“There Is a Fountain” performed by Timothy Seaman on hammered dulcimer
“On that day there shall be ja fountain opened for the house of David and the inhabitants of Jerusalem, to cleanse them from sin and uncleanness” (Zech. 13:1 ESV).
This popular hymn, published under the title “Praise for the Fountain Opened,” was written by the gifted and troubled Englishman William Cowper (1731-1800). For the last several years of his life, he worked with John Newton on many hymns and pastoral duties. Newton is likely the reason we have Cowper’s hymns. (Cowper is pronounced “cooper.”)
1 There is a fountain filled with blood, Drawn from Immanuel’s veins; And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains, Lose all their guilty stains, Lose all their guilty stains; And sinners, plunged beneath that flood, Lose all their guilty stains.
2 The dying thief rejoiced to see That fountain in his day; And there may I, though vile as he, Wash all my sins away, Wash all my sins away, Wash all my sins away; And there may I, though vile as he, Wash all my sins away.
3 Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood Shall never lose its power, Till all the ransomed Church of God Be saved, to sin no more, Be saved, to sin no more, Be saved, to sin no more; Till all the ransomed Church of God Be saved, to sin no more.
4 E’er since by faith I saw the stream Thy flowing wounds supply, Redeeming love has been my theme, And shall be till I die: And shall be till I die, And shall be till I die; Redeeming love has been my theme, And shall be till I die.
5 When this poor lisping, stamm’ring tongue Lies silent in the grave, Then in a nobler, sweeter song I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save: I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save, I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save; Then in a nobler, sweeter song I’ll sing Thy pow’r to save.
Do Americans know more than the first verse of “America, the Beautiful,” specifically the second verse with the words:
“America! America! God mend thine every flaw Confirm thy soul in self-control Thy liberty in law!”
In one simple line, we see the law, not as the source of our liberty, but as a tool for protecting it against those who would take it away. But what “it” is remains a question.
It’s that loosely defined something we can’t get enough of.
“More liberty begets desire of more; The hunger still increases with the store.”
John Dryden
Fred Bauer has a piece on the different views of freedom we’ve had since the colonial days. We had Puritans’ “ordered liberty,” Quakers’ “reciprocal liberty,” Virginians’ “hegemonic liberty,” and Appalachians’ “natural liberty.” These are taken from David Hackett Fischer’s book, Albion’s Seed.
“Ethical concerns,” Bauer writes, “factor into the notion of freedom as ‘elbow room.’ Patrick Henry argued that the centralized Constitution would threaten both ‘the rights of conscience’ and ‘all pretensions to human rights and privileges.’ That ethical strand offers a counterpoint to arguments that American freedom is simply about material prosperity. The genealogy of freedom is more complicated.”
Moving on to the links, we face a new frontier for ethical freedom in the choices we make with our technology. In other words, if we can do it, should we? How is using AI as described below not plagiarism?
One of the major reasons I think we need to stand against AI as authors specifically is I suspect a lot of publishing house CEOs are looking at it and thinking “you know, why do we pay all these editors anyway?” https://t.co/hVbrO31fKj
To repeat the July 13, 2023, tweet above for preservation, Courtney Milan (@courtneymilan) says, “One of the major reasons I think we need to stand against AI as authors specifically is I suspect a lot of publishing house CEOs are looking at it and thinking ‘you know, why do we pay all these editors anyway?'”
She retweets Maureen Johnson (@maureenjohnson) from earlier that day, who says, “Authors: we need to stand up with the actors. AI is ALREADY HERE in our work. I just spoke to a Very Famous Author who has to remain nameless for legal reasons. They are held up in a contract negotiation because a Major Publisher wants to train AI on their work.”
I’d think training a computer to mimic a popular author’s work would fall within the bounds of plagiarism. If not that, fan fiction.
Who furrows? Who follows? The owl in the hollow The hawk in the meadow The jay in the hedgeapple tree Who follows the farmer who furrows his fields? Who furrows? Who follows? We three.
Fiction: It may be common for online chat to express a desire for short novels, but do readers want them? Nathan Bransford talks about the dangers of writing shorter works. “When writers are grappling with bloated word counts, physical description tends to be the first to go. Tastes vary, but in my opinion, cutting too much physical description is almost always a mistake. We’re already in a physical description drought, please don’t make it worse!”
Trapped: In other news, 100 people were trapped for hours yesterday in Agatha Christie’s old home by a large tree that had fallen across the only access road. They hung out mostly in the tea room. One witness reported the staff were “doing a great job, they are giving us free tea’s and things. It’s a bit bleak.”
The Viking hall at Ravnsborg, Knox City, MO. Photo by me.
It’s been a little while since I reviewed another saga in The Complete Sagas of Icelanders. Tonight’s saga is not a saga at all, but a tale, just two pages long. It’s a sort of parenthetical incident found originally in the Icelandic Morkinskinna saga manuscript. I can’t find any cheap collection you can buy that contains it, so you’ll have to take my word about it. Its title is The Tale of Arnor, the Poet of Earls.
“Earl,” of course, is a translation of “jarl.”
Arnor Jarlaskald is a figure known from the saga histories, and considered one of the great skalds of the 11th Century. This story doesn’t explain his nickname (he deals only with kings here), but we’re told elsewhere that he got it because he spent a lot of time with the jarls of the Orkneys and composed often for them. Otherwise he was a merchant.
This story is set during the time when King Magnus the Good (St. Olaf’s son) ruled jointly with King Harald Hardrada. (Harald had come back from Constantinople dripping with money, intending to depose his nephew Magnus and take over Norway. Intermediaries convinced them to do a deal – half of Harald’s fortune in exchange for half of Magnus’ kingdom. Though their time together wasn’t without tensions, they managed to keep the peace, and when Magnus died, it’s remarkable to note that nobody seems to have suggested that Harald murdered him. That’s the sort of thing Harald easily might have done, after all).
In the tale, Arnor arrives in the town (doesn’t say what town here; no doubt it’s explained in the larger context. Could have been Nidaros (Trondheim), but it might have been Tunsberg), having composed poems in honor of both kings. But he seems to have been told to wait, so he started to work tarring his ship. Then messengers came to summon him to court. He went directly, not even stopping to wash the tar off his hands.
He then goes into the hall, where both kings wait in their high seats. They ask Arnor whose poem he means to recite first. Arnor says he’ll start with Magnus, because “it is said that young men are impatient.”
Arnor begins the poem, and Harald (himself a poet) can’t resist interrupting to complain that it’s mostly about Arnor’s own journeys and dealings with the jarls. Magnus wants to hear more, and then the saga writer gives us excerpts from the original poem. Harald continues butting in with objections, but in the end he appears jealous. After hearing his own poem, he says, “My poem will soon fade away and be forgotten, while the drapa composed about King Magnus will be recited as long as there are people in the North.”
Which is true, because we have Magnus’ poem preserved here, while Harald’s is not.
In the end, Arnor is rewarded by Harald with a gold-inlaid spear, while Magnus gives him a gold ring and, later, a merchant ship and cargo.
This is a snippet, an anecdote without much of a plot. Its significance would seem to be in the insight it gives us into the characters of two very different kings. And probably an old man’s proud reminiscence of the days when he met celebrities.
Irrelevant details like Arnor’s dirty hands give a strong impression of verisimilitude. This sounds very much like a genuine memory, passed down only a few generations before being preserved on parchment.
I did something today I never do. I quit a book I actually liked. I’ve outgrown the idea that you have to finish every book you start reading. Life’s too short, especially at my age. So if I think a book is badly written, or if it offends me, I’ll just remove its download from my Kindle.
But why would I drop a book whose values please me, and which I find well-written?
Because I’m a wimp. Which will not surprise our regular readers.
I should at least give the author credit. He’s one of my favorites, James Scott Bell. The book is Can’t Stop Me. It’s about an ordinary guy, a lawyer and family man, who is suddenly targeted by an old college acquaintance who seems to have no purpose other than to force himself into his life. The stalker employs innuendo and suggestion to threaten the hero, always keeping within legal limits. The worst thing is, he happens to know the hero’s oldest and darkest secret.
This is an old book of Bell’s which he’s revised slightly for re-release. It shows some signs of being early work, but is overall very well written.
And it gave me the willies. This kind of story – the kind where ordinary people face dangers they’re not prepared for, really bothers me. I suppose it’s because I know I wouldn’t survive ten minutes in such a situation.
A writer ought to have thicker skin.
Anyway, if you’re braver than I am, I recommend it, even though I chickened out a third of the way through.
In other news, I remembered today that I need to renew my passport. I’d put it away with the unpaid bills so I wouldn’t forget it, and got so used to seeing it there that I forgot it. I should have done it earlier – now I’ll be passportless for a short while. Not that I expect to need it. I tend to use a passport one time before it expires. This one I’ll probably never use at all.
But I like to have one. I’m an international man of affairs, after all. I never know when I’m going to be summoned to receive a medal from the king of Norway.
But 130 bucks for a passport? I’m pretty sure my first one, back in the ’80s, cost $40.
Speaking of Norway, I mentioned Mosterøy in Norway in yesterday’s post, and said not to confuse it with Moster on Bomlø. I visited that Moster last summer too. It was the home of the mother of King Haakon the Good (who was related to Erling Skjalgsson’s family). They do a historical play in an amphitheater there every year (video above). My two guides, Tore-Ravn and Einar (the two on the left in the photo below, with the historic Moster Stone), are extras in the play, and take great pride in it.
Tonight’s post is probably of limited interest, but I’m between books again. I found this drone video of Hodnefjell farm on the island of Mosterøy, (not to be confused with Moster on Bomlø, where St. Olaf instituted Christian law in Norway) a place where some of my ancestors on my dad’s side lived. These were the most historically significant ancestors I’ve heard about. I’m sure I’ve written about this before.
According to Sigve Bø, my guide last year, the Hodnefjell family (if I remember correctly) had converted to Moravianism in the early 19th Century, a serious matter in state church Norway. But they heard about the lay evangelist Hans Nielsen Hauge and wrote to him, inviting him to visit them. He came and stayed with them on their farm. They were so impressed with his teaching that they converted back to Lutheranism and became “friends of Hauge.”
They had a neighbor named John Haugvaldstad who also became a Haugean. He disliked farming and left for Stavanger (leaving his incompatible wife, who’d never much liked him either. They lived separate lives but never divorced). There he became a successful businessman and the de facto leader of the Haugeans after Hauge’s imprisonment.
The Haugean circle in Stavanger had much to do with arranging the first organized party of emigrants to leave Norway for America. This group sailed in 1825 on the sloop “Restaurasjon.” The party was made up of Quakers and Haugeans, all looking for greater religious freedom in the US.
If your great complaint about the world of thriller novels is that they all tend to look the same (and it’s often a valid complaint ), Tom Trott’s Cain novels might just be what you’re looking for. I’m not sure The Nice Guy and the Devil was my cup of tea, but it was definitely original.
Harrison Byers (known as “Cain”) is a Canadian, a former CIA operative (not sure how that works). He’s in Nice, France, enjoying the weather, when he notices a small, unprepossessing man asking clumsy questions about his “missing sister.” Cain figures him for an amateur trying to be a private eye. But when he notices the woman the man described sitting alone in a café, he can’t help introducing himself.
They make a date, but the unprepossessing man shows up at Cain’s apartment and commits suicide in front of them. The police come and arrest both him and the woman, and when they’re finally released they spend the night together. She asks him to accompany him to her daughter’s wedding the next day, and he figures why not? Little do they expect that the reception will be attacked by terrorists, one person kidnapped, and several others murdered. Cain sets off in pursuit, soon teaming up with a young Interpol agent who’s the daughter of an old friend.
The most surprising element in the story is Cain himself. He’s not your bog standard thriller hero. He’s middle-aged, bald and overweight (he actually wears a toupee and a girdle). But he still has his shooting skills and his fighting instincts, along with (sometimes insane) nerve. The story is packed with suspense and danger, the big twist at the end comes at you out of left field, and the conclusion is satisfying.
What annoyed me was the author’s habit of not describing characters until they’ve been on stage for a while. This is particularly aggravating when he fails to tell us the character’s race, and then makes race an issue. It’s as if he’s first saying, “Look how colorblind I am,” then turning and saying to the reader, “Why were you so racist as to assume they were white?”
On the other hand, there’s a devout Christian character in the book, and his faith is treated respectfully.
The Nice Guy and the Devil was a very neat thriller, capably plotted and written. I didn’t love it, but it was professionally done.
I should really wait to post this review/appreciation until I’ve had the time to watch the whole series through on YouTube, but I need a topic tonight and I already know what I think. Harry O, starring David Janssen, was one of the best TV PI series of the 1970s, and could have done even better if the network hadn’t clotheslined it.
The series struggled a bit getting launched. The first pilot movie, which you can watch above, was about a grumpy Los Angeles private eye named Harry Orwell (Janssen). He used to be a police detective, but a bullet near the spine put him on the disabled roster, so now he freelances. Only he’s a bit of a misanthrope (though he always seems to have a beautiful girlfriend) and actively discourages business. His injury interferes with his activity at times. He lives in a shack on the ocean, where he’s constantly working on his sailboat, “The Answer,” which is never quite finished (metaphor sighted!). He has a car, but it’s always in the shop and he rides the bus instead – which offers interesting creative opportunities for the writers, as when he loses a “tail” while riding it.
It seems network executives found the first pilot a little dark, so they ordered another one, which was lighter but hardly cheery. But that one was enough to get the series green-lit. (Jody Foster plays a homeless girl in this one.)
As the season begins, we find Harry living on Catalina Island near San Diego. Still in a shack, still working on his boat and riding the bus. His cop buddy is now Lt. Manny Quinlan (Henry Darrow, whom you may remember as Manolito on The High Chapparal). They’re on and off friends, but have each other’s backs when the chips are down.
Then, half-way through the first season, the network decided it was too expensive to shoot on Catalina and moved Harry closer to LA, but in a nearly identical living situation. His police buddy is now Lt. Trench, played by Anthony Zerbe, who won an Emmy as a supporting actor. The two actors’ chemistry was extremely good. Harry’s car was finally liberated from the shop, but it still broke down a lot. The tone was lightened yet again.
In the second season, Harry’s back injury – though never forgotten – became less important. Toward the end, a young actress named Farrah Fawcett-Majors (at the time) showed up as Harry’s stewardess girlfriend. (This attracted my increased interest.)
And then the network decided it wanted to change its entertainment direction. The relatively intelligent Harry O series was cancelled to be replaced by a star vehicle for Farrah – Charlie’s Angels. I’ll confess I was a big fan of the Angels at the time, but today I find I can’t bear to watch it, even when Farrah’s on. Harry O, on the other hand, holds up extremely well.
Private eye shows were a staple of prime-time TV in the 70s. Quinn Martin Productions, especially, ran a content factory that turned them out like sausages. QM did some quality work – he’d produced The Fugitive, which made David Janssen a star. But they also turned out shows like Cannon and Barnaby Jones that were almost indistinguishable in format, and even recycled each others’ scripts from time to time. I came to see the Quinn Martin trademark as a sure sign of phoning it in.
But Harry O was a smart show with good writing, good acting, and atmosphere. I’d put it right up there with a very different show, The Rockford Files. It could have been a classic, given the chance.
David Janssen swore never to do a network series again. He did a miniseries, but never a weekly show.
“Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing” performed on hammered dulcimer
Today’s hymn is one of my top three favorites. “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing” was written by Robert Robinson of Norfolk, England (1735-1790). It’s testimony to God’s sustaining grace has always appealed to me.
Hymnary.org says the tune for this hymn has been ascribed to many different people as well as no one at all. The Trinity Hymnal cites it as the one written or distributed by Asahel Nettleton (1783-1844), an American preacher who left a strong legacy with his publication of Village Hymns. “Nettleton’s hymnological work centred in the compiling of his Village Hymns, from which more hymns of the older American writers have passed into English collections than from any other source.”
Another good thing Nettleton did was to oppose Charles Finney in 1827. Bully for him.
1 Come, thou fount of ev’ry blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace; streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise. Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above; praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it, mount of God’s unchanging love.
2 Here I raise my Ebenezer; hither by thy help I’m come; and I hope, by thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home. Jesus sought me when a stranger, wand’ring from the fold of God: he, to rescue me from danger, interposed his precious blood.
3 O to grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be; let that grace now, like a fetter, bind my wand’ring heart to thee. Prone to wander – Lord, I feel it – prone to leave the God I love; here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for thy courts above.
Ukrainian novelist, activist, and winner of the Joseph Conrad Literary Award for 2021 Victoria Amelina was in Kramatorsk, a city in the Donetsk region of Ukraine. She was “with a delegation of Colombian writers and journalists on June 27 when Russian forces fired two Iskander missiles at the city, hitting a popular restaurant downtown,” The Kyiv Independent reports.
The IT professional-turned writer, 37, had lived in the States for a few years before returning to Ukraine to research war crimes.
In September 2022, “Amelina went to the liberated village of Kapytolivka in Kharkiv Oblast and found the diary of her colleague, the children’s book author Volodymyr Vakulenklo, along with his father,” The Kyiv Independent reports.
“Vakulenko had buried the diary under a cherry tree in his yard before he was abducted by Russian occupation forces that March. The diary is now kept in the Kharkiv Literary Museum for posterity.”
In this 2020 interview with PEN Ukraine, Amelina offers this optimism (which I’ve had to translate via Google): To write Home for Home, I quit my favorite job, ruined the career I had built since I was seventeen. It was painful, and I’m still not sure if I did the right thing – I gained a lot, but I also sacrificed a lot.
“I would not advise making decisions motivated by something external. There must be an inner readiness to live by texts, to turn oneself into texts, to write even when no one reads. No publisher can refuse this. If literature is your way of interacting with the world, miracles will happen.”
She also lists the New Testament among the books that have influenced her the most. “It seems that in the near future my heroes will not stop dying for others, but this is not about death, but about resurrection.”
Here are some other things to read.
Poetry: Last year, Steve Moyer wrote about Ukrainian poetry having depicted the corruption of war for decades. “Many of the poets writing today in Ukraine, however, compose in free verse, relying more on repetition, word play, juxtaposition of images, and rhetorical devices than on traditional forms and meter to convey the harsh reality they’re witnessing. Images such as rotting fruit occur and recur. Debris lying in snow and crumbling bridges make their appearances.”
“When I was working on my Paul Revere book, I remember hesitating over Charles Ferris Gettemy’s biography, The True Story of Paul Revere. The book was over a hundred years old. I can’t write in it, can I? It felt like some sort of aesthetic crime. But then, no. I need to keep track of ideas and details. Why did I have it to begin with? To use. Once I ditched my reservations, the payoff was immeasurable.”
Skelgill reels in and turns his boat. He takes a bearing off Skiddaw Little Man; keeping the false summit dead astern will send him arrowing into Peel Wyke, the tiny hidden wooded inlet that has echoes of the wild oarsmen that once ruled these parts, literally the ‘Wyke-ings’, the Norse ‘baymen’, who left their mark on today’s maps with descriptions that abound, like beck and dale, fell and pike, gill and skel.
The snippet above features one of those not infrequent references to the Vikings of Cumbria that add to the appeal of the Inspector Skelgill books (for me). Skelgill is an odd sort of policeman, operating primarily off his instincts as an outdoorsman and fisherman. In Murder At the Bridge, he actually discovers one clue by following a literal scent in the air, like a bloodhound.
Kyle Betony is an “outcomer” to Cumbria, a brash go-getter who fits in poorly with the other members of the Derwentdale Angler’s Association (of which Inspector Skelgill himself is a low-key member). But he managed to get elected to the board of directors anyway. When his body is found, dressed in evening clothes, floating in the River Ouse, it could mean he accidentally fell from the bridge, but indications on the body, as well as the river currents, suggest foul play. Betony had been attending the annual banquet of the DAA board that night. An old photograph has been stolen from the wall of the inn where the banquet was held. It was a group photo, including the image of a man now a fugitive murderer. Was the man in the photograph the man who was now calling himself Kyle Betony? Or did Betony recognize that man and get murdered for his knowledge?
Murder At the Bridge was largely what I’d call a “shoe leather” mystery. Most of the book is taken up with interviews with various suspects and the comparison of alibis. This lowered the level of suspense until the very end, when things picked up nicely. The conclusion was satisfying, and provided a clearer confirmation of Skelgill’s relationship with his female subordinate, DS Jones, than I think we’ve had before.
Murder At the Bridge was far from my favorite book in the Skelgill series, but it’s worth reading. One nice element is the creative circumlocutions the author employs in order to avoid actual profanity.
