, they wouldn't be drinkin' in a dive like this now would they, Sir? Not that I wouldn't want the coin an' all, Sir, but your boys, they got standards don't they, Sir?".......
All images and text copyright © 2000 LegendGames.co.uk Permission is granted for personal use only.
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"So that's your task, boys. Pure and simple, bring me the Book of Names." It had taken Malice some time to locate the old Book of Names. Until earlier in the week, he didn't really believe it existed, now he not only knew it did, but where it was located. Rennago was a collector, of the odd, the esoteric, the exotic, and of course the ancient. How he came to own the book was unimportant. How he would be relieved of it was the uppermost thought in the machinating mind of Malice.
Javis Gan was having a good month. A recent mission at the house of Galen Bar had brought him to the attention of Malice. Unmasking Trivitt Blain as an embezzler and swindler has further promoted him in the eyes of dark Malice, and now he was reaping the rewards. He took the depiction of Rennagos house from Malice without a word. No map this time, not that the last one had been any help. Javis Gan liked to work on the edge, rely on his wits, live dangerous.
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The clunk of the lock mechanism yielding to a professional touch and slight groan of rusted hinges sounded as thunder in the ears of Strat, the foremost spy in the city of Solis.
Dark as it was in the shadow haunted stairwell that led from Black Court down into the bowels of Curio, Strat felt strangely visible. He never liked visiting Curio in the day, let alone at night. In the day he could at least melt into the crowds that thronged the place, haggling over pennies for curios from distant lands or rooting through crates of oddments, dusk laden and dirty. But at night, Curio Court was empty. Dead. Silent. Only the shadows and his own guile could protect him from watchful eyes.
"Ideal for a spy, Strat! No-one to disturb you eh? No-one to dump you in the briny!" He was talking to himself again, never a good sign. More squealings and groanings from the old hinges were soon pacified by the application of Strats specially prepared mineral oil. A few seconds later and the shadows at the bottom of the steps under Black Arch were home to more than just rats.
Peering from the dark into the gloom that was Curio Court, sunk deep into the city like some dark well whose sheer sides were a multitude of dwellings, shop fronts, workshops and residences, Strat watched, and waited. And waited some more, as there were more than the eyes of rats to avoid, for Curio Court was a strange place and no mistake.
Far too late for the Watch now, Strats heart beat faster. He could hardly contain himself. Then it started. The strange, sonorous voice he had heard a few nights previously, floating on the night breeze. It transfixed him now as it had then, he could hardly move. Slowly, he regained his composure, breathed again and peered into the dark.
The beauty of the enchantment wound itself around him, caressed his cheek, filled his very heart and mind, drawing him into the Court, into the open. Caring not for hidden watchers, Strat stepped out of his hidey, darkness falling away from him like a cloak discarded.
Strat froze, his mouth open, his eyes wide. There before him, wrapped up in her own sweet song, was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She moved slowly, swaying in time to her own music, her face hidden from him. Around the well she went, carefree and winsome, and very, very naked. And as she sat on the well edge, her toes making circles in the cold, clear water she turned to see the unwanted guest. Her singing stopped of a sudden, her face a visage of alarm. A heartbeat they stared eye to eye, a heartbeat that would haunt Strat the rest of his life. For a heartbeat later, she was gone. Simply gone. No more of her remained than a song in the memory of Strat the Spy and a ripple on the water in an old, old well.
And from a window in the Grey Lady Inn, hidden in the shadow of the vines, an old man watched with tired eyes. He managed a thin smile as he watched Strat steel into the night, wiped a tear from his time worn cheek and sighed a longing sigh that faded into the dark.
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At Night, in Curio Court.
Heavy, laboured footsteps on the wooden walkway sent a shower of debris to the alley floor 20 or so feet below. Feyde Jen Jorhan stoped to catch his breath, clutching the sodden handrail and breathing out a dragons breath into the cold night air. A deep breath, and off again, quietly this time, careful footsteps on the slippery woodwork that could easy send the unwary to a hard landing in the dimness of Kanker below. The dark cloak of night did its best to hide him, but as heavy clouds parted momentarily, a half moon left him caught in its eery light, silhouetted against a backdrop of roofs and chimneys, easy pickings.
'There lads! theres the bastard!' they cry went up and chase was given. Fleeting thoughts of turn and fight were quickly dismissed at the bright flash and whizz of lead in the air around Feyde. The thunder peel report caught up with him as he jumped to the nearest flat roof, landed at a run and vaulted a low parapet to another roof below. The sound of so many on the walkway behind him and the thought of their weaponry gave him an extra boost as he clambered down an old drainpipe to the safety of the shadows and alleyways that wound about the warren that was Kanker Court.
The sound of splintering wood and creaking pilings could herald only one eventuality, the chase was about to descend to the floor the quick way. Taking a moment to orient himself in the confines of Kanker, Feyde set off into the dark of a nearby alley. Shouting and commotion behind was opening doors and windows, and the eyes of Kanker were peering into every nook and crany. Feyde flattened himself against a wall below an old brick overhang, one with the shadows. Slowly, as a shadow himself, he made his way deeper into the maze. Left, right, right, up the narrow steps behind an old warehouse, hold, watch, listen, gods even breath a bit. Feyde was not happy. Kanker was a bad place to get lost in, too many cuts and lanes, too many steps and arches that all look the same.
'Damn my stupidity' he risked the words under his breath, as he heard the soft steps of wary persuers now caught in a game of cat and mouse, his hand moving to the place his rapier hilt should be. 'Damn your stupidity Feyde Jen Jorhan' thought this time, not said. The ruddy light of a guttering torch lapped into the dark that held him, reflected momentarily off some exposed trinket still dangling from his pocket and the cry went up.
Like a pack of dogs the bravados charged in tumolt into the narrow alley, crowding and snarling at the base of a wall as Feyde just managed to fling himself over its top. Cat and mouse? no, he thought as he regainded his feet, cat and dog! Another climb up risked a shot from unseen muskets below, but it was up, or be caught. Old plaster fell away from the wall in chunks as He just managed to gain the roof above, another climb, reach out and stretch and he has on a flat roof again, high above the floor below. It was not raining, but the sea mist was sending tendrils creeping into the heart of Old Solis, making everything wet and treacherous. Below he could see the Dogs gatherings, pulling new pack members from hitherto un-noticed places, could see the glow of torches and lanterns iluminating the mist making it an eery sight.
Grim faces were illuminated in an instant of powder fire, a volley of shot screamed in the heavy air. Feyde dived for the uncertainty of the a walkway below, hoping it would hold his weight on impact. Luck was with him, at least for now. At a pace too fast for safety he charged along the boards, jumping the gaps and rotten bits, slipping where wood was sodden and mildewed, snagging his cloak on rusty nails and jutting timbers. Down some steps, slamming into another walkway as they gave way under his weight.
Torches in procession danced behind him in a many pronged attack, some up above, most down below.
Breathing hard and fast he rounded a corner at speed. The walkway ended. No rail, no handhold. No sound either, just the wind as he carreered downward toward the uncertainty below. With a crack and splintering Feyde hit the ground. But he did not stop, as rubbish engulfed him, covering his track he did not stop. His mind raced as he continued to tumble, and he felt something crack as he hit solidity. But still he did not stop, over and over, smack into a wall, crash off a ledge, the wind driven out of him and the sense knocked out of him, disorientation and more falling until at last he lay crumpled and broken in the cold, silent darkness that could become his grave.
extract from Fight or Flight
copyright 2001 Andy Warner
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Javis Ghan examined the old parchment in minute detail. The soft leathery feel made the hairs stand on his neck, and his tongue tingled with distaste. There were old markings that he could not make out, ancient words and strange symbols, almost part of the material itself, almost like some ritual tattoo deep within the medium that someone later had used to scribe the layout of Darkholm Keep.
But the Keep was his main interest, deep in the cold heart of Solis, built ancient into the very bedrock that supported a writhing, living city. Many were the rumours of ancient treasures in its dark and forgotten vaults, and many were the tales of terror that went with them. Guardians, magics, curses, madness! He had heard them all his life, as a child being scolded by his mothers harsh tongue, as a tearaway adolescent, by the Guard Captain cursing him with his last fetid breath, and as a grown man in the taverns and bawdy houses of Dockside where gossip flows as free as ale.
It had occured to Javis Ghan that some of these tales, grown longer over the years in the telling no doubt, may hold a whisper of truth. Somewhere, running through them all, might be a common thread. And sat in the Grey Lady tavern this cold winters eve, in front of him a map set on a strange old parchment, he was sure he heard that whisper. A quiet echo perhaps, but there none the less, if you cared to listen.
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Grief showed itself in the face of Chenyaya. In the way she stood, in the way she stared, in everything that she had become. For so long she had searched for a missing part of her life. In those times she had felt empty and alone. Then Solis loomed in her path, dark, evil Solis. Perhaps it seeks out those who are lost. Those who are seeking something they cannot describe. They are destined to end up here in its twisted streets, ever to search a maze more tortuous than any devised by man, for a prize that does not exist. But Solis gave her hope. All around were the dross of Humanity, the downtrodden, the lost, the hopeless. And here, she was, above them, better than them, destined for more than they could ever hope for.
But time went on and still Chenyaya felt empty, alone. Even among the throng of human detritus that crowded about her she could not grasp that missing piece, that something else. Until the day she met him. Oh how the Fates are cruel and whimsical. For too short a time she knew what she was missing. Love, yes, but more than that. Companionship, a bond, an empathy a tie so close they could almost be one. And now she knew a fate more cruel than death. She knew grief. A grief that can never be wiped away, that knifes to the deepest core with a blade of ice and fire. A grief that she could never imagine in her life Before. Some say it is better to have loved and lost, than to never have loved at all. Chenyaya knows different.
But there is a relative of grief, close as a brother, but grim as Death, and its name is Revenge. Rue the day, Solis, that Chenyaya takes up the Mask. Wish you were elsewhere, wish you were gone, wish even that you were dead before now. Grief is a hunger that can never be quelled. Revenge is a dish best served cold.
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Walking the jetties and quays of South Dock alone, at night is akin to walking the plank - not a good idea at the best of times. But Foyle had no choice tonight. Down under the shadow of the Spur, where the Scar Bridge loomed above the dark water, was moored the Sea Dirge. A small, battered and decidedly unshipshape craft from Thanat, to the North. And on the Dirge, Foyle would find his sometime benefactor and patron waiting his audience.
Foyle had never liked working for the petty Thanat lordling who considered the world owed him a better living. But this subterfuge paid for board and lodging all around the Hinterlands, and so long as Foyle was useful, he would be paid. He knew that. So down to South Dock he would go, like it or not, without even a half moon to light the way.
"Lost, are we matey?" came a voice from the darkness that quickly formed into a bunch of ill smelling rough spoken sea-dogs. "Coz if thats the case, landboy, we'll take yer in!". The gang were spreading out now, all gold teeth and trinkets, cudgels in hand and mean looks in the eye. It didn't look good for Foyle at all.
With a lightning move, cold iron danced and was coloured crimson within an instant. One dog crumpled to the slick cobbles in a silent daze, another spun clutching his head with a wail and a curse as blood spattered the jerkin of the third. Another deft feint brought the fourth within easy reach. Foyle picked his spot. And then there was one. Foyle regarded him with disinterest.
"My thanks, friend, but I am not lost" he said coolly, wiping the remains of the fracas from his thin blade. "And if it is of no bother to you, I shall be on my way". His sword hissed as it entered its scabbard.
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Even the most persistent of the moons searching rays could not penetrate the depths of Black Court. Deep in the heart of twisted Solis, where the day is enemy to many, and the night friend only to some, Malice moved with practiced ease, like an inky shadow across the contours of the street.
'Come to meet someone, Malice? come to kill someone?' the voice halted him in his tracks.
'Was I here on business, Scarrow, you would either be ignorant of that business, or its subject.'
'This is my patch, Malice, I know everything that goes on here. Its my job to know everything.'
'and to report everything to me Scarrow, before I find things out for myself..' Malice stared into Scarrows eyes. Oh how they reminded him of himself, a few years ago, trying to get the upper hand of his superiors, testing, pushing, just so far, finding the limits.
'You have found my limits, Scarrow.' he whispered as he turned and stalked off into the cloak of a nameless sidestreet shadow.
A look of perplexion crossed Scarrows face, momentarily illuminated by a brief break in the clouds. An instant more and he understood. He had watched treacherous Malice rise to power, at first in awe, then with envy. Scarrow decided his opening move was not one of his best. He considered the knife in his belt, considered his opponent, considered his odds. Long ones, and chance was not his best game.
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To the Underdeeps
Haunt of the Perytons
Deep in the heart of the Old Wood, where the river runs slow and dark, there is a place forgotten. And if ever you should tread the moss grown paths and long lost tracks to its eerie courtyard, remember well the warnings you heard.
Dwelt there an age ago, a twisted mind, a soul sold to Dark Devices and caught up by the Magic of Night. Wrought there, an age ago, torment and suffering for the persuit of selfish desire whose bounds knew no limits. Tormented there, an age ago, abominations crafted with hideous incantations offered up to Dream Spawned Terrors. Doomed there, an age ago, the follower grown too sure of his own ability.
That misery tower, where once a twisted mage worked his strange incantations, holds many secrets. Many arcane experiments went on in its seclusion, hidden from an untrusting world. Calling forth Dark powers with binding rituals, the mage channeled magical spirits of the Underworld to his work. Twisting nature was his game, forging blood and sinue with bark and root, forcing hoof and beak to meld as one, grafting wing with claw, fang to feather, brain and brawn. But the perils of Dark worship are many, and the Rituals hard to master. And in his self importance, the mage became lax, and his incantations became flawed, binding the Powers he tapped with bonds no longer strong and sure.
His terrible cries were lost in the twisted wilderness that shrouded his lonely laboratory, heard by no living soul and headed not by those others that lurked in the dark and gloom he had created.
And now? When you hear the wail of the banshee in the dark wood, do not tarry! For the hauntings and apparitions are the fruits of a mad mans labours, and they are as twisted as the mind that concieved of them, and as dark as the powers that made them.
The woods and delves around the tower are home to strange unearthly crossbreads. Owlbears stalk the woods where Dark Trees cast their shadows, Leucrotta hunt Catoblepas in small packs, DarkenBeasts scurry and flit in the gloom, preying on the unwary. And in the old ruins of the tower itself live a group of Perytons, dark, brooding and dangerous.
So when you hear some ungodly screech or otherworldly roar, check your weapons, double your guard and, with haste, retrace your steps to safety.
Winner of the Legendgames / Valkyrie map competition.
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Javis Ghan examined the old parchment in minute detail. The soft leathery feel made the hairs stand on his neck, and his tongue tingled with distaste. There were old markings that he could not make out, ancient words and strange symbols, almost part of the material itself, almost like some ritual tattoo deep within the medium that someone later had used to scribe the layout of Darkholm Keep.
But the Keep was his main interest, deep in the cold heart of Solis, built ancient into the very bedrock that supported a writhing, living city. Many were the rumours of ancient treasures in its dark and forgotten vaults, and many were the tales of terror that went with them. Guardians, magics, curses, madness! He had heard them all his life, as a child being scolded by his mothers harsh tongue, as a tearaway adolescent, by the Guard Captain cursing him with his last fetid breath, and as a grown man in the taverns and bawdy houses of Dockside where gossip flows as free as ale.
It had occured to Javis Ghan that some of these tales, grown longer over the years in the telling no doubt, may hold a whisper of truth. Somewhere, running through them all, might be a common thread. And sat in the Grey Lady tavern this cold winters eve, in front of him a map set on a strange old parchment, he was sure he heard that whisper. A quiet echo perhaps, but there none the less, if you cared to listen.
story idea
Dear Abby: A few years ago, I had an affair with a woman I met at a local benefit. I'll call her 'Desiree.' As luck would have it, a few years later, Desiree would become my sister-in-law.
My wife has always been jealous of her "more attractive" sister. She reminds me of that fact every time we visit. Now Desiree is having money problems, and she's threatening to tell my wife about our "history" if I don't accommodate her needs.
My marriage is already on thin ice because I ran over my wife's dog and forgot our anniversary in the same week. What should I do?
— Blackmailed in Burbank
Dear Blackmailed: If you knuckle under to your sister-in-law's threats, her money problems will be over and you will be paying her off for the duration of your marriage. Be smart. Nip this in the bud by telling your wife everything. It isn't your fault that you met her sister first. You should thank your lucky stars you wound up marrying the right one.
My wife has always been jealous of her "more attractive" sister. She reminds me of that fact every time we visit. Now Desiree is having money problems, and she's threatening to tell my wife about our "history" if I don't accommodate her needs.
My marriage is already on thin ice because I ran over my wife's dog and forgot our anniversary in the same week. What should I do?
— Blackmailed in Burbank
Dear Blackmailed: If you knuckle under to your sister-in-law's threats, her money problems will be over and you will be paying her off for the duration of your marriage. Be smart. Nip this in the bud by telling your wife everything. It isn't your fault that you met her sister first. You should thank your lucky stars you wound up marrying the right one.
A message from Cult of James
So there I was, lovelorn and lonely, when suddenly true love came knocking at my computer's door. It wore a curious disguise -- its subject line read "my destiny boot considerate coward technetium inexcusable whirlwind calvary comply belly optimism oxen trauma bloke aerobacter" -- and it concealed itself cleverly in my Junk Mail box, like Cyrano hiding in the shadows. But I can't resist any message that promises both an "inexcusable whirlwind" and a good dose of "oxen trauma," so curiosity got the best of me. Thank the heavens, too, because one look at the tender words within, and I knew my days of tearful bachelorhood were over, at long last...What's upI am going to s.tay in the USA some timemay be we can meet each other and have some nice timeor may be more. I am looking forward to getting your messageto my personal email brave@realmeet.info.I will reply with a pictureI am nice girlLDo nqot dreply to this meSssage. WriteW to me direJctly.stabile kilohm pollux bluebush detent otiose officemate squalid wainscot advertise pedestrian libreville battlefront bedridden sinusoidal flatulent matrimony strata submitted sanskrit chert amber laymen bernhard tundra britten cenozoic aida lakehurst dichotomous indefensible bounce arrack Did you catch the hidden message? How could this magnificent mama-jama from abroad have known how long I've craved the comforts of flatulent matrimony? And could she be any more honest and open? "I am nice girl." Like I need to know anything more!The great singer-songwriter Kim Carnes once wrote that "love comes from the most unexpected places." Never did I fully appreciate the wisdom of those words until today. Where will you find your true love? Will it be in an otiose officemate (that means "lazy co-worker"; I had to look it up because my lover's vocabulary is like, way more advanced than mine) or beneath a squalid wainscot (rotting wood paneling)? Wherever it is, I hope it brings you as much joy as I am feeling right now! I'm a regular Cenozoic Aida (look it up for yourself)!
posted by Cult of James at 3:48 PM 0 comments
posted by Cult of James at 3:48 PM 0 comments
Gor on Earth - Notes for stories
http://www.gor-on-earth.com/
So often we hear of slaves who are held captive in love's chains, or have found their 'soulmate' in their Master. Norman spoke of love frequently in his books- but, not necessarily in the same light as our western society's version. This essay looks at the ideas of romantic love, the heightened focus on searching for a 'love match' among many slaves, and whether it is necessary within a Master/slave relationship for surrender to occur.
Human nature indicates there is a place for love in a Master/slave relationship, but not necessarily with the same definitions of 'infatuation-style' love that we have grown up seeing as society's norm. A Master need not be a lover, nor is a slave his peer. There is no pretense of equality, nor the illusion romance often provides of being in love with who we want to see, instead of the reality of who that person is.
I have been enslaved by men who did not love me, and men who do. In fact, it surprised me that I gave just as deeply, devotedly, and soulfully to the men who told me they do not, and would not love me as I gave to the men who loved me. In my mind, the giving of love is completely separate from being the recipient of love, and surrender can co-exist with those emotions, but they are not necessary to each other. I would not base my slavery to someone else solely on love, because to me, that is conditional on my loving him in order for him to have any power over me. I do not believe surrender is conditional when it occurs- and I do not think surrender occurs as often as falling in and out of love. In some ways, I view surrender as 'beyond love' if such a thing were possible.
If someone surrenders based on their love for someone else- if they are, in fact, enslaved by the emotion of love, as opposed to the power the man holds over her... will the chains of love release her if that emotion has changed? Is she his slave, or is she love's slave? People can often fall in love with the 'idea' of being in love... by the same token, someone can be captivated by her own emotions rather than by the one who inspires them.
When love is the deciding factor in someone's surrender, there may be no foundation for the slave to remain collared if she falls out of love with him. If she only can surrender to him as long as he loves her, it becomes a conflict if he has a change of heart but still wishes to own her. While inspiring love can be a tool in developing that hold over someone else, I don't think it is the only one or even the most powerful one, nor do I think it would be effective on everyone. It is only one way of many that a girl can be enslaved. The sheer need to surrender is another powerful tool to invoke in bringing out a girl's slavery, and there are others. Even if love might naturally grow between owner and owned, there often are other forces at play which might motivate someone's slavery to another. If I love someone, that adds to the tools they have over me, but it does not need to exist for me to surrender. The presence of love can enhance slavery, and make life more fulfilling... but I could live without being loved in that romantic sense, and still be happy. I would find it harder to live without surrender than without love.
As overwhelming, dizzying, powerful as love can be... for some, it is not enough. If I had the choice between being passionately in love with a man who did not treat me as a slave but loved me like no other, and serving someone who may never love me but treated me in every way as a slave- it would be a difficult decision, but ultimately I would have to beg to serve. I could not deny my reaction to such a man, even if I was completely, utterly in love with another. There would always be a deep part of me would ache in response to serve the man who treated me as a slave.
Norman introduced the concept of the 'perfect bondage', also called 'the love slave'. A few of these relationships were highlighted in the books. Recognizing how much of this was adding to the plots- a good romance always helps make the story more compelling (and more profitable!)- simply looking at how rare the actual occurrence of the 'love slave' was in his novels should put that a little bit more in perspective. Not every woman in his novels was a slave; the vast majority were free women. Out of those who were enslaved, a large portion of the girls spent time on slaver's coffles, in paga dens, as kettle slaves, serving in large households and many others who could only dream of belonging to a man who would view them with more interest. Even with the stabilization serums offering seemingly infinite opportunity to look for that perfect match, actually finding it was about as rare as it is on Earth to find a 'soulmate'. Due to the consensuality factor in what we practice here on Earth, the chance of finding one's love slave increases somewhat, but that perfection in love- without the illusion of romance and fleeting nature of infatuation- is incredibly rare in any context.
Slaves did not fall in and out of "perfect bondage" with every man they met, and such a delicate balance was often difficult to maintain to keep the man's control tightly in place so that he would continue to treat her as a slave, despite his emotions. The fact that a man might have to be stronger and control his emotions so that he can continue to treat the woman as a slave, speaks volumes.
Some Masters love their property, some do not. Love, after all, comes in a variety of forms. Particularly in relationships where the two are not peers, will never be considered lovers, and the difference in status between owner and owned is very pronounced... there might be intimacy and a love of a possession, but not the love of two equals. But often, love enters the picture and suddenly the line between "master" and "mate" becomes very blurry. The result may often be that the slave may have trouble remembering her place as property. Those men we often see led around by the nose... often are following their beloved pets that are no longer slaves, but girlfriends in collars.
There are some that might argue that to love, and be loved, is a social need. I would say that once again, love shows itself in different forms. One can be fulfilled by the intimacy which accompanies a relationship which holds nothing back to a man, or love of friends and family, or simply the ability to lavish love on others without expecting it in return. It is not limited to romantic love, which can often come and go through life and often in that instance, we live without love when we are alone.
So why the focus on love in a Master/slave relationship? I believe that often people confuse the high focus on intimacy, trust, sensuality, vulnerability and passion that so often accompany a Master/slave relationship and just call it "love" because that is how we have always categorized those emotions. But each of those emotions can be felt and expressed without love having to play any highly romanticized part in a Master/slave relationship. Perhaps one confuses the heart with the slave belly- they are each difficult to define and overwhelming to someone who is feeling such deep passionate emotions for the first time. Perhaps we are simply programmed to consider our relationships romantic by the definitions that we were exposed to growing up. Perhaps some are in love with the "infatuation" feeling that occurs when one is first getting to know another person... and once that illusion fades, they replace that feeling with someone else in order to feel complete.
So where does love fit into a Master/slave relationship? It depends on the two individuals involved. Some find love deepens their relationship, others find it interferes with the Master/slave dynamic. For myself, I tend to see love not strong enough to last as the sole foundation of the relationship, but rather as one aspect of many that add to the already existing bond between a man and a woman. In many ways, I believe this aspect of the lifestyle is overromanticized instead of appreciating it for what it is.
http://www.gor-on-earth.com/
So often we hear of slaves who are held captive in love's chains, or have found their 'soulmate' in their Master. Norman spoke of love frequently in his books- but, not necessarily in the same light as our western society's version. This essay looks at the ideas of romantic love, the heightened focus on searching for a 'love match' among many slaves, and whether it is necessary within a Master/slave relationship for surrender to occur.
Human nature indicates there is a place for love in a Master/slave relationship, but not necessarily with the same definitions of 'infatuation-style' love that we have grown up seeing as society's norm. A Master need not be a lover, nor is a slave his peer. There is no pretense of equality, nor the illusion romance often provides of being in love with who we want to see, instead of the reality of who that person is.
I have been enslaved by men who did not love me, and men who do. In fact, it surprised me that I gave just as deeply, devotedly, and soulfully to the men who told me they do not, and would not love me as I gave to the men who loved me. In my mind, the giving of love is completely separate from being the recipient of love, and surrender can co-exist with those emotions, but they are not necessary to each other. I would not base my slavery to someone else solely on love, because to me, that is conditional on my loving him in order for him to have any power over me. I do not believe surrender is conditional when it occurs- and I do not think surrender occurs as often as falling in and out of love. In some ways, I view surrender as 'beyond love' if such a thing were possible.
If someone surrenders based on their love for someone else- if they are, in fact, enslaved by the emotion of love, as opposed to the power the man holds over her... will the chains of love release her if that emotion has changed? Is she his slave, or is she love's slave? People can often fall in love with the 'idea' of being in love... by the same token, someone can be captivated by her own emotions rather than by the one who inspires them.
When love is the deciding factor in someone's surrender, there may be no foundation for the slave to remain collared if she falls out of love with him. If she only can surrender to him as long as he loves her, it becomes a conflict if he has a change of heart but still wishes to own her. While inspiring love can be a tool in developing that hold over someone else, I don't think it is the only one or even the most powerful one, nor do I think it would be effective on everyone. It is only one way of many that a girl can be enslaved. The sheer need to surrender is another powerful tool to invoke in bringing out a girl's slavery, and there are others. Even if love might naturally grow between owner and owned, there often are other forces at play which might motivate someone's slavery to another. If I love someone, that adds to the tools they have over me, but it does not need to exist for me to surrender. The presence of love can enhance slavery, and make life more fulfilling... but I could live without being loved in that romantic sense, and still be happy. I would find it harder to live without surrender than without love.
As overwhelming, dizzying, powerful as love can be... for some, it is not enough. If I had the choice between being passionately in love with a man who did not treat me as a slave but loved me like no other, and serving someone who may never love me but treated me in every way as a slave- it would be a difficult decision, but ultimately I would have to beg to serve. I could not deny my reaction to such a man, even if I was completely, utterly in love with another. There would always be a deep part of me would ache in response to serve the man who treated me as a slave.
Norman introduced the concept of the 'perfect bondage', also called 'the love slave'. A few of these relationships were highlighted in the books. Recognizing how much of this was adding to the plots- a good romance always helps make the story more compelling (and more profitable!)- simply looking at how rare the actual occurrence of the 'love slave' was in his novels should put that a little bit more in perspective. Not every woman in his novels was a slave; the vast majority were free women. Out of those who were enslaved, a large portion of the girls spent time on slaver's coffles, in paga dens, as kettle slaves, serving in large households and many others who could only dream of belonging to a man who would view them with more interest. Even with the stabilization serums offering seemingly infinite opportunity to look for that perfect match, actually finding it was about as rare as it is on Earth to find a 'soulmate'. Due to the consensuality factor in what we practice here on Earth, the chance of finding one's love slave increases somewhat, but that perfection in love- without the illusion of romance and fleeting nature of infatuation- is incredibly rare in any context.
Slaves did not fall in and out of "perfect bondage" with every man they met, and such a delicate balance was often difficult to maintain to keep the man's control tightly in place so that he would continue to treat her as a slave, despite his emotions. The fact that a man might have to be stronger and control his emotions so that he can continue to treat the woman as a slave, speaks volumes.
Some Masters love their property, some do not. Love, after all, comes in a variety of forms. Particularly in relationships where the two are not peers, will never be considered lovers, and the difference in status between owner and owned is very pronounced... there might be intimacy and a love of a possession, but not the love of two equals. But often, love enters the picture and suddenly the line between "master" and "mate" becomes very blurry. The result may often be that the slave may have trouble remembering her place as property. Those men we often see led around by the nose... often are following their beloved pets that are no longer slaves, but girlfriends in collars.
There are some that might argue that to love, and be loved, is a social need. I would say that once again, love shows itself in different forms. One can be fulfilled by the intimacy which accompanies a relationship which holds nothing back to a man, or love of friends and family, or simply the ability to lavish love on others without expecting it in return. It is not limited to romantic love, which can often come and go through life and often in that instance, we live without love when we are alone.
So why the focus on love in a Master/slave relationship? I believe that often people confuse the high focus on intimacy, trust, sensuality, vulnerability and passion that so often accompany a Master/slave relationship and just call it "love" because that is how we have always categorized those emotions. But each of those emotions can be felt and expressed without love having to play any highly romanticized part in a Master/slave relationship. Perhaps one confuses the heart with the slave belly- they are each difficult to define and overwhelming to someone who is feeling such deep passionate emotions for the first time. Perhaps we are simply programmed to consider our relationships romantic by the definitions that we were exposed to growing up. Perhaps some are in love with the "infatuation" feeling that occurs when one is first getting to know another person... and once that illusion fades, they replace that feeling with someone else in order to feel complete.
So where does love fit into a Master/slave relationship? It depends on the two individuals involved. Some find love deepens their relationship, others find it interferes with the Master/slave dynamic. For myself, I tend to see love not strong enough to last as the sole foundation of the relationship, but rather as one aspect of many that add to the already existing bond between a man and a woman. In many ways, I believe this aspect of the lifestyle is overromanticized instead of appreciating it for what it is.
http://www.gor-on-earth.com/
attraction is MORE of a SCIENCE than an art form
Notes for stories:
See, as humans, we all have two ways of thinking. Number 1 is using logic or our conscious minds. Number 2 is using emotion or our subconscious minds.
The great thing about seducing women is that they are HARD WIRED to follow their emotional thoughts and feelings that are the same across ALL women… They cannot help it. That’s why so many women fall for the same “ass hole” guys. Their logical brains are telling them that they’ll be cheated on. That they’ll be messed around. That they’d be better off with the nice guy. And they are usually right, but women are RUN by their emotional side of the brain. They can’t help but seek out the excitement, the alpha male, the bad boy.
Now I’m not for one moment trying to suggest you should become a “bad boy” ass hole, but I’m DEFINITELY saying that if you are frustrated in the dating game, chances are you’ve tried the nice guy way already and it simply doesn’t work at anything other than becoming their “friend” which is the LAST thing you want. PLEASE NOTE: I am NOT suggesting you should become a “bad boy”… Read on…
With my unique system I can make you trigger ALL of the emotional attraction switches in the female mind within 7 minutes – without acting like you are somebody else – and get the same success that those few same guys get, all for yourself.
It’s as simple as this…
If you do and say certain things in a certain way then women WILL become attracted to you. They can’t help it. Women have emotionally evolved brains that DENY logic and make decisions based solely on feelings – when it comes to who they are attracted to.
And you know what evolution has done for you also?
Made it so that YOUR looks are only 20% of what a woman is looking for. And if you happen to be above a certain “acceptable” levels of looks (and let me tell you, this level is low, lots of UGLY guys make the grade) then you can bypass this 20% TOTALLY and make the whole of a woman’s attraction be about WHO you are and HOW you act, instead of what you look like, or how much you get paid…
Let me state that more simply.
Use my techniques and it will NOT matter if you are good looking or not, whether you are rich or not, whether you are bald or fat.. ALL of that WON’T MATTER ONE LITTLE BIT. You can “turn off” that side of her brain and have almost any woman in your spell.
See, as humans, we all have two ways of thinking. Number 1 is using logic or our conscious minds. Number 2 is using emotion or our subconscious minds.
The great thing about seducing women is that they are HARD WIRED to follow their emotional thoughts and feelings that are the same across ALL women… They cannot help it. That’s why so many women fall for the same “ass hole” guys. Their logical brains are telling them that they’ll be cheated on. That they’ll be messed around. That they’d be better off with the nice guy. And they are usually right, but women are RUN by their emotional side of the brain. They can’t help but seek out the excitement, the alpha male, the bad boy.
Now I’m not for one moment trying to suggest you should become a “bad boy” ass hole, but I’m DEFINITELY saying that if you are frustrated in the dating game, chances are you’ve tried the nice guy way already and it simply doesn’t work at anything other than becoming their “friend” which is the LAST thing you want. PLEASE NOTE: I am NOT suggesting you should become a “bad boy”… Read on…
With my unique system I can make you trigger ALL of the emotional attraction switches in the female mind within 7 minutes – without acting like you are somebody else – and get the same success that those few same guys get, all for yourself.
It’s as simple as this…
If you do and say certain things in a certain way then women WILL become attracted to you. They can’t help it. Women have emotionally evolved brains that DENY logic and make decisions based solely on feelings – when it comes to who they are attracted to.
And you know what evolution has done for you also?
Made it so that YOUR looks are only 20% of what a woman is looking for. And if you happen to be above a certain “acceptable” levels of looks (and let me tell you, this level is low, lots of UGLY guys make the grade) then you can bypass this 20% TOTALLY and make the whole of a woman’s attraction be about WHO you are and HOW you act, instead of what you look like, or how much you get paid…
Let me state that more simply.
Use my techniques and it will NOT matter if you are good looking or not, whether you are rich or not, whether you are bald or fat.. ALL of that WON’T MATTER ONE LITTLE BIT. You can “turn off” that side of her brain and have almost any woman in your spell.
History of Septic Systems
In the early days, when man wanted to have some privacy and protection from the elements when he did his "chores" he dug a hole in the ground, lined it with stone, brick, wood or other available material and built an "outhouse" above. Delivery of the waste to its final resting place was by gravity. If the hole eventually filled up, the outhouse got moved to a new location.
Upon Thomas Crapper's invention of the flush toilet, man was now able to do his chores in the comfort of his home. (See The Septic Information Website for link to Thomas Crapper)
Civilized man was now able to do away with the outhouse, but, because wastes and wastewater needed a place to go...
He connected the pipe to the pit that served the outhouse and covered over the hole to hold down the smell and keep the neighbor's dogs and kids from falling in.
The pit serving the toilet now was called a cesspool.
It soon became obvious that the cesspool often couldn't handle the extra load of the wastewater along with the waste.
Eventually somebody figured out that by putting a watertight tank in the line between the house and the cesspool, much of the waste could be removed from the flow of wastewater and trapped in the tank where it would decompose.
This treatment chamber became known as the septic tank.
Note that the septic tank has a baffle at each end to help keep waste in the tank. The original pit remained as the part of the system that returned "clarified" wastewater to the ground.
It now became known as a dry well.
Sometimes due to heavy use, poor soil conditions, age of the system or a combination of these factors, the drywell still plugged up. (Wastewater still contains soaps, greases and other stuff that seals the pores of all but the most porous soils.)
Often a second (or third or fourth) drywell would be installed after the first to increase the soil absorption area. Note that an alert installer would place a baffle at the outlet of the original drywell to help keep floating solids from passing into the new dry well.
Upon Thomas Crapper's invention of the flush toilet, man was now able to do his chores in the comfort of his home. (See The Septic Information Website for link to Thomas Crapper)
Civilized man was now able to do away with the outhouse, but, because wastes and wastewater needed a place to go...
He connected the pipe to the pit that served the outhouse and covered over the hole to hold down the smell and keep the neighbor's dogs and kids from falling in.
The pit serving the toilet now was called a cesspool.
It soon became obvious that the cesspool often couldn't handle the extra load of the wastewater along with the waste.
Eventually somebody figured out that by putting a watertight tank in the line between the house and the cesspool, much of the waste could be removed from the flow of wastewater and trapped in the tank where it would decompose.
This treatment chamber became known as the septic tank.
Note that the septic tank has a baffle at each end to help keep waste in the tank. The original pit remained as the part of the system that returned "clarified" wastewater to the ground.
It now became known as a dry well.
Sometimes due to heavy use, poor soil conditions, age of the system or a combination of these factors, the drywell still plugged up. (Wastewater still contains soaps, greases and other stuff that seals the pores of all but the most porous soils.)
Often a second (or third or fourth) drywell would be installed after the first to increase the soil absorption area. Note that an alert installer would place a baffle at the outlet of the original drywell to help keep floating solids from passing into the new dry well.
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