Wednesday, 3 October 2012

At Boxgrove Priory: the de la Warr chantry






I managed to get along to Boxgrove Priory on Sunday, where the chantry chapel set up by Thomas West, “eighth Baron West and ninth Baron de la Warr” (1472–1554) is the big feature. It’s dated to 1532, and de la Warr intended it as a final resting place for himself and his wife, with a chantry priest to say masses for their souls in purgatory.

So far, so perfectly late-Medieval Catholic. History and Henry VIII overtook this project: Boxgrove was abruptly dissolved as a priory. Thomas West tried in vain to get it exempted, then settled pragmatically for retaining the main priory building as a parish church. But even then, the long-lived de la Warr was never to be buried in the beautiful personal shrine he'd had erected. Accused of playing a part in a conspiracy, he had to swap his local manor house, to which the king had taken a fancy, for a former nunnery at Whewell in Hampshire. That was the price of his pardon for an invented crime. Leaving Sussex, he left this chapel behind him, though I imagine he wondered about having it taken apart and transported.

It had been a daring piece of work just getting the chantry in the church and close to the altar: a whole pier was removed, with the double size arch above it strengthened – even so, load bearing vaults no longer sweep down to approach the absent column, but splay across almost horizontally. Everything hovers above this miracle of faith, and has done so without trouble for nearly 500 years.

What a piece of work it is, eloquent of so much. The decoration mixes the heraldry of the de la Warre family, Tudor roses, and faith. It its original state, viewers must have seen a structure that ascended up from a joyous motifs of the fleshly world – fat cherubs play lutes, two young men swarm up one column, throwing down fruit to a girl who holds out her apron. Hercules fights the Nemean lion, a King and Death stand either side of a tree, dragons writhe.



Then above this, the divine realm: the riotously decorated columns, turn into their structural negatives, niches for with saints topped with intricate Gothic canopies. Heaven is held up by faith, not stone. Sinuous movement turns to fixity, the contemplation of God - music might come from heaven without visible performers, certainly not from fat-legged cherubs. All the saints disappeared, of course: the empty niches conjure them up, spectacular victims of all that jostling life down below them, martyred again in effigy. I imagine their battered torsos will be in a pit somewhere close at hand, maybe dug down to the paleo-surface where Boxgrove man and his fellows slaughtered extinct animals half a million years before.



Decorative motifs for the carvings were apparently taken from a French Book of Hours. The lively realm of classical motifs, images from fabliau and moral tale, and stiff Tudor roses seem to be pushing the Gothic world higher towards heaven. Though to an extent, the  elaborate coats of arms and Orders of the Garter aspire towards joining the building’s divine realm: angels obligingly display dynastic honours.

The intricate vaulting within makes it seem as if the masons could extrude stone through an icing nozzle or fresh pasta maker. As decorative as a gypsy caravan, the chantry stayed where it was and journeyed forwards through time.



Sir Thomas Wyatt could have gone down to Chichester and seen this structure when it was new. Anne Boleyn was about to become queen. Of its time in its jollity, its Tudor patriotism, all of the certainties of its theology were about to be stripped away. The double sized arch held up: the metaphorical roof fell in.

Tuesday, 2 October 2012

Sorry, you are over 80

India has between 11,000 and 20,000 centenarians, says a UN report. The number will go up, and before long, there will be more older people than children below 15. Not surprising, considering healthier lifestyle habits, easier access to good hospitals and availability of effective medicines.

That is the only good part -- people are living longer. But how well they are living, is the worrying point. The agony and struggle of one of my relatives, who recently turned 80, is depressing. Here's his story.

One June evening, this gentleman -- whom I will call uncle, a sprightly go-getter whose enthusiasm belies his age -- was standing on a pavement along with his two friends in Adoor, central Kerala. They were waiting for the traffic to clear, so they could cross the road.

One moment they saw a speeding car hit a motorcycle, and before they could realize what happened, the car had got onto the pavement and knocked them down. The motorbike driver was killed on the spot, and the three senior citizens suffered injuries. Uncle was admitted to a hospital in nearby town of Tiruvalla with injuries in his head and ribs.

He was in coma for over a month. Good doctors and medical facilities, aided by the uncle's zest for life, ensured he made slow but steady progress. He is bedridden and needs constant assistance.

The family was given to understand that uncle's condition was not an irreversible one; with advanced medical aid, there could be significant improvement. So, they contemplated shifting him to a speciality hospital in Kochi, where he would get better medical help. But the response from the hospital was shocking. They flatly refused to admit him, saying he was above 80.

Since uncle's children and immediate relatives are in Chennai and Bangalore, they planned to move him to Chennai. And their inquiries with hospitals continued. But the responses were no different. Hospitals were reluctant to admit a patient who is above 80. Some were blunt about it -- doctors said they would rather attend to youngsters who have more life ahead of them than attend to an old man. Others were evasive or diplomatic.

Responses went like these: "O, this is a complicated case". "It's an accident case, what has happened to the case?" "There are no beds, why don't you check other hospitals?" One hospital said they would admit if one lakh rupees was paid.

Probably this has something to do with the fact that people above 80 are not covered under health insurance.

Not that there are no in-patients above 80 in any hospital. But this experience indicated a general reluctance on the part of hospitals. Finally, uncle was moved to Chennai from Kerala in an ambulance and admitted to a hospital with great difficulty.

The immediate thought the hospital responses triggered was: Isn't life worth living after 80? True, a youngster's life is more valuable than an elder's, but is that an excuse to deny medical attention to an elderly person? What is the implicit suggestion here -- that there's no point living after turning 80?

It's tragic to see elders languish and left to fend for themselves for absolutely no fault of theirs. Making matters worse are insensitive mindsets and archaic rules.

People are living longer. Good, but as long as they are healthy. Considering that the number of elders is rising, there has to be radical changes -- in institutional rules as well as social and personal attitudes -- in the way we care for our elders.

One, the 80-year cap on insurance cover has to be lifted. Even if there is no full reimbursement, there has to be some significant institutional help for people above 80.

Two, hospitals need to have good geriatric wards; and those that have, need to scale up their functionality significantly.

Three, there has to be better synergy between old-age homes and hospitals.

Only then, we can truly rejoice at the prospect of living longer.

( Crossposted from Kaleidoscope )

Saturday, 22 September 2012

Way to go, Dr Singh!


In spite of the Prime Minister’s lackadaisical body language, his televised national address last night, carried some weight and conviction. I liked the “Money doesn’t grow on trees” part. There was the unmistakable avuncular ring about it, reminding one of elders who try to teach money management to children.

Read on at Kaleidoscope

Wednesday, 19 September 2012

Unplanned outing to Chikballapur

Till early morning 1 am, we hadn't decided where to go today -- a holiday for us journalists on account of Ganesha Chaturthi. After considering many getaways around 100 km from Bangalore, and rejecting many, we decided to go to Skandagiri, which we were told, is a popular trekking spot, near Nandi Hills on the Bellary Road, ahead of Bangalore International Airport. It is about 70 km from Bangalore. We had no intension to trek, but decided to head to that place with some basic knowledge gained from websites.

We left Bangalore around 8 am. On the way, I suggested that we might also check out the birth place of renowned engineer Sir M Visvesvaraya at Muddenahalli near Nandi Hills, where there is his museum and his samadhi.

There are lots of flowers on the way. 
To Muddenahalli

On the Bellary Road, the National Highway 7, follow the sign to Bangalore Intenational Airport. Go past the deviation to the airport, along the highway, and look for the signboard that indicates a left turn to Nandi Hills. Turn left.

Caution: Do not speed on that stretch from the highway to the foot of the hills, because there are many unmarked humps on the road. High time the local authorities clearly marked them.

The memorial of Sir M Visvesvaraya
We reached the foot of hills around 9.30 am. Don't expect to get breakfast on the way. There are restaurants, but we didn't find any of them open. So it will be a good idea to carry enough snacks and drinks. Had light snacks from a small road side hotel, where only Maggi and bread omlette, and tea were available. We were advised by a friend to go first to Muddenahalli and then go to Skandagiri.

To go to Muddenahalli, take a right turn at the foot of the hill, also called Nandi Cross. (A left turn from there will take you to Nandi Hills.) There are signboards that indicate the birthplace of Sir MV.

We reached there around 10 am. Amazingly well maintained place. There are good sign boards to guide you. To the left of the State of Bank of Mysore is the building that houses the museum of Sir MV. Beside the SBM, you see a gate that leads you to his memorial and a beautiful garden. The tranquility of the countryside is striking. The memorial and the garden are very well maintained, unlike Nandi Hills where you find litter and rubbish strewn around, besides dogs and monkeys. May be because not too many people come here.
The building that houses Sir MV's museum, also his birthplace

The museum has some priceless items. One is a Woodstock typerwriter that Sir MV used in 1923. Then you have a list of his routine when he was 25 years old and when he was 95 years old. There are also his university certificates and a copy of the Mysore Gazzette notification of June 10, 1919 appointing him as the chief engineer. Another antique is a huge dictionary that was presented to him by Charles Waters, principal of the Central college in 1881 and used by Sir MV till 1961. There is an excellent quote, a guiding principle of Sir MV: "If you buy what you don't need, you will need what you can't buy."

Skandagiri

Rock at Skandagiri
It is also known as Kalavarahalli beta. After you drive out Sir MV's memorial, take the first left. You reach a small village, I guess it is Kalavarahalli, and at the T-junction, take a left turn. You reach a Shiva temple. To the left of temple is the Omkara Jyothi Ashram or the Papagni mutt. Vehicles can be parked beside or in front of the temple.

We reached there around 12 noon. At the Omkara Jyothi Ashram there is the samadhi of Mariyappa Swamiji, who passed away just three months back. We were told Swamiji, who built the ashram, was a close disciple of Sri Sri Ravishankar of Art of Living Foundation. Every second Sunday, there are Bhajans at the Ashram prayer hall, attended by 400 to 500 people.

One can go up Skandagiri by trekking. We were told that trekking is banned, after some tragic incidents. But locals said you can go up the hill. It takes about 3 hours. There are two routes up, from either side of temple. We didn't come to trek. We decided to walk up a little just to get a feel of the place. We went up via the right side of the temple. There was a herd of goats grazing. Barring that, the entire area was deserted.
Rock at Skandagiri

There are some breathtaking rocks, big and small. The hills around you are imposing. We decided not to talk for a few minutes, just to soak in the serene environs. It was so quiet, no sound from anywhere, but for the occcasional chirpings of a bird or two. The short climb up the hill was good. We got on top of some rocks, and just sat there looking at the expanse around us bareft of any human habitation. Around 1.45 pm, we decided to leave.

Sri Bhoganandeeswara Swamy temple
This is on the stretch between Muddenahalli and Nandi Cross (from where one road leads you up to Nandi Hills). So, you can visit the temple even on your way to Muddenahalli.
Bhoganandeeswara Temple

Just after we entered, we stood amazed looking at the vast premises that houses the temple. The temple proper is not visible from outside. Inside it spreads over a good area and is unbelievably impressive. So, please do get inside to see the intricate architecture and carvings on the walls and pillars. There is a stunningly beautiful temple pond.

No authentic information about the history of this Shiva-Parvathi temple. Some websites say that it was built in stages -- from 9 century onwards -- across many years by different ruling dynasties. It seems, this is the oldest temple in Karnataka. The temple structure is fabulous. The beauty of temple pond took our breath away.
Bhoganandeeswara Temple

It was around 3 pm, and we realised we had not had our lunch. Checked into a restaurant. It took a long time for them to serve our food. That's the way it is in most restaurants. We didn't go to Nandi Hills, the most popular tourist destination in this area. We started our journey back to Bangalore around 4.30 pm.

On our way back, got grapes for Rs 35 per kilo. Not of great quality, we realised later. The taste of the sample that the lady offered tasted much better than the actual one we bought. Anyway, it's a steal at that price.

Devanahalli Fort

At Devanahalli, we took a left turn on the highway to see the Devanahalli Fort. It was specially designed to resist cannon fire. In 1761, Tipu's army which was guarding it, fell to the advancing British troops. The fort is very impressive, and mercifully it has survived all these years. From top of the fort you get good view of the highway and surrounding areas.

We reached back our homes around 7 pm.

Poor state of monuments

One only wishes the government could take better care of these priceless historical structures. The best way is to decentralize the administrative control of the huge Archaeological Survey of India, allow it operate a local revenue generating mechanism at individual sites that will supplement the grant it gets from the government. The money thus collected locally should be ploughed back into maintaining the premises and structures. It is so sad to see these monuments and heritage structures lying neglected.

The scare at temple

Like at most tourist spots, here too we encountered hangers-on, who were asking for money. I found two people reeking of alcohol entering the Nandeeswara temple premises, not the temple proper. I also found one man smoking. Both at Sir MV memorial and at the temple, people approached us asking for some money. Anything from a rupee to Rs 10, depending upon the circumstances, is all that is required to get them out of the way.

At the temple, we saw a man in his 30s may be, who didn't look normal, approaching two of us. When we sat, he came and sat near us. We then got up and moved away. Then, I felt that he was moving faster towards one of us. That gave me a scare, especially since he didn't look normal. He kept closely following us. We didn't have any change to give him, and we told him so. But, still he moved to towards us. Then, a couple told him to go away, and to our relief, he went away.  

We had a wonderful time, nevertheless. The level of satisfaction was much higher because we hadn't actually planned this trip; and it went of without any hitch whatsoever.

Nandi Hills is the most preferred destination, if don't miss out these wonderful places were went today -- Sir MV's memorial at Muddenahalli, Skandagiri, Sri Bhoganandeeswara Swamy temple and Devanahalli Fort.

Wednesday, 5 September 2012

Mobile TV apps


Mobile TV Applications let you watch live scores of TV channels like NDTV and BBC to Asianet and Cartoon Network on your mobile phones. For some apps, you don't even need the much-hyped 3G connection. It works well on 2G.

It's amazing how you can now watch the serials and news while travelling in car or while lying on the bed!

Here is the link to my article in The Times of India

http://goo.gl/cwHno

Sunday, 5 August 2012

“I have a light within that directs me to renounce my husband”: the unnatural practices of Elizabeth Pigeon.





Lawrence Stone territory this posting, with A brief relation of the strange and unnatural practices of Wessel Goodwin, Mehetabell Jones the wife of Edward Jones, and Elizabeth Pigeon the wife of John Pigeon (1654).

This indignant pamphlet was written by Wessel Goodwin’s son-in-law Samuel Vernon, who followed up with another account of the disaster which struck the family in the form of two sisters, Mehetabel and Elizabeth. This second account comes in The trepan being a true relation, full of stupendious variety, of the strange practices of Mehetabel, the wife of Edward Jones, and Elizabeth, wife of Lieutenant John Pigeon, sister to the said Mehetabel, being both Quakers : wherein is discovered the subtle method whereby they cheated Mr. Wessel Goodwin, a dyer in Southwark, and all his children of a fair estate: with sundry copies of letters, perfumed locks of hair, and verses they sent him, and many other notable devices belonging to the art of trepanning (1656).

It’s a salutary work to read if one is minded to deplore the subordination of women in 17thcentury England. Obviously, we do not get to hear what Mehetabel and Elizabeth could say for themselves, but, having read Samuel Vernon’s pamphlets about them, I am inclined to believe the one witness we have. The son-in-law looks on in horror as his wife’s father ruins the family under the manipulative influence of the two sisters. In the follow up pamphlet, he has incriminating letters by both women in his possession, and invites anyone interested to come and verify that they are as he says. Elizabeth Pigeon was appalling, a cunning and dangerous woman, of high ability, but entirely self-seeking and shameless.


The stories told, and personalities involved, are all interesting. In the end remarkable in social history terms is that both sisters managed to use the law to break off their marriages. Master Jones, a lutenist, and Mr Pigeon, were brow-beaten by factitious arrests for debt, sexual manipulation, by provocations to which their occasionally ill-considered responses are all made to play into the hands of two determined women. Both men limp wounded and penniless out of their marriages. They sign ‘divorce’ documents put to them by their wives, or associates of their wives, and leave the scene of their defeat for years.

But to the main story: Wessel Goodwin was a London dyer. He had an estate of about £2,000, and his trade as dyer clears him between three and five hundred pounds a year. He had a wife, and four children.

But he had an extraordinary combination of “a weak head, yet an obstinate will” (as the 1656 pamphlet puts it). His marriage had been plagued by his bizarre extravagance – he spent insane amounts of money on music.

“He was ever strangely given to music, to which he had a ravenous appetite; five pounds for pricking out two or three lessons, which when he had, he understood like Arabic; thirty pounds for a Lute, of which he had with other sorts of fiddles, a whole room full; and which is the wonder, can ply of none, only admires them, ten pounds at a time to a music Master for a months teaching (or rather playing to him.)

Goodwin forced his children to learn music, and only if they did this (to the detriment of anything else, any other way of life) did he regard them as obedient. The biographer of his folly, his son-in-law, quarreled with him about this.

His obsession with music seems to have been genuinely unbalanced. When he was 58, his wife, who had struggled gamely with this impossible husband, asked from her deathbed that the music in the house might stop, and was refused:


“About the 58 year of his age, his virtuous wife fell sick of a painful disease contracted by melancholy, of which in a few months she died. 
When she drew near her death, some few days before her departure, overhearing the music which was daily in the next room, she desired one of her sons to call in their father, to whom with a broken sad voice she said, Husband, you well know what a burthen this Excess of music hath been to me all my life; must that which hath been so much affliction to me in my life, be brought to my death bed? may I not dye out of the noise of it? pray forbear, I have not many hours to live, and then you may have your fill of music. To which he replied not one word, but went out in discontent and so fell to his music again.”

Music was going to bring its own nemesis upon Wessel Goodwin. He was employing a lutenist called Edward Jones, and no doubt Jones’ incredulous accounts of his employer’s infatuation with music alerted Mehetabel Jones to an easy mark. She starts, acting with her sister, to secure sums of money from Goodwin, and denigrating his wife (while she lived) and his children. Her sister Elizabeth pushes the whole thing on. Samuel Vernon, fascinated and repulsed, gives this account:

“because Mrs. Pigeon is the chief agent and contriver in these sinful projects, I shall give this brief description of her: She is one that can transform her self into an Angel of light, and having her tongue tipped with Scripture, can with tears, sighs, gesture at command, set off what she would have believed, as Gospel, though very false, thereby to ensure such as hearken to her Charms; no sport to her like catching credulous persons with her faire Saint-like expressions, making sure prey of all that she can thus draw into her toils; and so implacable, that when she hath once got an advantage, nothing shall satisfy her but the utmost rigour, which she will rise at midnight to prosecute.”

Mrs Pigeon was what Roman satirists would have called a captator, a legacy-hunter. She had done well out of her first marriage, and has a second husband who is a Lieutenant of Oliver Cromwell’s regiment, one John Pigeon. You’d think an old Ironside like that might have been able to hold his own, but Pigeon has willed everything to her. In the course of procuring this, she has almost killed him (according to Vernon) with a mixture of aphrodisiac drugs and refusal to consent to sex (“if you touch me, I will cry murder”, she reportedly says to her husband – this in the 1656 pamphlet), until he left her everything. After this success, Mrs Pigeon went on to plot the judicial murder of her husband “it being immediately after the late Kings death, she makes show of much discontent against the actings of the present Governors; she projects to her husband to draw up a declaration against them, and their proceedings, which he must subscribe and avow, and then he should be her dear husband, and she vows to stand by him to the last in it. Let others think their pleasure, for my part, I believe this was a plot laid to have destroyed Mr. Pigeon; but he wisely refused to act in it.”

After being drawn into an affray, which his wife (who, according to Vernon, improved mightily on her facial injuries with make-up) exploits to get him cashiered from the army, Pigeon is brow-beaten by one of his wife’s legal agents into signing a bill of divorce, “alleging he might lawfully in the sight of God do it”. After this, the couple separate. (What sort of confusion of mind had Milton created, with those divorce pamphlets of the 1640’s?)


Sister Mehetabel that makes the running with old Goodwin, and soon has the old man infatuated: “She must be freed from her husband, that so she may be free for old Mr. Goodwin, who is now so taken with her, that he can enjoy himself no where but in her company: scarce one day in the week but he is at her house, spending his time in dalliance with her.” Vernon has had report of her demeanor to Goodwin: “And Mr. Pigeon affirms, that about the year 1646. sojourning then in the house of his Brother Jones, he set himself to observe their carriage, and at one time he saw Mistress Jones take Mr. Goodwin about the neck and kiss him: at another time, being (as they thought) in private, he saw her take Mr. Goodwin’s hand, and putting it under her apron, holding it against the bottom of her belly, with many repeated mutual kisses, she saying, oh my dear Love! At which Mr. Pigeon being much scandalized to see his Sister Jones so behave her self to Mr. Goodwin, she being a married woman, and her husband in the house, went presently and told his wife what he had seen, and that he would tarry there no longer, for that he believed the house was a Bawdy house, and that her Sister Jones was Mr. Goodwins whore.”

Vernon himself cannot resist a bawdy comment on the complete change the women effect in Goodwin’s preoccupation: “Now the Lute and the Lute Master is quite laid aside, Mr. Goodwin speaks not one word more of musick; he hath found another manner of Lute that is easier to play on, which he had been long before a tuning…” I suppose you could say that Goodwin finds himself (as he sees it) transformed from being a passive admirer, into a participant, the admirer thinks himself admired.

Outsiders try to intervene: everyone in the neighbourhood knows what is going on, even small children report details of Goodwin’s infatuation. But “he is so bewitched with her, that as it is reported of leprous persons, into whose flesh you may thrust needles to the head, and they feel nothing; so though reproof, admonitions, prayers, from children, neighbours, Justices, Ministers, assault him daily, yet he is insensible of all.” His minister uses the final deterrent, and “suspends him from the Sacrament, which he values so little, that to this day he so continues, without so much as once desiring to be restored, professing his conscience is clear, and that he values the reproofs of Ministers no more then the dirt under his feet.”


Jones, the lutenist, no longer has Goodwin under the fairly innocent spell of his art. He has his own troubles, and undergoes a series of legal assaults, provocations, and is led into further problems when he unwisely fights back. The two women offer him money to emigrate. He ends up imprisoned in ‘The Counter’, and when this has happened, his wife “flies to [Goodwin], throwing her self into his arms, saying, Mr. Goodwin, Mr. Jones and I am now parted for ever, and you must keep me. The poor deluded old man being overjoyed, takes her in his arms, tells her, it was the best news to him that ever came to town, and that he would provide for her, with more to that purpose. Mr. Pigeon stands in admiration at these doings; at the last breaks out into these words; Now quoth he, I see the cause my brother Jones was put into the Counter”.

Jones gets himself out of prison, and agrees with his wife that she will leave him, the house and the children to stay with him. This deal she instantly breaks, entering the house while he is out giving lessons, and removing everything of value. He finally leaves the city entirely, penniless, and heads off to Norwich.

Finally, the sisters move into Goodwin’s house. This is accomplished by marrying off Mehetabel Jones’ daughter Lydia to one of Goodwin’s less promising sons, James, “a silly schoolboy” (says the 1656 pamphlet): “In brief, they presently clap up a Match between this boy, that a little before was intended for a prentice, and Mistress Jones her daughter, a girl 19 of about fifteen years old, but so small, that she looked more like one of eight or nine at the most. After short wooing, they are married together. This was a strong subtle device, worth Mistress Pigeons Invention. By this match Mr. Goodwin and his concubine are become brothers and sisters, and who can find fault at decent familiarity between such? By this the women have got an interest in the estate and family, that they dare own to the world, which they durst not before: This brings them boldly into the house to reside; Mrs. Jones pretending that because her daughter is such a childe, she hath the more need of a guide. In a word, this device draws a faire skin over a great many scabby places at once; and so they without any more Ceremony all enter the house, bringing all their children and retinue with them.”

Goodwin enters into “an adulterous contract of marriage with Mistress Jones”, convinced by their assurances that he can justly and religiously do so. The sisters continue spending all the money they can lay hands on. There remain two members of the original Goodwin family to be defeated. The first is a devout and moral minded senior apprentice, who is finished off when he goes down with a fever. During his illness, the sisters ply him with their own prescriptions, and he dies. Then there is the capable son Andrew, who has been acting in partnership with his father, doing his best to run the money side of the business. They unleash an able accountant on him, a Mr Lewis, whom they attempt to bribe, and though this attempt fails, Vernon does not disguise the fact that Andrew, in his anguish at his father’s behaviour, has let control of the money side escape him. They discredit him enough in his father’s eyes for the old man to allow them to break into Andrew’s room, lever open his strong boxes, and finally get him out of the house by having two sergeants and two bailiffs arrive nocturnally. Andrew barricades himself in his room, but his father consents that the bailiffs might break through the wall to arrest his son. Andrew surrenders, and is hauled away into the night.

Installed, and without any opposition left, the sisters take over the house and the business, using a male associate, a scrivener called Colborne. Old Goodwin loses control of his business, and is taken on as a journeyman “and which is to amazement, so far from being sensible of what he hath done, that he proclaims to all comers that he had rather be Mrs.  Pigeons Journeyman,  then to be Master of all without his two women.”

This was the situation that had been reached when Vernon wrote his first account of this hostile domestic and commercial takeover. His 1654 pamphlet ends with appeals to Goodwin to reflect on some pungent verses from the seventh chapter of Proverbs, with some additional commentary of his own, and calls to Mehetable Jones to repent.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The 1656 pamphlet continues the story. Mistress Pigeon settled down to making money from the business, the scrivener Colborne standing security for customers anxious about their goods.

But during 1654 and 1655 business gradually drops away – “nor could they with all their art keep on the paint which daily peeled off from their bold deluding faces”. The unity between the sisters falls away too: Mehetabel has got the old man, and most of the neighbourly reproaches; she observes that her sister has control of all the money that’s in the business. The two leave Goodwin’s house, and resume their former lodgings. When Goodwin comes to visit Mehetable: “the Fish once caught, off goes the bait. Now that all is in their hands, and now that he comes to them stripped, with his empty pockets hanging out, now nothing but quarrelling and caviling questions about the Trade.”

The sisters next get the scrivener Colborne into their power at their “rat-trap in Pauls Alley” (as Vernon calls the base from which they operate), pretending to nurse him during his last illness, in effect, keeping him hostage in hope of taking advantage.

Mistress Pigeon’s husband returns, and tries to get her to accept reconciliation. This does not work. Goodwin’s children appeal to Cromwell, who appoints a number of substantial Southwark citizens to hold a commission of inquiry into the whole affair. During this process, old Goodwin dies (in December 1655), once again he was completely in their power in his dying days. Vernon attributes the death to the sisters, that they withdrew his normal food, and made him subsist solely on their prescription of “Sage-Ale, Marmalade [and] strong extracts”. Goodwin died during a fit of retching.

There follows a horrible stand-off about who is to bury the body. Mistress Pigeon does not want an autopsy, and will not surrender the body to the dead man’s relatives. The body remains in the house for three days. Mistress Pigeon lets it be known that she will hold the funeral, and invites the chief members of the parish, letting it be known that gold rings and gloves will be given out as tokens of mourning. Only one invitee is venal enough to accept the invitation. Mistress Pigeon attends the funeral with an attorney at law, to deter angry interventions, but even with this intimidating presence at her side, she is bombarded with “kennel dirt”. Mistress Jones remains barricaded in the house. Had she gone to the funeral, the best of her bargain, Vernon concludes, would have been “to gauge the depth of mud in the mill-pond”.

The tide seems to turn against the sisters. The report of the local commissioners, p[rinted by Vernon, resoundingly endorses all that Vernon’s account alleges against them. The commission try to make a fair composition, to get Mistress Pigeon to leave with some recompense, but she refuses to budge. Cromwell himself reads the report, and is indignant, but unluckily action is passed on to his privy council, who do nothing for two months, and then recommend the children to go to law. They and their advisers reflect that there will be nothing left worth getting repossession of.

So Vernon’s second pamphlet is in a way the only retaliation left to the relatives. In his possession, he has letters written by both women (one of which does indicate that they read the first pamphlet, and regarded it as libel, so it did affect them), and letters framed by Mistress Pigeon for Goodwin to transcribe and sign as his own. Instructions for him too, in how to handle the commissioners. (He was flattered into assuming a resentful silence as the true sign of his wisdom, and Vernon testifies that he heard Goodwin refusing to answer all questions.) At its end, admitting that she has escaped justice, Vernon gives a pen-portrait of Mistress Pigeon, and compares this effort to the way that “in foreign parts when notorious malefactors have by some stratagem escaped the hand of justice, then they draw their picture as near as may be to the life, which being fixed upon public places of execution, gives notice to all men what manner of person he was, that so he may be discovered”. The chief contriver of all these ills emerges, in another of Vernon’s half-tributes to an utterly unscrupulous and artful woman, as a compound of Shakespeare’s Gertrude and Goneril: “would she win compassion from her Judge, she appears all in mourning, melting like Niobe in tears … if she be before such as she thinks another bait may take better, she will appear in gorgeous Apparel, her neck and breasts bare, her complexion beyond a natural fairness”.

Mehetabel Jones was an early modern woman poet (of sorts). Vernon has various verses in his possession. This one is a down-market ‘Relique’ or ‘Legacy’:

“beg leave for one more sample of her enchanting Madrigals; which with a parcel of her Hair richly perfumed (though all will not keep it from stinking) was found with the rest; and thus it chimes, forth:
            Accept this Bracelet from your friend,
            the owner knows it is your due,
            because she belongeth unto you.
            This paper read, let it see the flame;
            if you grant not this, you are to blame:
            For she that writ it, would for you
            burn paper, and her fingers too
            to light your snuff; which she has done,
            and burnt both fingers and her thumb.
            Burn it, then your friend will I rest;
            if not, say not you love her best:
            The hours I count, the minutes too
            make haste, farewell, adieu, adieu.

Vernon astutely observes the anxiety to have the poem burned. Poor besotted Wessel Goodwin couldn’t bring himself to do that, it seems. The two women hold out, and escape. A postscript to Vernon’s second pamphlet says that they have left Goodwin’s house, and that the building has been stripped, even the lead pipes have been dug up and sold.

Quite a pair.