Remember when I told you about Grizzle Cale? How, among all of the Elizabeths, Marys, Sarahs, Annes, and Catherines, there was a lone "Grizzle?" Remember how I couldn't believe it and wondered what her parents were thinking and where on Earth did they come up with the name Grizzle? Well, last night the mystery was solved!
I met up with an old friend/professor of mine, Carter Hailey, and while catching up on life (which, of course, includes a discussion of my many hours at the microfilm reader with 18th-century court order books) I mentioned that one of the stranger things I had come across was a woman named Grizzle Cale. "Grizzle," I said. "Grizzle. Can you imagine? I can't even think what that would be short for! Maybe her parents just wanted her to stand out so they came up with something crazy." Then Carter said, "No, I know where it comes from, I think. I think it might be the 'z's that are throwing you off." I paused. "What do you mean?"
"It's from Chaucer's Canterbury Tales," he explained. Griselda or Grisele, apparently, was the 'patient wife', and the name became synonymous with virtue and obedience. Instances of Grissel, Grisele, Griselda or-- get this-- Grizzel (dum dum dum!!!) come up fairly frequently in English literary works through the sixteenth century, and three operas called Griselda came out between 1721 and 1735. Though they were Italian operas, it is extremely conceivable that an Englishman would be familiar with the works since the Italian opera was all the rage in London during the 18th century.
Of course, that just solves one mystery. Now a million more questions arise: was Grizzle first generation colonial American? Was she born in England? It's quite possible that even if she wasn't, her parents were born in England-- the microfilm often has people come forward to declare that they have recently imported themselves from Great Britain into the colony as indentured servants or otherwise. Did her parents see one of these operas or hear about it in the streets of London? Even if they were all colonial by birth, perhaps they had been affluent and her father was educated enough to have read Chaucer. Perhaps they had been poor but he had been lucky enough to attend a grammar school. Perhaps they read about the operas playing in London in one of the colonial newspapers. Perhaps they were still affluent and Grizzle herself had been educated!
And what did Jacob Cale think of his wife? Did he expect her to be really quite as obedient as her name suggests? Was she fiery or docile? Did she fit her name or rebel against it?
If only there were some way to know the answers.
Just one of the tantalizing bits of history; the thrill of discovery, followed by the never-ending and often unanswerable questions. But hey, at least Grizzle isn't quite such a mystery anymore!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
A Sad Story in Amsterdam
We've all heard of The Diary of Anne Frank. I must admit, I have not read the book, though I have wanted to for awhile. Maybe I'll put it on my reading list. But the other day I was watching Samantha Brown: Passport to Europe on the Travel Channel, and she visited Amsterdam. During the show, she visited the room where Anne Frank hid from the Nazis for two years. She looked at the walls, covered in pictures and cut-outs of famous Hollywood celebrities and Princess Elizabeth of Windsor-- the current Elizabeth II. During the war, the two girls were about the same age; you can see how Anne might have looked to Elizabeth (who stayed in London during the German Blitz, despite the danger) as a courageous sign of hope. I started to cry. Maybe I'm just hormonal right now or something, but even without having read the book, it just felt so incredibly sad. Especially when it was revealed that Anne had always wanted to be a writer, and hoped that her words would bring happiness to the world.
But I also felt sad because of a paper I wrote last year considering converso identity. During the late 16th and early 17th century Jews and conversos (Jews who had converted to Christianity, whether sincerely or for political purposes) were driven from the Iberian Peninsula during-- what else?-- the Spanish Inquisition, and later, less mentioned, the Portuguese Inquisition. They didn't have much of a choice; all those who openly identified as Jews were expelled from the kingdom, and all those who identified as conversos ran the risk of being burned for heresy. (Jews could not technically be tried by the Inquisition because they were not heretics, having never professed to believe in Jesus Christ and having never been baptised; heresy, as defined by the Inquisition, can only be committed by baptised Christians. Conversos, having been baptised, were the ones in the most danger.) Many conversos, of course were sincere in their practice of Christianity. Many others practiced a hybrid version of Judaism and Christianity. This was the most dangerous of all, by Inquisition standards. Some practiced this hybrid religion without really knowing why-- they lit candles on Friday and abstained from pork without a real understanding of what they were doing, just doing it because it was tradition. Even many Jews in Spain had little understanding of their religion by the 17th century, but of course, that didn't really matter to the Inquistion.
So they fled. Most of them fled straight to Amsterdam. Why? Because in the 17th century, Amsterdam was a place of tolerance. It also had a familiar Spanish influence, being in the Netherlands. Amsterdam had a large Jewish community, made up of not only the Marrano Jews of 'the Nation' (a term used to describe the diasporic community created by the Inquisition), but also of Sephardic Jews (of Spanish and Portuguse descent, also, but who had relocated from the Iberian peninsula prior to the Inquisition and never undergone the converso experience; also from other Mediterranean regions) and Ashkenazi Jews. The laws of Amsterdam allowed them to practice their religion in relative peace, and many conversos, who had perhaps been willing to actually convert to Christianity, found in their new home a connection to their Jewish faith. While not a 'return' to the religion for many individuals, since many of them had actually grown up as Christians or pseudo-Christian-Jews for several generations past, it constituted a change to their old practices, towards a more pure form of Judiasm (aided by the Sephardim). Though not all of them accepted every tenet of Rabbinic Judaism, they certainly began to build towards a greater religious understanding. Many conversos soon became ex-conversos.
In Amsterdam, they created a religious community, an intellectual community, and a community of service. They had dowry institutions for poor members of 'the Nation,' they developed literary academies, and they began to practice Judaism without hiding in the back room. In the paper, I explored the stories of individual members of 'the Nation,' such as Maria Nunes, who, according to legend, become the object of affection to a young English duke who paraded her through London, introduced her to Queen Elizabeth I, and asked for her hand in marriage. She, however, refused him-- choosing to live openly as a Jew in Amsterdam, than as a Christian in London. There was Daniel Levi de Barrios, a Portuguese-Jewish poet and author living in Amsterdam, who adhered to both Christian and Jewish principles depending on whether he lived in Spain or the Netherlands, but who revered the Jewish community in Amsterdam and was considered a member of 'the Nation' by other members of 'the Nation.'
And, two centuries later, Amsterdam was the home of Anne Frank. Samantha Brown quoted that only 1 in 16 Jews living in Amsterdam survived the Holocaust. In this case, my knowledge of history made that fact even sadder than it already is; such a beautiful, intelligent, established, and thriving community diminished. The descendants of Maria Nunes and Daniel Levi de Barrios, the children of the ancient Sephardim of the Mediterranean, and the Ashkenazim of central and eastern Europe... all gone. Their safe haven, once again, become a place of persecution and death.
Sometimes, history hurts. Still, no matter how much it hurts us to remember, it's best not to forget.
(Anne Frank)
(If you want info on the subject not from Wikipedia, I have an academic bibliography/paper on 16th and 17th century converso identity which I can send to you by e-mail. Just leave a comment)
But I also felt sad because of a paper I wrote last year considering converso identity. During the late 16th and early 17th century Jews and conversos (Jews who had converted to Christianity, whether sincerely or for political purposes) were driven from the Iberian Peninsula during-- what else?-- the Spanish Inquisition, and later, less mentioned, the Portuguese Inquisition. They didn't have much of a choice; all those who openly identified as Jews were expelled from the kingdom, and all those who identified as conversos ran the risk of being burned for heresy. (Jews could not technically be tried by the Inquisition because they were not heretics, having never professed to believe in Jesus Christ and having never been baptised; heresy, as defined by the Inquisition, can only be committed by baptised Christians. Conversos, having been baptised, were the ones in the most danger.) Many conversos, of course were sincere in their practice of Christianity. Many others practiced a hybrid version of Judaism and Christianity. This was the most dangerous of all, by Inquisition standards. Some practiced this hybrid religion without really knowing why-- they lit candles on Friday and abstained from pork without a real understanding of what they were doing, just doing it because it was tradition. Even many Jews in Spain had little understanding of their religion by the 17th century, but of course, that didn't really matter to the Inquistion.
So they fled. Most of them fled straight to Amsterdam. Why? Because in the 17th century, Amsterdam was a place of tolerance. It also had a familiar Spanish influence, being in the Netherlands. Amsterdam had a large Jewish community, made up of not only the Marrano Jews of 'the Nation' (a term used to describe the diasporic community created by the Inquisition), but also of Sephardic Jews (of Spanish and Portuguse descent, also, but who had relocated from the Iberian peninsula prior to the Inquisition and never undergone the converso experience; also from other Mediterranean regions) and Ashkenazi Jews. The laws of Amsterdam allowed them to practice their religion in relative peace, and many conversos, who had perhaps been willing to actually convert to Christianity, found in their new home a connection to their Jewish faith. While not a 'return' to the religion for many individuals, since many of them had actually grown up as Christians or pseudo-Christian-Jews for several generations past, it constituted a change to their old practices, towards a more pure form of Judiasm (aided by the Sephardim). Though not all of them accepted every tenet of Rabbinic Judaism, they certainly began to build towards a greater religious understanding. Many conversos soon became ex-conversos.
In Amsterdam, they created a religious community, an intellectual community, and a community of service. They had dowry institutions for poor members of 'the Nation,' they developed literary academies, and they began to practice Judaism without hiding in the back room. In the paper, I explored the stories of individual members of 'the Nation,' such as Maria Nunes, who, according to legend, become the object of affection to a young English duke who paraded her through London, introduced her to Queen Elizabeth I, and asked for her hand in marriage. She, however, refused him-- choosing to live openly as a Jew in Amsterdam, than as a Christian in London. There was Daniel Levi de Barrios, a Portuguese-Jewish poet and author living in Amsterdam, who adhered to both Christian and Jewish principles depending on whether he lived in Spain or the Netherlands, but who revered the Jewish community in Amsterdam and was considered a member of 'the Nation' by other members of 'the Nation.'
And, two centuries later, Amsterdam was the home of Anne Frank. Samantha Brown quoted that only 1 in 16 Jews living in Amsterdam survived the Holocaust. In this case, my knowledge of history made that fact even sadder than it already is; such a beautiful, intelligent, established, and thriving community diminished. The descendants of Maria Nunes and Daniel Levi de Barrios, the children of the ancient Sephardim of the Mediterranean, and the Ashkenazim of central and eastern Europe... all gone. Their safe haven, once again, become a place of persecution and death.
Sometimes, history hurts. Still, no matter how much it hurts us to remember, it's best not to forget.
(Anne Frank)(If you want info on the subject not from Wikipedia, I have an academic bibliography/paper on 16th and 17th century converso identity which I can send to you by e-mail. Just leave a comment)
Sunday, December 12, 2010
A Brief Note on the Minuet
Currently, I am reading The Sylph by Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. First published anonymously around 1777 when Georgiana was twenty-one, the book follows the adventures of Julia, a young girl from the country who's city-bred husband, Lord Stanley, whisks her off to London where she becomes part of the depraved and oh-so-exciting life of the ton. The book, written as an epistolary, is comprised of letters between Julia and her sister, Julia and her father, Lord Stanley and his friends, etc. I imagine that soon there will be letters from the elusive Sylph, but I'm not that far along yet. With everything else going on, I have scant time for pleasure reading.
But I do know this much: the book is shocking in all of the most delicious ways. The critiques Georgiana levels at fashion, marriage, and the life of an aristocratic young woman caused scandal in her own day, and for 18th-century historians like me, it continues to elicit shocked laughter, gasps, and even, at times, blushes. What, so you think the 18th century was prim and proper, and that a girl all-too-familiar with the 'anything goes' attitude of 21st-century America should not find anything shocking in an old book? Ha. Obviously, I need to educate you in the seamier side of 18th century living. Some of it though, you're right, comes from adopting an 18th century mindset. When you know how they thought, what was considered right and wrong, what was considered scandalous and shocking, and the politics of the time, the book takes on much deeper layers and even the slightest remark stands out as a major societal infraction.
In particular, I'm thinking of the minuet. In one of her letters, Julia writes [emphasis my own], "Nay, I begin to think, I might as well have learnt nothing; and that the time and expence which were bestowed on my education were all lost, since I even do not know how to walk a minuet properly."
I gasped aloud upon reading that sentence. Some of you out there might understand. Julia couldn't dance the minuet. Well! I never! A girl of society, living in London, unable to dance the minuet! Oh, wouldn't they all make merry of her after a ball; her dancing skills (or lack thereof) would be the talk of the town for weeks. No wonder Lord Stanley-- in his prideful, arrogant, stand-offish way-- worried for her! The minuet was the most important dance of all. At a ball, each couple would, one-by-one, enter the center of the dance floor starting with the most important couple in the room (the King and Queen, in England, or the Governor and his wife, in the colonies) and everyone would watch. A graceful minuet could make you; a bad one could break you. Oh, Julia! The ton is a treacherous place.
What? Not shocking to you? Well, maybe after a few lessons in eighteenth-century society I'll be able to find something that makes even the most jaded among you gasp in surprise!
But I do know this much: the book is shocking in all of the most delicious ways. The critiques Georgiana levels at fashion, marriage, and the life of an aristocratic young woman caused scandal in her own day, and for 18th-century historians like me, it continues to elicit shocked laughter, gasps, and even, at times, blushes. What, so you think the 18th century was prim and proper, and that a girl all-too-familiar with the 'anything goes' attitude of 21st-century America should not find anything shocking in an old book? Ha. Obviously, I need to educate you in the seamier side of 18th century living. Some of it though, you're right, comes from adopting an 18th century mindset. When you know how they thought, what was considered right and wrong, what was considered scandalous and shocking, and the politics of the time, the book takes on much deeper layers and even the slightest remark stands out as a major societal infraction.
In particular, I'm thinking of the minuet. In one of her letters, Julia writes [emphasis my own], "Nay, I begin to think, I might as well have learnt nothing; and that the time and expence which were bestowed on my education were all lost, since I even do not know how to walk a minuet properly."
I gasped aloud upon reading that sentence. Some of you out there might understand. Julia couldn't dance the minuet. Well! I never! A girl of society, living in London, unable to dance the minuet! Oh, wouldn't they all make merry of her after a ball; her dancing skills (or lack thereof) would be the talk of the town for weeks. No wonder Lord Stanley-- in his prideful, arrogant, stand-offish way-- worried for her! The minuet was the most important dance of all. At a ball, each couple would, one-by-one, enter the center of the dance floor starting with the most important couple in the room (the King and Queen, in England, or the Governor and his wife, in the colonies) and everyone would watch. A graceful minuet could make you; a bad one could break you. Oh, Julia! The ton is a treacherous place.
What? Not shocking to you? Well, maybe after a few lessons in eighteenth-century society I'll be able to find something that makes even the most jaded among you gasp in surprise!
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