Tales From the Slippery Slope X: Theseus and the Minotaur

I Return to Alicubi after a Long Absence

It had been so long since I had gone out to Alicubi that the other day Canon Sidney Smith Hawker finally called to find out what I was up to. Since he is less comfortable using the ‘phone than I am, I was immediately worried that there was some dreadful news.
What’s wrong? I said
“You are, you goop. I know you had church gigs every weekend in the summer, and some other trivial projects to attend to, and I am the first to admit that one thing leads to another, but it’s almost November, and ….”
“Sidney,” I objected, “it's early October.”
“At the rate you’re going it’ll be Martinmas before we see you. And as surprising as it might seem, we would like to see you.”
“I can’t come this weekend, and Tuesday’s the election ...” I began
"Tuesday is perfect, then," insisted the Canon. “Come up after you’ve voted and we can all watch the results at the Slope.
So after I voted I called Keith to make sure he had a room for me. This was too sudden a visit to land on a friend’s doorstep. Keith gave me the news from Alucubi. There was none, except that in August he had shut the pub for a month before the autumn tourist season.

It was midafternoon when I got to Alicubi. After I checked in with Keith, I went for a walk down over the bridge and up to the Appalling Belvedere, to look at the autumn colours along the river. I found Mike and David from the pub and Tom Chillingworth from the bookstore sitting and chatting on the stone benches. I joined them.
“No business at the bookstore, Tom?” I said
“It’s Election Day, Will.”
“Do you close for election day?”
“Everyone does: Election Day is a village holiday in Alicubi. Didn’t you know that?”
“No. Alicubi must be the only place in the country where it is,” I said. “It’s a good idea, though. Voting day should be more special. I always find voting is such an anti-climax. Maybe a brass band at every polling station would help.”
I asked whether they had all voted. They all said yes
“Mike made me,” said David. He’s nagged me for days about it. But I don’t understand it: everybody talks about choosing Harper or Dion or whoever: none of them were on the ballot; it didn’t even ask me to say which party I wanted for the government. How can they claim the country gives them a mandate?”
Tom replied, “David, what most people don’t get clear is that we aren't electing a government, or at least not directly. We're simply electing members to the House of Commons. That indirectly chooses the government because the leader of the party which has majority of the seats in the Commons is appointed Prime Minister. In this last election, the Conservatives didn’t win a majority of the seats, but did win more than any other party, so they formed the govenrment. If they get even a minority again they will continue as the government -- as long as they can get enough support from the other members.”
David thought about this for a while, and said, “That's not what they say in the campaigns or on the news. I just haven’t got a clue how this works.”
Just then Mike looked at his watch. “Gad, I’ve got to get back and start dinner. Come on, David!”
“What are we having?” I asked.
“Stuffed pork loin, with rice and sautéed mushrooms and greens beans in a lemon-butter sauce, and a salad. Just something simple so that Dad can claim I had some sort of holiday today.” Mike said and went off laughing; David followed, trying to figure out Canadian elections,.

Tom and I walked back over the bridge to the pub at a pace more fitting our age and dignity. We ignored the large “Closed” sign on the door and went in.
The Slippery Slope was dark and cozy. We joined Canon Hawker and John Strype at the bar, where Keith poured pints of Best Bitter – the perfect drink for an autumn evening. Since the polls were still open for a few hours, there was nothing to say about the election except for the same old speculation. So we talked idly for a while.
David ambled out from the kitchen; Keith poured him a pint. “It’s a holiday, David, and there’s only friends to serve dinner to, so sit down and talk!”
“Thanks, Keith. Mike asked me to tell you that he has everything under control. and expects dinner to be ready at seven.”
Tom said, “Since we have a little while before dinner, and more till the election results, I have a bit of a story. Just before we came back from the Appalling Belvedere David said something that reminded me of an old myth.
Just then Susan the owner of Vanity of Vanities, came in and said “Happy Voting Day!” After she had got a drink and settled into a seat, Tom explained that he was about to tell a story he was reminded of by something David had said.
“What did I say?” asked David.
“I’ll tell the story, and see if you or Will can guess,” said Tom. “Everybody should know it, but there is an interesting detail. It’s the story of Theseus and the Minotaur..”
We all said we knew it; I realized what David had said, and smiled. Tom began his tale

Theseus and the Minotaur

“Long ago, as a result of a war with Crete, the people of Athens were forced to pay a tribute each year: seven youths and seven maidens were sent to to be eaten by the Minotaur, a terrible monster who lived in Crete atthe heary of a maze called the Labyrinth. Minos had had the Labyrinth designed by the cunning inventor Daedalus to hold the monster, who was half bull and half man, the offspring of Minos’ wife Pasiphae and a white bull that Poseidon had sent to Minos. (The Labyrinth, by the way, was so intricate a maze that Daedalus himself could not escape it. Like many later tyrants, Minos wanted to keep his official inventor a prisoner. It was for this reason that Daedalus devised wings to carry him and his son out of the trap, with the sad consequence of the loss of Icarus.)

“When Theseus came to Athens to find his father, King Aegeus, it was the third year of the tribute. When he heard the wailing of the Athenians over the fourteen young people who were to go to Crete, he resolved to go himself and, somehow, free his people from this bondage to death. Despite his father’s tears, Theseus took the place of one of the youths and set sail for Crete on the vessel with black sails that took the sad cargo from Athens. Theseus promised Aegeus that if he succeeded in destroying the monster, he would return with white sails.

“The ship came to Crete, passing unharmed the brazen giant Talus who guarded its shores. Minos himself came to inspect the youths and maidens of the tribute. With him was his daughter Ariadne. When he came ashore, Theseus claimed the right to be the first to face the Minotaur; Minos assented. The victims were led away to prison.

“That night Ariadne, moved by Theseus’ beauty, brought him two gifts: a ball of thread and a sword. She told him to tie one end of the thread to the entrance of the Labyrinth and keep the other in his hand. By unwinding the ball as he went in, he would be sure to find the way out. Theseus promised to take the princess with him if he succeeded in his task.

“In early morning, Theseus, secretly carrying the sword and ball of twine. was brought to the entrance of the Labyrinth and left. Tying the thread to the door post, he went in. Not far into the maze he found the monster, and after a terrible fight, killed it. Retracing his steps he came out of the Labyrinth. There he found Ariadne waiting for him, and with her he rescued the other victims and returned to the ship. They escaped he brazen monster and set sail for the north.

“The story of how Theseus left Ariadne on the Island of Naxos must wait for another time, as will the story of how the Aegean sea got its name; for we have already heard why what David said reminded me of this myth. But I’ve left out one vital clue.”

No one spoke for a moment. Then David said, “OK; You gave it away at the end. I know what it was I said, but I don’t see what this story has to do with it. I said, ‘I haven’t got a clue.’”

“That’s right, David,” I said, “What Tom left out of the story was the word “clue.” The original meaning of “Clue” or “clew” was a ball, and more specifically a ball of thread or twine. So in Dryden’s version of the story, he says that Ariadne gave Theseus “a clue of thread”. Because of this and some other myths “clew” developed the special meaning of “a ball of thread used to ‘thread your way’ through a labyrinth or maze,” and then anything that leads or guides through some perplexity, and then just an indication, a hint, or a key – in fact , a “clue”.

Just then, Keith turned the TV on — something that almost never happens at the Slippery Slope, and the sound of Peter Mansbridge filled the room, drowning out whatever else there was to say about clues. Nothing much was said after that that wasn’t said everywhere in the country that night, so we’ll say no more, except that it was good to be back at the Slope.

Tales from the Slippery Slope IX:
Dick Whittington

The other day The Slippery Slope was closed for a private party. There was no particular reason, except that the weather was fine and Keith was tired of the general public. So Canon Hawker, John the undertaker and his wife, Tom from the bookshop, Susan from Vanity of Vanities, and I all came. Keith’s son Mike presented a Roast Beef with Yorkshire Pudding and all that that entails, and though he and his friend David served, they were able to sit down to the table. The doors were opened onto the back deck, and the early evening breeze was lovely.
Tom looked at his beef. “This is fine, Mike, just fine: the Yorkshire pudding, the vegetables, the succulent jus! And I'm so glad you don’t have a little menu that proclaims roast beef with au jus!’
Mike raised his voice above the laughter, “I’ve seen that too often in pubs, and I resolved never to do it here.”
Keith said, “And you knew you’d be disinherited if you did it!"

Canon Hawker said to me, "Do you remember some of the menus at Trinity? Tomato Oregon Soup?"

"I was always fond of "Gralic Chicken," I said.
Just then a grey cat walked in through the open doors.
“Well, hello!” said Keith. “I don’t know you. … as long as you’re not planning to stay I don’t mind a visit.” And then he looked around his friends. “Anyone allergic to cats? Any ailurophobes?”
Apparently there weren’t.
I said, “That’s good. The church I help out at in Toronto always has a Church Cat. Now we have a fine black cat named Dragon. He’s very popular.”
Susan lamented the fact that there were probably regulations that meant Keith couldn’t have a Pub Cat. We talked about cats for a while, until I happened to remark on the fact that there were good stories about cats.
“’Puss In Boots’ comes to mind, of course, as well as others that are less well known, but one I’ve always loved is the story of Dick Whittington.”
David looked up, “I don’t know that story.” Mike said he didn’t either.
“What do they teach them in these schools?” I said, in my best old professor voice. “Shall we enlighten the younger generation?”
John Strype said that it wasn’t just the youngsters who might like to hear it; he hadn’t heard the story since he was a child.
So Keith made sure everyone had a drink, we all settled back, and I began: “I’ll retell the story from one of the eighteenth-century versions, a little condensed and a little modernized.

The Famous and Remarkable Story of Dick Whittington and his Cat

Dick Whittington’s parents died when he was a very little boy; and could never give account of his family or where he was born. Almost starved in the country, and finding neither work nor charity, he made his way to London, for he heard that the streets were paved with gold, and he thought he could go and gather a bushel or so. As he walked along he met a waggoner going to London, who offered to let Dick walk beside the wagon all the way for free.
At last Dick came to London. To his disappointment the streets were paved with stones and dirt. He was all alone, in a strange city, without food or the money with which to buy it. He did not like to beg, and he would not steal, but after three days there was nothing to do but ask for help. So Dick begged, but in vain. Everyone who saw him said, “Go to work, you idle rogue!’ At last Dick said to one man, “That I will! I will work for you if you will let me.”
The man took this answer for cheek and gave the poor boy a blow to the head with his stick, almost knocking him out. Hurt and hungry Dick could only lay himself down at the door of a large house. When the cook, who was an ill-natured woman coming out told him to be off. Just then Mr Fitzwarren, the merchant who owned the house came home and he too began to scold the poor boy.
Dick said, once again, that he would be glad to work if anyone would employ him, and that he would be able to work if anyone would give him food to eat, of which he had had none in three days, but that if he wasn’t wanted he would go away. He got up, but was so weak that he fell down again. At last compassion was roused in Mr Fitzwarren, who bade his people bring the boy in, give him some food and drink, and find some work by which he could help the cook

At this point out historian addressed the reader with a moral:

People are too apt to reproach those who beg with being idle, but give themselves no concern to put them in the way of getting business to do, or considering whether they are able to do it, which is not charity. "Think of this ye affluent, And when the overplus of your fortunes disturb Your minds, think how little stops the lash of penury, And makes the wretched happy!"

So Dick became a scullion, and would have been happy in that worthy home, except for two things. First, that the cook (whose name was Cicely) was cross and cruel, and the servants generally treated him badly. But Mr Fitzwarren’s daughter, Alice, who was a kind girl, made the servants treat him kindly (though the cook seems to have obeyed with an ill will). The second problem was that the garret, where he slept, was home to countless rats and mice which disturbed him in his sleep, even running over his nose.

One day a gentleman who was a guest at Fitzwarren’s house gave Dick a penny for brushing his shoes. Dick put the penny in his pocket, determined to make the best use he could of it. the next day he saw a woman in the street with a cat under her arm, and asked her how much she wanted for her. The woman asked a good deal, for the cat was a good mouser. Crestfallen Dick made to go on, saying, “I need a cat badly, but all I have is one penny.” At this the woman kindly let him have the cat. Though a penny went further in those days than it does today, ity still seems a bargain for a cat.

Dick brought the cat up to his garret, where he hid her from the cook. Soon the rats and mice were killed, or at least frightened away, and at last young Whittington could sleep in peace.

Not long after this, Mr Fitzwarren called all his household together. He said to them, “I have a ship, The Unicorn, ready to sail, to travel and trade in far countries, and it is my custom, as you know, to let all my household try their luck on the venture.” All the servants came and put some money or goods into the venture; all except young Dick Whittington, who had nothing to send but his luck. Miss Alice, thinking that he stayed away for shame of his poverty, called for Dick, and even offered to put something on the ship for him. Her father said, “No that will not do; it must be something of his own.” Dick said, “I have only a cat, which I bought for a penny that was given me.” “That will do,” said his master. “Fetch thy cat, boy, send her.” So Whittington brought his puss and gave her to the captain. (The historian says that his tears were because he would once again be kept awake by the vermin, but we might think that he had some fondness for the cat.) Many of the company laughed at making a venture of a cat, but Miss Alice, as always, took pity. Secretly she gave poor Dick money for another cat.

So the cat went to sea. At home the cook made Dick’s life as unpleasant as she could; not only did she beat him at every opportunity, but made fun of him for sending the cat to sea. Finally this treatment became too much to bear, and Dick resolved to run away. He packed his few possessions and set out very early the next morning, which was All Saints’ Day. When he had got up the Great North Road as far as Holloway, he sat down on a stone to think which way he should go. While he pondered this, the bells of St Mary-le-Bow began to ring, and he thought they were addressing him:
Turn again, Whittington
Lord Mayor of great London
Sometimes you will hear that the sound of the bells was:

Turn again, turn again, Whittington,
Three times Lord Mayor of London.

or even

Turn again, Whittington,
Once Mayor of London!
Turn again, Whittington,
Twice Mayor of London!
Turn again, Whittington,
Thrice Mayor of London!
These versions do not seem to appear until the nineteenth century. But I digress.
“Lord Mayor of London,” said Dick to himself. “I could put up with a lot to be Lord Mayor of London, and ride in a fine coach. Back I’ll go, and put up with the worst Cicely can give me rather than miss the chance of being Lord Mayor!” So back he went, luckily getting home before the cook was up and at her work.

Now The Unicorn was bound for the Mediterranean and the coast of Africa, but it was driven off course and came to an unknown part of the coast. They were treated kindly by the inhabitants, and the captain began to trade. When the king of that land saw the goods on offer, he invited the captain and the factor to dine. When they had all sat down, on the carpeted floor, as was the custom in those parts, and the many dishes were set before them, an amazing number of rats and mice came from all sides, and ate up all the food. The nobles told the ship’s factor that their king would give half his treasure to be freed of these vermin that not not only
destroy his dinner, but assault him in his chamber, so that he must be guarded while he sleeps.
The factor was joyful as he told the king that on ship they had a creature that would do away with all these vermin in a trice. The king was excited and demanded that he bring him this amazing creature at once. “If she can do what you say, I will load your ship with gold and jewels in exchange for her.” The factor said that the cat was needed on the ship to keep rats and mice away, but that to oblige his Majesty, he would fetch her.. He ran, and returned with the cat just as the rats and mice were beginning to attack the new meal that was set out. As soon as he set the puss down, she set about her work and drove the vermin away. The king and queen rejoiced that such a small animal could solve their problem.
Now it happened that the cat was with young. Our historian does not explain how this could happen to one lone cat on a long sea voyage, so we too must let that pass. The result was that, with the promise of a litter, in the bargaining for the ship’s cargo, the king offered ten times as much for the cat as for all the rest. And at last the company sailed back to England.
Mr Fitzwarren arose early one morning to work in his counting house, when there came a tap, tap, at the window. “Who’s there at such an hour?” he called. The answer came. “It is never a bad hour for a friend. I have news of The Unicorn.” It was the captain and with him the factor, who presented him with such a casket of jewels and such a bill of lading, that he gave thanks to God for a prosperous voyage. The captain told him the tale of the cat, and said, “This casket of jewels is Mr Whittington’s”. So the merchant called a servant and said,

Go, send him in and tell him of his fame
And call him Mr Whittington by name,

which achieves in good spirit what it may lack as poetry.
As he waited for the boy to come, quite a crowd assembled in Fitzwarren counting house. Some grumbled, as some always will. “That’s too much for auch a poor boy!” they said. Fitzwarren was an honest man and replied, "God forbid that I should deprive him or a penny; it is his own, and he shall have it to a farthing."
At last Dick came in from the kitchen, and to his surprise was set in a chair. “Oh, please sir,” he said, “I don’t know what you want. Do not mock me! Let me go back to the kitchen.”
Fitzwarren took him by the hand and said, "In truth, Mr Whittington, I am in earnest. I have called you to tell you of your good fortune and to congratulate you. Your cat has earned you more money than I have in the world. Mat you long enjoy it and be happy.”
Dick took some convincing, but at last he accepted his fortune, and falling on his knees gave thanks to God. He gave gifts to all the household, including his enemy Cicely.
The rest of the story is quickly told. Dick went into trade and was hugely successful – rich enough to lend money to the king. He married Miss Alice, and they lived happily, and as the bells foretold, he was three times elected Lord Mayor of London.

“Of course, it’s not true,” said Canon Hawker. “The real Sir Richard Whittington was a younger son of a knight of Gloucestershire, born probably about 1350 or 60. He did go to London to learn the trade of a mercer, was hugely successful and was elected Lord Mayor four times. He was a good and just man and a great benefactor of charities. He did marry an Alice Fitzwarren. The story of the cat was probably grafted on to his legend from one of those other stories Will alluded to. The Bow Bells are a much later addition to the story. Anyway, you can look it all up in an encyclopaedia.”
“Indeed, Father,” said Tom, “but it is a good story nonetheless, and one that is worth knowing.”
To that we all agreed.

Tales From the Slippery Slope VIII: Hannibal fools the Cretans

The other night we were all sitting in The Slippery Slope after a good dinner. We got to talking about travel. It aparently made no difference that none us has been anywhere recently, for almost any subject can lead to talk about travel. Within a few minutes of my mentioning the news that my niece had successfully completed her PhD viva in England, we were talking about England, about getting around in England, about getting to and from England, and at last, in general, of the pains of travel
“That’s redundant, you know”, said Tom Chillingworth.
John Strype, the undertaker, asked “:What is?”
“Pains of travel. The only reason it's called travel is because it’s painful.”
“Tell us more, Tom,” said Canon Hawker, though I’m sure he already knew what Tom meant.
“Travel,” said Tom, “is a form of ‘travail’, which means suffering or trouble, from the Old French ‘travailler’, 'to toil, labour', but originally 'to trouble, torture'. Travail is still sometimes found used in connection with childbirth. The source seems to be a vulgar Latin verb “tripaliare”, 'to torture', from “tripalium”, an instrument of torture, and that is probably from “tripalis”, which means “something with three stakes”. In English it started to mean ‘journey’ sometime around 1300, when it took over from the Old English ‘faran’. Travel is torture. Maybe it started out as somebody’s idea of a joke.”
“I love to be in new places and see new things,” said Hawker, “but I shudder at the thought of getting there. Even the best trips – a car trip with a friend, say – will be tiring and uncomfortable. But the worst of it all is the luggage. No matter how I try to keep the baggage light, there’s always something I have to bring just because I know it will come in handy.”
“Of course it often does," said Tom, "which reminds me of a story about Hannibal.
“Do elephants come in handy when travelling?” said John?
“There is more to Hannibal than elephants! In his life of Hannibal Cornelius Nepos keeps calling him the shrewdest of all men. This story is about his exile, long after the famous war, when the Romans were convinced that he would always be spinning intrigues against them, and they would never be safe while he lived. Sounds rather familiar, doesn't it? ”
“Yes," I said, "and I think I remember this story from Selected Latin Readings in school. But I’d like to hear how you retell it.”
The other two agreed, and Tom began.

It’s surprising what some people take with them when going into exile, when a quick escape might make the difference between life and death. For example, when Hannibal went into exile from Carthage some years after the war with Rome, for some reason he brought a number of bronze statues. This might seem like a nuisance, but they did actually come in handy at one point.

After the war with Rome, Hannibal settled down for quite a few years; he ran for public office and settled the public finances. But one day Roman ambassadors arrived at Carthage. Hannibal feared that they had come looking for him, and that his own people would hand him over to them; so he escaped secretly and sailed to Syria to seek refuge with King Antiochus. When this became known (it could hardly be a secret for long) the Carthaginians seized his property and razed his house to its foundations, and declared Hannibal himself an exile. One can only assume that the Romans really had come looking for him.

Hannibal’s refuge with Antiochus was not a success. He was hardly ready to settle down to a quiet exile, grumbling now and then about how things might have worked out. He kept intriguing to get back at Rome. To cut a long story short, it ended with Antiochus’ defeat in a naval battle. Hannibal knew that the king would hand him over to the Romans if he had a chance, so he fled to Crete.

On Crete Hannibal went to stay at the town of Gortys while he considered where he could settle more permanently. Cornelius Nepos says that Hannibal, the shrewdest of all men saw that he was in danger on account of their avarice, unless he took some precautions. It seems he had a lot of money with him, and knew that rumours were going around it. So he came up with a plan.

He filled a large number of those earthenware pots called amphorae with lead and covered the tops with gold and silver which he deposited in the temple of Diana for safe-keeping. He made a big show of it, in the presence of all the leading citizens, telling them that he was entrusting his fortune to their protection. Having deceived the Cretans, he then put all his money into the bronze states he was carrying around. Nepos says he cast them away (abicit) in the forecourt of his house; I think the picture he wants to give is that he left them standing round carelessly, as if they were of no particular importance.
So while Hannibal’s treasure was all in his front yard, the leading citizens of Gortys kept the temple of Diana under close guard, not so much against others as against Hannibal, so that he couldn’t remove his money without their knowledge and take it away with him.
Thus, concludes Nepos, the Carthaginian preserved his property, fooled all the Cretans, and went off to king Prusias in Pontus. It was in Pontus that the Romans finally tracked him down. But perhaps I’ll save the story of Hannibal’s end for another time

“A good story,” said Hawker, “but it seems a bit hard on the people of Crete. It reminds me of the famous ‘Eumenides Paradox’, ‘all Cretans are liars, said Eumenides, a Cretan.’ It’s even in the New Testament, though not as a paradox.”
“Where’s that?” asked John
“Titus 1.12-13 warns Titus against the many false teachers on Crete, it quotes Eumenides: ‘One of themselves, a prophet of their own, said, Cretans are always liars, evil beasts lazy gluttons. This testimony is true.’ That’s not to be taken, I hope, as an infallible truth.”
At that the conversation turned off onto the problems of being a fundamentalist. Perhaps we’ll get the story of Hannibal’s death. another time.

___________________________

If you have recently joined us, you might like to know that the first Slippery Slope episode apppeared in this Blog on March 28th.

Tales From the Slippery Slope VII: Dancing on the Heads of Pins

The weather was so fine this Sunday that I went down to Alicubi straightway after mass, hoping that some of my friends might be on the deck behind The Slippery Slope enjoying the day and the river. With this and that I hadn’t made it out much in the past few weeks, and was looking forward to a good talk. When I got to the Slope, I found that the doors were open onto the deck, and a brilliant light and a fresh breeze were pouring into a pub that was unusally dark and empty. David was there alone, holding the fort. He looked up as I came in, and noticed my puzzled expression. We spoke almost at once.
“Hello,” he said, sounding relieved. “Don’t worry, they should be here in a few minutes”
“Hello. Where is everyone?” I said, and then waited.
“At the meeting.”
“What meeting, I said”
“The meeting to save the lookout,” said David. “What other meetings are there in Alicubi?”
I should tell you about the lookout. Over the stone bridge from the main part of town and up a hill to the right, juts out some rock, from which there is a pleasant view of the town. Sometime in the 1800s someone — who it was is forgotten — built a structure on the edge of the rock from the windows of old buildings, giving the general effect of a poor cousin to Mackenzie King’s ruins in Gatineau Park. Opinion in the town was that the view was lovely, but the structure hideous. It was known officially (and always in lowercase) as ‘the lookout’; Tom Chillingworth dubbed it ‘the Appalling Belvedere’. Every couple of years some public minded individual objected to it on grounds of aesthetics or safety, and a public meeting was held, where inertia always won.
Just then Canon Hawker, Tom, John Strype, and Keith the landlord came in, laughing.
They all greeted me and Keith said, “Alicubi has once again demonstrated that it has community spirit. We may blindly trust the municipality in everything else, but we will always defend the Appalling Belvedere. David, help me get these fine gentlemen their drinks. I may need you on the bar for a while if business picks up.”
We got our pints and went to a nice table on the deck, and talked as the river flowed past. A few of the public spirited people of Alicubi began to wander in, and the pub grew more cheerful.
“A normal meeting?” I asked, “What was the complaint this time?”
“They thought it was ugly. And it was quite normal,” said John, “except that somebody was rude to the good Canon.”
“No!”
“Indeed yes,” said Hawker, “I was patiently explaining that while the lookout is truly ugly, we could be sure that anything else that was put up would be worse, and some fellow asked why he should listen to a man who debates angels on the heads of pins. He really made very little sense.” After a pause he said to Tom Chillingworth, “Did you know, Tom, that what is probably the earliest instance of that canard is in a book by a namesake of yours?”
“No, I didn’t”, said Tom
Hawker went on, “I have always been intrigued by the fact that though it is often said that mediaeval theologians used to debate how many angels could dance on the head of a pin, or more correctly, the point of a needle, no one seemed to know where the charge came from. But recently I found both the earliest known instance and an older joke that might have something to do with it. Perhaps the joke, short as it is can be our story for today.”
“What about my namesake?” asked Tom.
“As we all know, there is no instance in known mediaeval philosophy or theology of this question being debated. St Thomas does ask in the Summa "whether several angels can be in the same place at the same time", but that doesn’t sound as silly (the answer is no, by the way).[1] I found a reference online from the Australian Mathematical Society Gazette, of all places, which cited the preface to William Chillingworth’s Religion of Protestants a Safe Way to Salvation (1638). In this passage Chillingworth is replying to a Roman opponent says that to charge that divines of the Church of England have only a superficial talent in philosophy, far below the standard of the ‘school divinity’, is to say ‘because they dispute not eternally — utrum chimera bombinans in vacuo, possit comedere secundas intentiones[2] — whether a million of angels may not sit upon a needle’s point …. therefore they have no deep knowledge …’"
“Well!” said Tom, “that doesn’t really help much, does it? The quip about angels seems to be a quotation or a commonplace, like the bombinating chimera of Rabelais. So where did my namesake get it?”
“That I don’t know,” answered the Canon, “but there is a story in A Hundred Merry Tales, which is obviously working on the same idea. That collection was published in about 1525, more than a century before Chillingworth. It was told then to make the point that you can’t preach to the stupid.”

The Story of the Friar that Preached what men’s souls were
A friar was in the pulpit preaching the word of God, and among other matters spoke of men’s souls. He said that the soul was so subtle that a thousand souls might dance on the space of the nail of a man’s finger. A merry conceited fellow of small devotion in the congregation answered back: “Master Doctor, if a thousand souls may dance on a man’s nail, I pray you then, where shall the piper stand?”

"Then the moral is given: that 'by this tale a man may see, that it is but folly to show or to teach virtue to them, that have no pleasure nor mind thereto.' Not very helpful, really. And I suppose it doesn’t really get us any further towards knowing who first made the dig against scholastics.

I said, "At any rate, the joke is obviously connected with the angel quip, and shows that a similar point was floating around early in the sixteenth century. I suppose we keep looking."

"Just so," said Hawker, and we called David over to ask what Mike was cooking for dinner.

[1] ST I.lii. 3
[2] “Whether a Chimera making a nuisance of itself in a vacuum is able to consume the indirect objects of thought” Rabelais, Pantagruel, cap vii

Tales From the Slippery Slope VI: The Justice of Trajan

We’ve missed a few Thursdays recently at The Slippery Slope. Lots of things have come up, such as Ascension Day and the Opera, and this week we all met on Sunday to celebrate a birthday. John Strype turned fifty. Keith closed the pub so that he could sit down and join in. John and his wife Gal were there. (Gal hates her name, by the way. In a clear sign of insanity, and for no apparent reason, her parents called her Galathea. One day she read Tolkien's Farmer Giles of Ham; early on in that story a cow named Galathea is troden on and squashed by a giant. This was bad enough, but when she learned that Galathea means Goddess of Milk she was furious. I’ve never had the nerve to ask Gal if she has a middle name, and even less nerve to ask why she never changed it.) Their son Brad was there too, nervously fiddling with his cellpone in case he was needed at Remains to be Seen, the family funeral parlour. There was Canon Hawker, a little exhausted from the Pentecost mass, Tom from the bookstore, Susan from Vanity of Vanities. Mike and David were going to join in when the dinner was cooked and served. Even Mark from Simpson’s Hardware came. (He seems to have finally heard Hawker’s gossip story[1] and started watching what he said.)
It was a grey and somewhat chilly day; the great windows overlooking the river were closed, and the fire blazed. The atmosphere was warm and convivial. David brought in a rich cream of mushroom soup, sat down beside Mike; after the Canon said grace we all began to eat. The soup was followed by a chicken casserole with carrots, parsnips and turnips, boiled potatoes, and green peas with butter and a touch of lemon. For desert there was, of course cake. After a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday we all sat back to enjoy a glass of port, and Keith said, “I ran across a story that you might like. I found it in Dante, and then tracked some other versions on Google. I suppose you all know it, but you might like to hear it again.
Tom said, “For my part I don't mind hearing a story again. And I suppose that if you were tracking down versions of the story, you’ve gone some way to making it your own.”
“Right,” said Keith. “and anyway, that’s what you all seem to do. Well then, if you’re all sitting comfortably, then I’ll begin.”

The Justice of the Emperor Trajan and the Pity of Pope Gregory
One day the emperor Trajan was leading the armies of Rome to march against the Dacians up in the Balkans; the eagles were held proudly aloft and banners waved; crowds pressed around to cheer the troops as they marched off. Sudenly a woman crying out “Grant me justice, lord!” threw herself on her knees in the road before the emperor’s horse. Trajan had to stop.
She cried again, “Grant me justice, lord; my son has been slain! I am a poor widow and can get no justice on his murderers ”
Trajan said to her, “I cannot stop now. Wait until I return, and I will give you the justice you seek.”
“And, lord, if you do not return,” returned the widow, “who will do me justice?”
“My successor will do you justice”, replied Trajan, who thought that went without saying.
The woman retorted, “Will Trajan leave to another the duty he is appointed to perform?”
Hearing this the emperor of Rome dismounted, left all his troops to cool their heals, and settled the widow’s case before he resumed the march. (One version of this story has it that he gave her his own son in place of the one she had lost and bestowed on her a rich dowry!)
Now the story doesn’t end there. A legend of Pope St Gregory the Great tells that as he was passing through the Forum one day, he saw a bas-relief carving of Trajan on horseback with a woman sadly kneeling before him.[2] On seeing this he thought of the justice and good deed of
Trajan, and in particular his mercy towards the poor widow, which seemed to him more Christian than pagan. Sorrowing at the thought that such an excellent pagan should be damned, he began to pray and weep, until at last a voice came from heaven declaring that his prayer was answered, and Trajan freed from the pains of hell, but that he should never make such a prayer again.

Keith added, "Not everyone has been comfortable with this story. Dante has no difficulty placing Trajan in Purgatory,[3] but a later moralist insisted that, since Baptism is necessary for salvation, Trajan was brought back from Hell to life and baptized, whereupon he died again and went to Purgatory."
Canon Hawker said, "By the time this legend was retold in The Golden Legend, it was added that an angel told Gregory that because he had prayed for a pagan, he had a choice of punishment: either the pains of purgatory for two days, or sickness for the rest of his life. He chose the sickness."
We all agreed that the story was familiar, but that Keith had told it well. I said, “It sounds familiar, but I remember the widow being even bolder”.
Canon Hawker said, “Dio Cassius in the Roman History tells the same story of the Hadrian. He says that

Once, when a woman made a request of Hadrian as he passed by on a journey, he at first said to her, "I haven't time," but afterwards, when she cried out, "Then stop being emperor!" he turned about and granted her a hearing.[4]

“That’s the one I know!" I said. “I think I heard from Timothy Barnes in a class way back when I was an undergrad at Trinity.”
Canon Hawker said thoughtfully, “I wonder if any scholar has commented on the parallels with the Gospel story of the Syro-Phoneician woman who rebukes Jesus for refusing to heal her daughter? Could it be that that was what prompted Pope Gregory’s pity for Trajan?”
"That's if the legend is true,” said Susan, "or maybe the gospel story prompted the pity of whoever first told the story about Pope Gregory. I don't know if anyone's made the connection. Will, maybe sometime when you have time you can look all this up.”
“Perhaps, when I have time,” I said wryly.

After that the conversation turned to other things, and the party went on until it was nice and late and we all felt young and irresponsible, except for Mike and David who, though they are young enough to be irresponsible, pleaded that they had work the next morning and went upstairs.

[1] See Tales from the Slippery Slope: I.
[2] There is a discussion of the relation of this bas-relief to the origin of the legend in the New York Times of 7 December 1879.
[3] Purgatorio X.73-94
[4] lxix.6

Tales From the Slippery Slope: V. How Cardinal de la Cueva Almost Became Pope

“I was tidying up some papers the other day,” I began, when John Strype interrupted with a grumble, “As long as I’ve known you, you’ve been tidying up some papers.”
“Knock it off, John,” said Tom “He has a lot of papers, and every time he opens a box one of the papers reminds him of something. It’s a well-known failing of badly ordered-minds.”

I laughed politely. I had gone to Alicubi after mass this Sunday to enjoy the spring weather and join my friends John, Tom Chillingworth, and Fr – now the Rev'd Canon - Sidney Smith Hawker, to celebrate Hawker’s new appointment. We were having a pint or so at the Slope before a barbecue at Tom’s. It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon at The Slippery Slope. The doors were open and we sat on the deck watching the river flow gently by.
“As I was saying, while going through some papers, I came across a story you might like. This one is history – not like those old jokes that we’ve been enjoying. It’s one of the funnier things that’s happened at a papal conclave. Are you sitting comfortably? Good, then I'll begin."

In the old days when the cardinals went into the conclave, each was allowed to bring an attendant, or two if they were sick. Later the number was increased, but in the twentieth century no more were allowed. That was at about the same time that food was no longer delivered for each cardinal. One conclavist These servants, called Conclavists, could get involved in schemes and intrigues. In the conclave of 1559 one of these schemes almost made a particular cardinal pope. The cardinal in question was Bartolomé de la Cueva y Toledo de Alburquerque of Spain, a son of the second duke and duchess of Alburquerque.

“Albuquerque?” asked Tom.
“More or less,” said Canon Hawker, “Albuquerque, New Mexico, was named for the 8th duke of Alburquerque, who was Viceroy of New Spain from 1653 to 1660. It is said that the now American city lost the ‘r’ sometime in the 19th century because the postmaster couldn’t pronounce it! Speaking of New Mexico, can anyone tell me an historic link between Santa Fe and Toronto?”
I knew, but kept quiet. Hawker went on contentedly, “In 1807 when he was on his southwestern expedition, Pike was captured by the Spanish authorities and brought to Santa Fe on the way to Chihuahua. He was apparently the first American explorer to reach Santa Fe. In 1813, Pike was with the American forces that took York, now Toronto; he was killed by a chunk of rock when the powder magazine at Fort York was blown up on April 27.”
“Thank you, Canon,” I said, as the other two expressed their appreciation for this bit of knowledge.

“Now, if you’re all sitting comfortably, and your mugs are full ….” I realized my mistake too late.
Ten minutes later, when everyone had a fresh pint, and Keith had joined us for the story, I continued.

You can look up Cardinal de la Cueva’s career on Salvador Miranda’s meticulous web site The Cardinals of the Holy Roman Church,[1] if you like, so I don’t need to go into detail. I’ll just say that he was ordained in Spain (after studying law and having an illegitimate son), and in 1529 went to Italy with Charles V, Holy Roman Emperor-elect, who was crowned at Bologna the following year by Clement VII (the last time an emperor was crowned by the pope). I have no information on what he did next, but he was made cardinal priest by Paul III on 9 December 1544. He is said to have been a a friend of St Ignatius Loyola. De la Cueva was ordained bishop in 1549. As Cardinal, he took part in the elections of Julius III (1549), Marcellus II (1555), Paul IV (later in 1555), Pius IV (1559). From 1558 to 1559 he was also lieutenant-general of Naples for the emperor. In September 1560 he was named Archbishop of Manfredonia, in Puglia.[2].

I noticed Hawker trying to catch my eye, so I quickly added that Manfredonia, originally called Siponto, was rebuilt sometime around 1260 and named by King Manfred of Sicily, the natural son of Frederick II.

De la Cueva died on June 29, 1562. In The Triple Crown: An Account of the Papal Conclaves Valérie Pirie says that he was a congenial fellow, and witty in his conversation, and popular among the younger cardinals. But Pirie doesn’t say where he got that. [3] Anyway, if it had not been for accident or providence, de la Cueva might have became pope in the conclave of 1559.
Pope Paul IV died on August 18th 1559. The rule that the nine days of papal mourning should be followed at once by the beginning of the conclave on the tenth day were, as Pastor puts it, “not exactly observed” It was not until September 6th that the conclave began;; it would be take four months before a pope was chosen. At the pope’s death the college had fifty-six member: four died before the conclave began, six others were absent from Rome, leaving forty six. One died during the conclave and two left on the advice of their physicians before the final ballot.
The election was a difficult one, fraught with numerous problems, both personal and political. Each of the factions was strong enough to exclude a candidate, but none strong enough to gather the necessary two-thirds majority for a candidate. As well, the seventeen Spanish cardinals were waiting to hear some indication of the wishes of Philip II. The result of all this was that the first rounds of voting were just skirmishes, with no expectation of an election. In the first scrutiny, on Saturday, 9 September, twenty-eight candidates received votes, the highest number being fifteen for Cardinal Pacecco; our friend de la Cueva was one of five who received three votes each. Since one of these five was Giovanni de Medici (not one of those Medici), the cardinal who was finally elected, it would fair to say that any of the cardinals might have held a hope of winning the tiara at this stage. (Is it just an accident that papal elections used to, and horse racing does, aim at a triple crown?)
The next day de la Cueva’s conclavist, a Spanish knight named Ferdinand de Torres, did a little campaigning. Going around quietly he asked each cardinal to consider voting for de la Cueva in the morning’s ballot. Not that he expected his master to win, he assured them, but because it would give him such joy to receive a vote. Just the same, they might bear in mind de la Cueva’s many outstanding qualities, and consider giving him a little joy with that one vote, the voto di onore. Moreover, since de la Cueva had no hope of winning, and he was quite ignorant of this little scheme, de Torres asked that the request be kept a secret. Flattered, and unaware that de Torres had asked anyone else, each cardinal gave his promise. What would one vote matter, after all? Eventually de Torres gathered thirty-three promises, more than the two-thirds required for election: the papacy would have been settled in the morning except for an accident, or as Pallavicino said, except for the divine providence, which did not mean for popes to be made by accident.
Looking at some plans of the old conclaves, it is hard to imagine how anyone could manage to plot. The cardinals were housed for the duration in small wooden cells, which were crammed into the chapels and hallways. It was apparently believed that discomfort would make for speedy elections. How could one be secret? It is said that cardinals often attended to their plotting near the latrines, which were apparently bad even for the sixteenth century. My sources give no details of de Torres' campaign, and I have refrained from trying to imagine it.
In the morning the cardinals filed into the Pauline Chapel for the scrutiny. (In those days the cardinals’ cells were erected in the Sistine Chapel, where today the voting is held.) When it was almost time to place their ballots in the chalice, there was a delay while the votes of those too ill to attend were collected and the cardinal dean, was expected. Amid some idle chatter, one cardinal said to his neighbour, "You'll never guess for whom I filled in my ballot this morning!" After a little talk, the name was revealed, and it turned out that the neighbour had made the same choice. This got the cardinals whispering, and realized what de Torres had done. The result was that La Cueva lost most of his support and received only seventeen votes. He maintained that level of votes in most of the next 66 or so scrutinies, which suggests that he had some real support. Still, he was not elected, and since he died while Pius IV was still pope, and never had another chance.

When I was finished de la Cueva's story, we went over to Tom’s for barbecued lamb and some respectable Shiraz and enjoyed the lovely Spring evening in Alicubi.

Note.

This account is mainly taken from Cardinal Sforza Pallavicini's History of the Council of Trent (French translation, Migne, 1844), co, 833, with reference to Antonio Guido’s account of the conclave publsihed in Sebastian Merkle's collection Concilii Tridenti Diariorum (Freiburg: Herder, 1963), pp 612-613, and volume 15 of Pastors History of the Popes, p. 17. For the numbers of votes, see Pastor, 382f. De la Cueva was born in 1499.
[1] http://www.fiu.edu/~mirandas/bios1544.htm (ed.)
[2] http://maps.google.ca/maps?hl=en&tab=wl (ed.)
[3] This book is online at http://www.pickle-publishing.com/papers//triple-crown-contents.htm. It has a bibliography, but no proper references.
[4] Ludwig Pastor says that it was Count Francis von Thurm, who was the Imperial Ambassador. Von Thurm and de Torres seem to have been the same person. However, neither Guido nor Pallavicino describe him as an ambassador.

Tales from the Slippery Slope: IV

It must have been a day like this Thursday that the Mole felt Spring moving in the air and the earth and “suddenly threw down his brush on the floor, said ‘Bother!’ and ‘O blow!’ and also ‘Hang spring-cleaning!’ and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat.” At any rate it was so nice out I decided to follow Mole's example, and made it to Alicubi much earlier than usual. After a capuccino at Well, Latte Dah! and just leaning over the parapets of the stone bridge for about half an hour, first one side and then the other, I went over to the bookstore to liberate Tom Chillingworth from whatever earnest endeavour had him trapped and dragged hiim to The Slippery Slope to have a pint.
The Slope was bright and full of air: Keith had opened the large back doors for the first time this year. “It’ll be too cool in the evening to keep them open,” said the landlord, “but I'll keep them open long enough to blow out the winter cobwebs.”
“I don’t know if anyone else will be by,” said Tom. “John Strype is busy at something, and Fr Hawker was away all day at some clergy gathering.” Susan is off somewhere else to enjoy the weather and I haven't seen Simpson for a while.
I said, “Sidney told me about the clergy meeting. I just thought I‘d enjoy the weather and then head home. I think a quiet night woul do me some good. I'll go, put me feet up and read something old and familiar, maybe Pigs is Pigs by Ellis Parker Butler.
“Good story, that,” said Tom, “but before you go I'l tell a story that your mention of Pigs is Pigs reminded me in mind of."

Just then Keith came over to find out if we were going to be in for dinner. I said I wasn't, and Tom said he'd think about it. So Keith made sure the other customers were furnished with drinks, asked David to watch the bar and sat down for the story.

Tom began, "I’ve never run into it in a modern book or heard anyone tell it, but it seems to have been popular a few centuries back. It's a story of the sort that gets attached to different characters. I found three versions in old joke books, but I’ve mostly followed the one told about John Scoggin the fifteenth-century jester. I like it better than the others because but its ending isn’t as unkind as the others. It isn't Pigs is Pigs, so much as Sheep is Pigs, or even better,

Hogs or Sheep?

John Scoggin was an MA of Oxford and later became the favourite buffoon in the court of Edward IV. Once, when Scoggin was a scholar at Oxford, he and his roommate found themselves in the vacation without money and without employment. His friend said, “How on earth are we going to get any money?”
Scoggin replied, “I know an excellent trick, if you just follow my lead. We’ll go to the market at Thame,[1] and on the way we’re sure to meet someone going or coming driving hogs; just do what I tell you and we’ll get some money.”
So they set out early the next morning, and sure enough, before they got to Thame they spotted a man herding sheep along the road.
Scoggin said, "You go ahead and meet this man, and lay a wager that his sheep are not sheep, but hogs, and get him to agree that the next person who comes along will be the judge of it. I’ll go around by he field and make sure I’m the next man who comes along.”
So they separated, Scoggin going off through the field, while his friend went up and wished the shepherd a good morning; the old man returned his greeting. The scholar said: “Now Father, where did you get these fine hogs?”
“What hogs? said the shepherd.
“These hogs that you drive before you,” said the other
“They be sheep.”
“What?” said the scholar. “Do you take me for a fool?
Do you think I don’t know hogs from sheep? Hear how they squeak and grunt and snore: a sheep never bleated so.
“I think you must be half asleep, if you think my sheep be hogs.
“Will you lay a wager on it?” said the scholar
“Yes,” said the shepherd, “I will lay all the money in my purse against aything you like, that these be no hogs.”
“How much do you have?”
The shepherd said, “I have two shillings.”
The scholar laughed rudely, “Two shillings! That is nothing. Would you bet half your hogs and two shillings; and I will lay as much against it?
“Done.”
“Strike hands, then, and he that loses, pays.”
“Done.” said the old man;
“but who will decide? Let’s go to Thame and have someone judge.”
“No, no,” said Scoggin, Thame is out of my way; let the next man we meet be the judge.”

“That will do me,” said the old man.
Just Scoggin came along the road. The shepherd said, “Here’s a stranger coming; let him decide.” The other agreed and laughed, “I don’t know him from Adam, but your hogs are still in danger, friend.”
Scoggin stopped and stood some yards off gazing at the throng of grunting hogs. Then he called to the old man, “What would you sell a hog for? I see some fine ones there.”
His friend laughed in triumph: “There! He calls them hogs! And hogs they are, for all that you call them sheep. I have won my bet; one is mine to keep. And you—you’re lucky you didn’t bet them all.”
The shepherd stared and cried, “If sheep are pigs, then I have lost my wits.”
“And that you have,” said Scoggin, “to your loss”
Then the friend said, “Give me my money, and divide these hogs, for I must have half of them.”
“Alack,” said the shepherd, “I bought them for sheep, and not for hogs; I am undone.”
“No,” said Scoggin, "I’ll be an indifferent judge between you both; let the scholar have the two shillings, but you keep your hogs and take them away with you."
The old man said: “Blessed be the time that ever you were born, Sir! Hold, scholar, here are two shillings."
The fellow was glad not to have lost his hogs, which were sheep. What became of him afterward, I cannot tell; all I know is, that called sheep pigs, just in case, for ever after. Scoggin and his friend made quite merry on their two shillings, as one could in those days.

After a moment Tom added, somewhat apologetically, "Of course it's nothing like Pigs is Pigs, really. There weren't even any real pigs in it. And Pigs is Pigs is about guinea pigs. In the other versions I know the old man is a "hoggerd" and the two friends presuade him that his herd is really sheep, not hogs, but since I've always thought sheep more valuable (for wool and all that), I think the version I told makes better sense."

We talked about that for a while, and then some other things, until I noticed it was only 5:30, and there was time enough to get home and make an early night. So off I went, hoping to see Tom and Keith and the rest of our friends next week.

______________________________
[1] A market town in Oxfordshire, England, on the River Thame between Aylesbury and Oxford. In Tolkein’s Farmer Giles of Ham the name of the village is said to come from the dragon Farmer Giles tamed.

Tales from the Slippery Slope: III

I was too late getting to The Slippery Slope this Thursday, and missed dinner. When I arrived I found Susan Bond, the owner of the bathroom fixtures emporium Vanity of Vanities, talking to John Strype the undertaker and Tom Chillingworth from the bookstore. Fr Hawker was nowhere to be seen. Tom said, “You picked a good night to miss dinner, Will.”
“Oh?” said I.
“Mike and David were having some kind of spat,” John began, but Susan interrupted, “More of a tiff, I think.”
“Tiff, then,” continued John. “No idea what it was about, but the boys were upset, the food below par, and the service worse. Fr Hawker and Keith went off to talk some sense into them.”
Just then the priest and landlord returned. “Peace in our time,” said Keith, who greeted me, and went to get me a glass of claret. Fr Hawker sat down and picked up a glass.
“Generosity of heart is one of the secrets to good cooking;” he said, “anger and peevishness drive out generosity. But I think we have restored charity to those lads. They are too fond of each other to fall out seriously. Hmmm ... Generosity of spirit and cooking; makes me think of the old story of Stone Soup.”
Susan said, “Funny that you should mention Stone Soup. Last night I found a variant of it in The Sack-Full of News (a book of tales from the mid-sixteenth century). It might be a good tale for this evening.”
“I’m not sure I remember Stone Soup,” said the undertaker.
I said, “Can I give it quickly, Susan? She nodded, and I began,

Stone Soup

Once upon a time, two wanderers came at the end of the day to a poor little village, and sat down by the roadside to rest their weary feet. After a bit they go into the village to beg for food, but are told that no one has any food to share. “We’re starving ourselves!” was the constant refrain.
“Oh,” said the first vagabond, whom we’ll call Bob, “then we’ll have to share with you.”
“O ho!”, said the vllagers, “you were begging, and now you’ll share?”
The second traveller, Jack, said, “But my friends, we know how to make soup from a stone.”
The villagers watched with growing fascination as Bob lit a fire, and Jack filled a
pot with water and set it to boil. Some who tell this tale say that the two carried the pot with them on their travels; others that the villagers were willing to lend them that, even if they had no food to share. I don’t know which is the true version. I do know that the travellers chatted amiably with the villagers while the water came to a boil, at which Jack put in one medium-sized, clean stone. “Note this, my friends; the stone must be put in boiling water. They all nodded gravely.
“Hmmmm,” said Bob; “this will be wonderful, a soup to gladden the most sensitive gourmet” They all nodded gravely.
Soon enough, a woman snorted, “Not much flavour that I can smell; you haven’t put in enough onion – good soup needs onion.” With that she ran home and chopped a couple of onions and brought them for the soup.
Well, I won’t give all the details of how the other villagers, partly take in by the performance, and partly refusing to be outdone by their neighbours. brought everything that can make a wonderful soup – and possibly some that can’t.
In the end, of course, everyone enjoyed the soup. After the travellers left, they were remembered fondly, and even in the worst of times the villagers remembered how to make soup from a stone.

“Thank you,” said John, “I remember it now. Now Susan, what’s your version?"
“It’s not as nice a story,” she said, “nor perhaps as moral, but it is funnier, I think. With that, she began the tale of

Buttered Whetstone
They tell of a friar who lived in London back in the days of the old religion. This friar often used to visit a particular old woman in town, but every time he came to her house, she hid all the food she had. In these stories friars are often looking
fro food. So one day the friar came to her house along with a few friends. When
they all came into the house he demanded if she had any food.
She said, “No,” just like that.
“Well”, said the friar, you don’t have a whetstone do you?
“Yes,” said the woman; “what do you want to do with it?”
“Why, I want to make food from it,” he said, and added under his breath “Since you won’t share any.”
So she brought a whetstone.
Then he asked her if she had a frying-pan.
"Yes,” said she, “but what the devil are you going to do with that?
The Friar answered, “Why, you shall see by and by what I will do with that!”; and when she gve him the pan, he set it on the fire, and put the whetstone in it.
“Cock’s body!” said the woman, “you’re going to burn the pan.”

Susan stopped the story a moment, “I was wondering. What’s ‘Cock’s body’? It’s in a lot of these old anecdotes.” Fr Hawker said, “People in those days often said ‘Cock’s’ instead of ‘God’s’. It seems to have been a corruption rather than a euphemism.” “Odd, that,” said Susan, and carried on.

“No, no,” said the friar, “if you will give me some eggs, it will not burn at all.” She wanted to take the pan from him, convinced that it was in danger; but he would not let her, and insisted that she fetch him some eggs. Finally she got him two eggs.
“Tush,” said the friar, “These are hardly enough! Go fetch ten or twelve. So the good woman had to fetch more, for fear that the pan should burn; and when he had them, he put them in the pan.
“Now,” he said, “unless we add some butter, the pan will surely burn and the eggs too.”
So the woman, who was understandably reluctant to have her pan burnt, and her eggs lost, has to get a dish of butter, which he put into the pan.
When the eggs were all cooked, he served them to his friends at the table, saying: “Much good may it do you, my Masters; now may you say, you have eaten of a buttered whetstone.” At this they all laughed, but the woman was exceeding angry, because the friar had subtly tricked her out of her food.

Tom said, “No, it’s not as nice a story as Stone Soup. And the moral is different: the villagers learn generosity; this woman is only punished and mocked for hiding her food away. She doesn’t even seem to get any of her own eggs.”

"And the friar is sharper than Bob and Jack,” said Susan.

“That’s why he used a whetstone,” said the priest, at which we all laughed politely and called it a night.

With apologies to the real Susan Bond, who deserves more thanks than this for coming up with the perfect name for a shop that sells bathroom fixtures.

Tales from the Slippery Slope: II

Yesterday evening I found the Slippery Slope dark and empty except for Keith the landlord talking to Fr Hawker at the bar. The priest seemed to have just come in. When he saw me he took off his overcoat and sat on a stool.
“We might as well wait here to see who shows up,” he said. “I doubt there’ll be trouble finding a table.” Keith asked what we’d have. I wished him a good evening and asked for a pint of bitter; Fr Hawker asked for the same. While Keith pulled the pints he remarked that it would be nice when he could open up onto the deck.
“I suppose it’ll be some time before the weather is warm enough for long enough,” said Fr Hawker, “or even to do without a fire.”.
“That’s right,” said Keith, and handed us our pints.
We drank in companionable silence for a while, chatting about minor personal affairs. The pub door opened, and a lovely breeze came in, along with Tom Chllingworth and John Strype, who were discussing something heatedly. On this Fr Hawker got up and led me over to the table by the fire to welcome our friends, who stopped their talk long enough to greet us.
The pause wasn’t long. “Everybody knows he said it!” said Strype as if that clarified everything. Then he looked at the priest and me: “Oh, sorry. Tom has been trying to tell me that C. D. Howe never said “What’s a million?” He looked at Chillingworth as if he had three heads. Just then Keith came by to take drink orders.
When the beer arrived, Tom said to me, “Will, I'm aware that when you hear the words ‘Everybody knows’ you reach for your automatic, so I'm sure you’ve heard that “What’s a million” was what the Opposition made out of a remark in a War Appropriations debate, but that Howe really said something like “A million dollars from the War Appropriations Bill would not be a very important matter."
I replied quickly, “Well, actually Tom, I’ve never really looked into it. I’ve seen things, but that's not to say that I know anything. For that I’d have to look up Hansard and old newspapers. It’s enough for me to know that everybody remembers that it was said. And I'm not about to bother” Since John seemed ready to leap back into the fray I quickly added, “Anyway, what brought this on?”
“Oh, John was going on as he usually does about governments and their cavalier spending habits, and used the “What’s a million” line as an example. So rather than get into a serious discussion on a Thursday evening, I used your favourite trick and derailed the argument with a quibble.
Just as I was starting to carefully distinguish my usual objections from quibbles, Fr Hawker said, “Cavalier spending — hmmm— reminds me of a story — more of an anecdote really — about making spendthrift ruler realize the value of money.
John said, “Sorry, Father, but no stories till after we’ve eaten!’
“All right," he replied, and called over to the bar, “Keith! what’s Mark worked up for us tonight?” Mark is Keith's son, who had trained as a chef, and shares a flat above the pub with his friend David, who waits on tables and for admission to grad school.
The landlord called over, “Rabbit in a mustard sauce, small white potatoes boiled and green peas. There’s a consommé and salad.”
Dinner was a pleasant as it sounded, and with the excellent house wine it was enjoyed by all. At last we were sitting back comfortably, and Fr Hawker said, “Now let me tell you how about the value of money.
“When James VI of Scotland came to the English throne as James I ….”
I had to interrupt. “James VI & I! I can never help reading that in a book title as “James the Sixth and I,” as if it were the author’s memoirs of court”. A bit arrogant, eh?
The painful silence that ensued was broken by Tom. “And you never get tired of saying it, do you. Let Fr Hawker get on with it.”
So the priest began again,

James VI & I and Robert Cecil's Lesson on the Value of Money

When James VI of Scotland came to the English throne, he must have felt as if he has been made king of El Dorado. In Scotland in those days there wasn’t a lot of money in use. The English used to sneer that a Scottish pound wouldn’t pay for the shoeing of a horse. But James was generous, and had favourites, always an expensive combination.
Some said that Robert Cecil, his principal secretary, whom he later made lord treasurer, had persuaded him that the treasure left by Elizabeth and the other resources of England were an inexhaustible mine and all he had to do was dig. This wasn’t fair to Cecil, who seems to have been more concerned with curbing James’ profuse spending than inciting it. He once remarked to the Earl of Shrewsbury that so many people came to the King for relief of their poverty that he scarcely know how to get money for the day-to-day needs of the royal household.
In his "Traditional Memoirs of the Reign of King James," Francis Osborne tells how Cecil tried to teach the King the cost of extravagance. This story must have happened after 1608, when Cecil became treasurer, and before 1612, when he died. Osborne gives no dates, and I don’t know where he got the story.
James’ first English favourite was a young man named Robert Carr. At one point in Carr’s rise in favour and influence, he had obtained from the King a peremptory warrant to the Treasurer for £200,000. When Cecil saw this warrant he realized, as Osborne put it, that “not only the Exchequer, but the Indies themselves” would in time be unable to feed so immense a prodigality, and that he would have to find a way to show the King the value of what was demanded, fearing that he would easily be led into even greater expenditures. The plan he hit upon was simply to put £200,000 in gold on the floor of a room that he knew the King would be passing through.
When the King went into the chamber, he was amazed at the quantity of money, perhaps more than he had ever seen before, and asked the treasurer, “Whose money is that?
Cecil answered, “Your Majesty’s, before you gave it away.” At this James fell into a violent passion, and crying out that he was abused, and had never meant to give any such gift, he threw himself down on the heap of gold and, quickly grabbing two or three hundred pounds, swore that Carr should have no more.
So he learned his lesson – at least for the moment. What almost spoils the story is that he learned the lesson too well, and Cecil had to backtrack. Carr was still the favourite after all, or as Osborne says, the “minion,” and it wouldn’t do to put his nose that far out of joint. So Cecil had to calm the king down, speak in favour of Carr, and with no little difficulty, get him half the original sum.

We didn’t say much about finance after that. For my part I was afraid anything I could say would make James I seem like an expert in economics. Tom sighed and wished that we could track down where old writers got these anecdotes, and that got us off onto discussing sources and footnotes, and that kept us happy till Tom called “Time” and I toddled off with the priest to the Rectory, a nightcap, and slumber.

Tales From the Slippery Slope: I

On the main street of Alicubi, Ontario, across from St Hugh's Anglican Church, is The Slippery Slope. When the warm weather comes and the large back doors are opened onto the deck and the river, it boasts the finest prospect of any pub I've ever known, but in late March the Slope is still a dark and cozy parlour with a roaring fire, and (may God keep it so) no canned music.

You don't know Alicubi? It's what the name would suggest, one of those Ontario towns along a fast-flowing river that grew up with a lumber mill and a grist mill, and with the mills declined. Now it is close enough to the city for commuters and far enough for tourists. The river runs parallel to Main Street and then bends to the left so that the street crosses it on an imposing stone bridge.

Respectable brick buildings line Main street; their ground floors are still occupied by businesses, which all are apparently thriving. Just by the bridge on the right hand side is the funeral parlour, Remains to be Seen, which is in a building by itself, with sufficient parking. Next to that, in the building known as the Arbuthnot Block, are Vanity of Vanities, where bathroom fixtures and other plumbing supplies are sold, No Accounting for Taste (a gift shop), and a bank. Then, in a building that has been a hotel of sorts since Alicubi was founded, is the Slippery Slope. Across a side street is the Harrington Block, where you'll find another bank, Well Latte da! (a coffee shop) and Chillingworth's Books (New and Used). After that is Melville Presbyterian Church. On the left hand side are the more official premises: the Post Office (1895), next to the bridge, then the Town Hall (1889), St Hugh's, and the Grand Theatre (of uncertain date). The Roman Catholic Church is next to the theatre, the United Church next to that. Over the bridge are some of the nicer homes. The general effect is a bit like taking a block or so of Queen Street West out of Parkdale, brushing it off and tidying it up and putting it down in a pretty river valley.

Now that you've seen something of Alicubi, we can go back to the Slope. I like to go out there on a Thursday evening; on Thursdays the special is always something interesting, such as the quail cooked slowly in wine and stock with root vegetables we were served last night. Keith, the landlord, has a great interest in food and drink (as you might expect), and there is usually a wine to please your palate without breaking your bank. Thursday is the evening that my friend Father Sidney Smith Hawker of St Hugh's likes to go for dinner (and if the evening has been a good one, I'll accept the hospitality of the Rectory). Tom Chillingworth is always there as well, as is John Strype, the undertaker, who finds he can trust things to his son Brad for one night. From time to time others drop in on Thursday night, but yesterday it was just we four.

It has been our habit for some years that when dinner is over and we settle back over a glass of this or that, to tell stories. Well, the state of the Church is not a topic you want to get into with Fr Hawker these days, and it's not often you want to talk shop with the undertaker; so we tell stories. Some years ago Tom Chillingworth (who is by training an historian) caught on to the fact that Fr Hawker gets many of his stories from joke books of the Tudor and Stuart eras and sources like that, but he knows how few original stories there, so he didn't make a big thing out of it. Last night we were treated to a very familiar story, which Fr Hawker has used more than once in a sermon, but the occasion justified it

Just before dinner, as the four of us were enjoying Tom's best bitter, Mark Simpson stopped by the table. Mark runs a hardware store just around the corner from the bank. Since he calls it Simpson's Hardware, you can tell he has never really caught the spirit of Alicubi. The locals, of course, call it Beeton's after the fourth owner back, which sort of makes up for it. Now to put it bluntly, Simpson is a gossip, not a particularly malicious one, but tedious nonetheless. And as Fr Hawker likes to point out, it's the habit of gossip we have to watch for.

After dinner, Tom grunted something about Simpson, and said "Can't you do something, Stephen? You know, like that Priest in the story you're always preaching."

"Well," said Fr Hawker, "seeing he's a Roman Catholic, I don't know that I should stick my oar in - and I suspect he gives Fr Newton enough grief as it is."

Keith who was having a quiet moment at the bar came over and said, "I don't think I know that story," and sat down. Without waiting another moment, the priest began to tell the story of Saint Philip Neri and the Chicken

St Philip Neri, (1515-1595), the founder of the Congregation of the Oratory, was known not only for holiness but also for his humour and shrewd wit, which won him a place in the folklore of Rome. this is perhaps the best-known story told of this holy man.
In those days there was a woman in the neighbourhood whose besetting sin was gossip. She loved to pick up bits of information about her neighbours and pass them on, likely as not a bit embroidered. More than one reputation was tarnished because of her quick tongue. Now much as most people like to gossip little, a bit of gossip can go a long way and a touch of scandal gets tiresome quickly. The neighbours were too well aware that at the rate this woman talked, no one was safe, be they never so virtuous, but no one could do anything to make her stop.
It happened one morning that St Philip Neri, who was well aware of the problem, met this woman on the street, and after wishing her a good morning, asked her if she could do him a favour.
“Why, certainly!” said the woman
“I would like you to go to the market and buy a chicken for me. Here is the money.”

As she took the money he added, “To save time, pluck the chicken on the way back, so that it will be all ready to prepare.” She agreed, and toddled off the market. Perhaps she was storing up this slightly odd request to add to her repertoire! A little later she came back, and handed the priest a freshly-plucked chicken.
“Thank you, Ma’am,” he said, and added, “Now go back and gather up all the feathers and bring them to me.”
“But Father,” she cried, by now they will have blown down all the streets and alleys and across the piazzas. I could never get them back!”
“Indeed,” he replied. “And that is how it is with the things you say about your neighbours. Once spoken your words are like the feathers you plucked; as the ind carried the feathers, people repeat your words, and they go down all the streets and alleys, and across the piazzas. Whether good or ill, you can never get them back.
No one has recorded whether this woman changed her ways, but all of us can remember this little story and be carefull of what we say about others.

Fr Hawker sat back and drained his pint to general applause. Then he added, "Perhaps for positive advice we can take the example of one of my namesakes, Hawker of Morwenstow. Baring-Gould reports that

A commonplace neighbouring parson, visiting him once, asked him what were his views and opinions.
Mr Hawker drew him to the window. “There,” said he, “is Hennacliff, there the Atlantic stretching to Labrador, there Morwenstow crag, here the church and graves; these are my views. As to my opinions, I keep them to myself."

We all agreed that this was a good policy, and fell into general conversation. If there's a good story next week, I'll tell you about the evening at The Sippery Slope.